Chapter Thirty-Seven

 

 

The corridor Ryan turned onto was filled with fire. A roiling ball of it wavered back and forth in front of him, seeking oxygen, threatening to collapse in on itself from the lack of fuel.

 

He had eluded his pursuers for the moment and was aware that the Mirage was showing potential for burning down around his ears. The sec men with the flamethrowers had been generous with their attentions, leaving burning areas and dead monkeys in their wake.

 

The group at the bottom of the inferno hadn't been so lucky.

 

Eyes stinging from the heat and the smoke, Ryan couldn't tell how many of them there were, or what exactly had killed them. With the way at least temporarily impassable, he turned back and took one of the other hallways that he'd passed up.

 

He sucked at the knuckles of his left hand, which he'd skinned badly when he'd thrown himself away from the flamethrower at the window. He spit out a mouthful of blood, hitting a small fire that clung tenaciously to fragments of the worn carpet in the hallway.

 

When he was halfway down the new corridor, glancing to the sides to check the doors of what turned out to be more hotel rooms, he felt a chill gust through him, and even thought he'd smelled Krysty's scent next to him. He didn't look; if Krysty was still alive, she was outside with the others.

 

Servos whined through the hall, but he didn't know what they came from. There were other men searching through the ruins of the Mirage, as well. He'd seen them. And he'd seen one more dead boy in green. At the most, only five of them remained.

 

Farther down the hallway, he found a door that had a short flight of stairs behind it. The brass plate on the door announced Hotel Staff Only. The lock had been shot through.

 

With the Steyr in his hands, his back and side pressing against the side of the stairwells for cover, he went up. His ears monitored all sounds. A slight whisper of movement came from the top of the stairs.

 

At the landing, he paused, looking back the way he'd come and wanting to make sure retreat was still open to him. Satisfied no one was closing the gap behind him, he put his hand on the doorknob and turned. It wasn't locked, and the door opened easily.

 

Inside the room, slashes of neon lights danced around carelessly. The wall to his left held only glass from top to bottom. A bed occupied a space to his right, tucked in beside a desk that held a comp. The broken mirror covering a big section of the wall on the other side reflected the furniture, making it look as if another room were just next door.

 

He looked for the source of the noise, his senses at full peak. He stepped into the room, then ducked under the attack of the winged monkey that had been clinging to the space between the door and the ceiling. Unable to get off a shot, he swung the Steyr and felt the meaty impact as he struck the monkey with the rifle's butt.

 

Shrilling in pain, the monkey scuttled under the bed.

 

Drawing the SIG-Sauer, Ryan touched off three rounds across the bed, trying to find the mutie creature.

 

With a scream of pain and rage, the monkey came out from under the bed in a rush. Its mouth was open, showing its deadly fangs, the black talons reaching for Ryan's throat.

 

"Fireblast!" Ryan shoved the blaster into the monkey's face and pulled the trigger. The 9 mm round punched a hole through the beast's mouth and exited through the back of its head. Some of the flying matter stuck to his armored vest, while the majority of the creature landed in a disjointed confusion of limbs and wings at his feet.

 

"Ryan."

 

He was moving, turning, lifting the blaster as he recognized the voice. His finger already rested on the trigger when he said her name. "Krysty." His voice came out hard, disbelieving. "I thought they chilled you." He reached a hand out to the one she had extended. Instead of flesh, he felt a chill similar to the one that had passed through him in the corridor down below.

 

"I'm not really here, lover," she said.

 

Ryan's mind whirled with the multiple meanings of that simple declaration. His heart suddenly felt like a stone, cold and as distant as her voice.

 

"Dean's here with you. Find him."

 

"Dean?" He shook his head, struggling with everything being dealt to him.

 

She started to fade, winking out of existence like a dying star.

 

Ryan reached for her again, called out her name, but felt even the chill of their contact melt away from him as she disappeared.

 

The only thing that remained was the pull he was suddenly aware of inside his head. "Dean," he breathed, walking over to the wall of glass.

 

He peered through it with difficulty. Soot grimed it over, layers deep from the fires burning below. At one time, judging from the way the room was laid out, it had been a sec office looking down over the casino below.

 

The main door held tropical plants Ryan recognized from the jump to Amazonia. They had overgrown boundaries previously established by the building's architects, and had even thrust branches and new growth through the wall.

 

Once, it looked like a ville had been built inside the gaming room. Tables, chairs and slot machines were toppled over, chaotic. Dead people littered the floor. Some of them were dressed in old-style clothing, while many of the others wore much cruder dress.

 

Sec guards moved below, as well, searching through the debris, shooting at the monkeys still living.

 

The pull didn't come from that direction, Ryan knew. He turned and went back down the stairs, getting more sure as he followed the sensation.

 

He couldn't keep his thoughts from Dean. He'd missed much of his son's younger years, but he didn't begrudge that happenstance. The things he'd done, the places he'd gone, Dean would have been dead.

 

But he was determined not to lose the boy now, not to the pit creatures, muties or other chill squads. Not to the barons.

 

He fed the anger inside him, working it until the fatigue dropped away and his nerve and reflexes were as sharp as they ever were.

 

Out in the second-floor corridor, he turned, going farther into unexplored territory. The pull grew weaker. Realizing his mistake, he turned and went in the other direction, the SIG-Sauer in his fist.

 

The pull in his mind led him around the corner where the fire had been. It still burned, flames licking almost to the ceiling where acoustic tile smoldered.

 

A dark shape shoved at one of the doors on the other side of the fire. He squinted, peering through the heat wave given off by the flames, and recognized the shape as one of the wild pigs the companions had encountered before. There'd been plenty of them in the pit.

 

In the next second the wild pig thrust its way through the door.

 

Ryan took a few running steps and launched himself through the flames, covering his face with one arm. He felt the heat and smelled his hair singe. Then in the next moment he was through it, racing for the door as the pig disappeared into the room.

 

Reaching the entrance, Ryan threw himself to one side of it, the SIG-Sauer clutched firmly in both hands.

 

Shots rang out, changing the pitch of the wild pig's squeals. Impacts against flesh sounded wet and meaty.

 

Ryan peered around the door and watched as the pig bore down on a boy in green body armor who stood against the wall. Another boy, obviously dead, was at the feet of the first. The wild pig remained on its feet, running at the boy with the blaster flaming in his hand. The muzzle jumped with every rapid shot, but the boy brought it immediately back on target.

 

The pig careened against the wall as the boy adroitly shuffled out of the way. But its shoulder brushed against him hard enough to knock him to the floor. Recovering immediately, pushing himself one-handed into a sitting position, the boy stuck the blaster's muzzle into the pig's ear and pulled the trigger twice as the insane beast turned its head toward him, fangs snapping within inches of the boy's arm.

 

Then the pig shuddered, splaying out its legs, and died.

 

Ryan stepped part of the way around the doorway, knowing he was backlit by the flames in the corridor so that none of his face showed. The boy noticed him at once, lost in the darkness himself, and started to bring up his blaster.

 

"You make a move to pull that trigger," Ryan said, "and I'm going to chill you where you sit. Name's Ryan Cawdor. I'm looking for my son, Dean." He took up slack on the SIG-Sauer, knowing the boy might be too fearful to even hear him.

 

As he registered the words the man spoke, Dean recognized his stance, the way he held his head, the way he held the blaster.

 

His throat felt all closed up, but he forced his voice to work. "Dad?" He worked to shove the dead pig from his leg where it had him trapped, keeping his grip on his blaster. "Dad!"

 

The deadweight slid away, and Dean pushed himself to his feet, running toward his father with open arms.

 

Recognizing his son, Ryan rushed forward, grabbing the boy in his arms, his feelings running rampant. He couldn't remember a time when he and J.B. hadn't been friends, trusting each other with their lives. Opening up to Krysty had been hard after the experiences he'd had with most women.

 

And Deanit had been a true puzzle to sort out exactly where to put his son in his life.

 

But in this instant, with death surrounding them and actively hunting them, Ryan was glad to hold the boy next to him, glad to see that none of the blood on him seemed to be coming from any serious wounds. Dean hugged him back, stronger than Ryan had remembered. For the moment this was the perfect place for Dean to be.

 

 

 

KRYSTY SWAM beneath the surface of the pond, trying not to leave a ripple in her wake, struggling not to imagine what might be in the water with them. Jak had her by the arm, and she had no choice but to trust his instinct for direction; the water was too murky to see through.

 

Just when she thought her lungs were going to burst from lack of oxygen, her hand encountered thick mud that felt greasy and cold. Jak guided them up a moment later.

 

"Breathe easy," he whispered in her ear as he gently guided her out of the water. "Hard not breathing fast, but got to. Otherwise get chilled."

 

Krysty started to turn her head, taking in her surroundings. Jak had brought them up in a nest of reeds and cattails. Some of them were broken off, stabbing uncomfortably into her neck and chin. At least, she hoped it was broken stems and not an insect or water creature. The pond was big, deep and cold, nestled into land that had been bermed at some point. One side of it still held chunks of pavement from a street, a stop sign and the rusted remains of a once colorfully painted trash container.

 

Jak put his hand on her head from behind. "Be still. They watch for us."

 

Krysty froze into position, noting the horses and their riders winding through the trees. All of the men had guns. Only a few of them carried bull's-eye lanterns, shining light across the surface of the pond and turning it almost mirror bright.

 

"What does that thermographic sight show?" they heard one of the riders demand.

 

"Nothing," another rider replied. "Bunch of water. What'd you expect?"

 

"What about the Mirage?" the first rider asked.

 

"Hard to say. The lower two stories are pretty much blazing. That much heat, hard to get any kind of reading at all."

 

"Did anyone see them jump into the pond?"

 

A chorus of negatives came back.

 

"There's a possibility they made it to the Mirage," someone said.

 

"Mebbe," the first rider agreed. "Let's stick it out here and see if we can turn up anything in the water. Beats the hell out of going up there and getting your nuts toasted."

 

Krysty freed her .38 from the soaked leather holster and set herself to move.

 

"Wait," Jak cautioned. "I go first. I kill silent. When shit hits fan, you move."

 

"Okay," she replied.

 

Jak reached into the shallow water and lifted up a fistful of black mud, which he smeared over his face, through his hair, then over his arms. When he finished, he was no longer as pale as milk. He looked like a black, wild-haired demon sprung whole from the night's shadows.

 

Jak crept out of the water as the riders went into motion, staying just outside the tall reeds and cattails. In less than a dozen steps, he'd disappeared soundlessly from Krysty's sight.

 

The riders split into two groups and went around the pond in both directions. The group to Krysty's left would reach her first. She kept the .38 in her hand, certain her skin was turning blue enough to match the water. Her sentient hair clung to her head.

 

Less than two minutes later, one of the riders directed his horse through the cattails and reeds toward where Krysty was hiding. His mount didn't like stepping through the mud and the water, shying away and nickering.

 

Krysty held the blaster, waiting, her heart thumping.

 

"Hey, Lloyd, what the hell's wrong with you?" someone demanded.

 

There was no answer.

 

The man in front of Krysty halted his horse and looked back over his shoulder, less than ten feet from her position. "You want to stop shouting like that?" the man asked.

 

Behind him a rider suddenly toppled to the ground, clawing at his throat.

 

"Hey!" the man in front of Krysty shouted. "Somebody just chilled Harris and Lloyd! Both of them are laying on the ground over there with knives through their throats!"

 

"I see him!" another man cried out.

 

Gunshots rang out.

 

Coming up out of the water just as the man in front of her tried to bring his mount around, Krysty grabbed the bridle.

 

The horse reared up in fear, its eyes rolling white.

 

Unprepared, the rider fell into the muddy water.

 

Krysty didn't hesitate about shooting the man twice in the back of the head before he could get to his feet. His body collapsed face forward into the murky water.

 

Knowing she wouldn't be able to calm the horse without letting it get out of the water, Krysty kept hold of the bridle and ran along at the animal's side, waiting for an opportunity to get into the saddle. The horse also served as a temporary shield, blocking sight of her from most of the other riders.

 

Up on the bank, her feet under her more solidly, she reached up for the pommel while never breaking stride. With a lithe leap, she pulled herself up into the saddle. Another moment spent taking up the slack in the reins, and she was in control of the fear-maddened horse.

 

She cut it in a tight half circle, searching the shadows for Jak.

 

He came up off the ground with no warning. One of the two horses that had belonged to the men he'd killed was tied to a tree, stamping its feet and fighting the bit in its mouth. Apparently one of the riders had gotten down to check out a suspicious area.

 

Racing across the ground, Jak approached the tethered horse from behind. Before it knew he was there, the albino placed his hands against the horse's rump and vaulted into the saddle. Bullets cut through branches and leaves above his head as he reached forward, staying low against the horse's neck, and untied the reins. He brought the animal around and kicked it lightly. The horse exploded into a gallop.

 

The other horse streaked for the trees, heading in a westerly direction that would take it toward the Mirage. Another horse was also free, galloping in the same direction.

 

"Get horses!" Jak called.

 

Krysty nodded, pulling her mount's head around and kicking it into motion. Bullets whizzed around her as gunfire split the night. Glancing ahead and to the right, she could see flames coming from the first and second floors of the Mirage.

 

Behind them the surviving sec-team members were already putting a posse together.

 

Cutting around a tree, Krysty halted her mount for a moment and looked back. Jak rode low in the saddle and fired his .357 Magnum blaster at the men less than forty yards behind him.

 

Krysty raised the .38 and thumbed back the hammer. The distance from herself to the first rider was less than seventy yards. She centered the muzzle over the man's chest, then squeezed away the slight pull. The .38 banged in her fist.

 

The lead rider slapped a hand to a spot where his throat joined his chest, then fell from the saddle.

 

Thumbing the hammer back again, Krysty lined up her second shot and emptied another saddle. Jak was almost on top of her when she fired her remaining round. The bullet went inches wide of its target. Krysty kicked her horse back into motion, barely taking a lead over her companion.

 

Seven men still remained in pursuit.

 

She swung the cylinder open and dumped the brass. Fishing shells from her shirt pocket, she tried to refill the cylinder and keep an eye on the frightened horse, as well. It took eight bullets to finally reload the blaster because she dropped three of them.

 

Jak was having the same problem.

 

Abruptly a shadow moved ahead of Krysty. Her horse noticed it before she did, sidestepping fast enough to almost throw her from the saddle. She pointed her pistol at the shadow, then saw that it wore J.B.'s beloved fedora and steel-rimmed glasses.

 

"Keep riding," the Armorer said. "Mildred and I will take care of the posse."

 

Krysty nodded, then kicked her horse in the sides again, closing on the animal in front of her. Jak drew abreast of her, pointing to the other one, then himself.

 

 

 

"I'LL TAKE THE ODD ONES," J.B. said, lifting his Uzi as the posse closed on their position. "Leaves you the even ones." He stood in the shelter of a blue spruce, the stiff needles, scratching at his face.

 

"I got them," Mildred said calmly. She held the Czech target pistol balanced in both hands.

 

J.B. knew the wait wouldn't be long; the drumming sound of the horses' hooves grew louder. He was a patient stalker, but he knew the work would be bloody and quick.

 

Moosh Wandell and Thompson were farther back in the brush, set up to cover their retreat if any of the riders survived the ambush.

 

Listening to the hooves strike the ground, J.B. timed his move, stepping out when he knew they'd all be between the narrow defile leading through the brush. The rider didn't have a chance to register J.B.'s appearance before the Armorer caressed the Uzi's trigger and sent a 3-round burst into his face. The man's head came apart instantly, and he vanished under the hooves of the horses behind him.

 

The animals reacted badly, trying to avoid contact with the corpse tumbling under their feet.

 

Mildred remained in the brush, firing between the branches.

 

The next four riders dropped from their frightened mounts in quick succession. The woman worked to get the sixth rider, managing a hard shot uphill as the man took off in that direction.

 

The lone surviving rider retreated behind a row of trees, heading back to the area around the pond. A line of 9 mm bullets from the Uzi tore bark from the trees that he took cover behind.

 

"Gather up the horses that you can," J.B. told Mildred. He reached out with quick hands and grabbed the pommel of a horse passing by. "I'll be back."

 

"Be careful," Mildred called after him.

 

Hauling himself into the saddle, the Armorer reached for the reins, then took control of the animal. He brought it around sharply, almost causing the beast's legs to collapse under them. Then the horse recovered its footing, charging back down the trail when J.B. put his heels to it.

 

He stayed to the trail, his horse leaping over the corpses when it came to them. Through the brush he saw the last rider trying to wend his way among the trees and bushes to a clearing.

 

The sec man glanced at the Armorer through the forest, eyes going big with fear.

 

They came out into the clearing at the same time. J.B. lifted the Uzi one-handed, guiding the horse with the reins in the other.

 

To the rider's credit, he wheeled his mount toward the Armorer and lifted his own blaster, firing immediately and screaming at the top of his voice.

 

J.B. cut his horse toward the man but held his finger poised over the Uzi's trigger until he was certain of the kill. By his own estimate, he had between two and eight rounds left in the 30-round magazine.

 

Less than twenty yards remained between them when the Armorer cut loose. The 9 mm rounds smashed the sec man out of his saddle, the riderless horse streaking past.

 

He went after it, catching the animal's reins in seconds and wrapping them around the pommel. Grinding engine noises drew his attention north. Through the trees and along the skyline in the distance, he saw the headlights of wags rolling through the pit toward the Mirage. Even the remnants of the streets that had once been Vegas were rough, causing the vehicles to jump and jar.

 

"Dark night," he said out loud. Reining his mount to the side, he kicked its ribs and sent it galloping back along the trail.

 

When he reached the spot where he'd left Mildred and the two surviving members of the red team, he saw that Jak and Krysty had returned, as well. Between them they'd captured nine of the horses. Moosh Wandell and Thompson were pulling themselves into the saddles.

 

Mildred saw his face and immediately knew something was wrong. "What is it?" she asked.

 

"Wags are coming," J.B. replied, "fast. And plenty of them!"