James Axler - Deathlands 27 - Ground Zero Read online

  "True."

  Doc pressed the tips of his fingers against his forehead. "How did they learn it? And did they jump from some unknown other place? Too many questions to ponder and not enough answers. Almost no answers. And I don't think we even know what most of the questions are."

  "Mebbe we'll never see any of them again," Dean said. "Gone forever."

  "Mebbe," his father agreed. "Mebbe."

  WHAT HAD SEEMED like one huge shanty town from the outer limits of the Washington Hole was revealed as several separate gatherings of tents and makeshift huts, separated by filthy polluted streams and swampy offshoots of what was once the Potomac.

  The seven companions picked their way down through the shattered remnants of the suburbs.

  The frame houses with their broken windows were replaced by similar streets of homes, but with roofs gone and ancient scorch marks on their white walls.

  The nearer they went to what had been the center of the city's nukecaust, the worse the damage grew. More houses lacked their roofs, many of them showing signs of old fires. There was a small area of absolute devastation, with the melted stumps of a dozen gas pumps standing amid the ruins like the petrified corpses of nuclear soldiers. A row of stores was reduced to blackened concrete boxes.

  As they made their way down a shallow hill, they went past the last of the recognizable buildings, entering a bleak region of utter obliteration. Roads had been turned into blackened strips of fused lava, at the heart of a part of the old city where there was no trace of green.

  Even now, close to a century after the ending of the long winters, almost nothing grew there except the rankest of deformed weeds. There were sickly lilies, the color of drowned flesh, towering eight or ten feet above the fused soil. Bright red gardenias were mutated with poisonous spikes.

  They encountered the first signs of shantytown life, a broken stump of a telegraph pole, with the body of a man wired to it. The corpse, head-down, had lost hands and feet, and a small fire still smoldered beneath it.

  "Welcome to Washington Hole," Jak said.

  THE SHANTYTOWNS that ringed the bleak heart of the gigantic crater all had different names, their origins mostly lost in the mists of the long winters.

  Sweet William was the largest of them, Broken Heart another, to the north.

  A surprisingly neat sign announced to Ryan and the others that they were about to enter the township of Green Hill.

  "I wonder if that's the green hill far away in the old hymn?" Mildred said. "Without the city wall."

  "There certainly doesn't seem to be either any hills or anything colored green around." Doc sniffed the air. "Though I can smell all manner of food cooking, both fish and flesh. Perhaps even some fowl. Enough to get the under worked taste buds quivering a little."

  Stunted black chaparral dotted the dusty track that wound into the main street of the pesthole, with large red ants swarming around their roots.

  "Big," J.B. said. "Looks like a hundred shacks and tents. Big for a city pesthole."

  "We going to stay here at all, Dad?"

  "Mebbe a night."

  "My mother, Rona, always said we did well to keep away from pestholes."

  "She was right," he replied, patting the boy on the shoulder. "Not places for children or women. Not places for anyone, come to that. But if we can get some food and beds for the night we could move on tomorrow."

  "Stick together." Jak had tied his hair back with a red bandanna. "Best rule in place like this."

  Ryan nodded. "Yeah. Everyone hear that? Jak's right. No wandering off on your own. Anyone."

  IT WAS EARLY AFTERNOON as they trudged into the smoky shantytown.

  In his life Ryan Cawdor had to have passed through hundreds of these stinking little frontier pestholes, with their filthy hovels and their poxed gaudies and brutally dangerous drinking bars. Green Hill didn't look any different to any of the others.

  The street was trampled mud, with a couple of stores, brothels and saloons scattered along it. The rest of the place was tents and huts lining narrow alleys that did double service as thoroughfares and open sewers.

  Few of them had anything that remotely approached a lawn. Most had open muddy yards, filled with all manner of filthy and noisome rubbish. Some had cords of wood, ready for the biting winters. Ryan saw a wheelless tractor, rusting away, with two or three more unrecognizable pieces of broken agricultural machinery beside it.

  Smoke drifted low over the ville, carried on a fresh easterly wind off the ocean.

  There were very few people around. Most of them looked ragged, shambling along with their heads shrouded in old blankets or shawls. At a distance it wasn't possible to tell their sex. A few mongrels came snarling and yapping out of one of the alleys, barking around the heels of the seven strangers, running whining when Doc caught their leader a brisk blow across the scarred muzzle with his sword stick.

  The noise attracted attention, and tent flaps peeled back and faces appeared at the smeared, cobwebbed windows of the nearest saloon, peering at the outlanders.

  "Try there?" J.B. said, pointing toward the building. "Sign says it's called the Lincoln Inn. And-" he peered to try to make out the faded paint, "-says that it offers clean beds by the night and good food."

  "One place'll be like the next." Ryan glanced around the suddenly deserted shantytown. "Let's go see what they have to offer."

  TWO STORIES TALL, the Lincoln Inn was the most imposing building in the wretched ville. It was built from weathered wood, the first floor being taken up with a sprawling saloon. A staircase led to the shadowy second floor. An ill-matched assortment of tables and chairs stood around the splintered floor, occupied by half a dozen silent men, four of them playing a desultory hand of poker with a pack of greasy cards.

  The man behind the bar was short and craggy, the top of his head shaved, with curling gray side-whiskers. His eyes were a bright, piercing blue, his cheekbones so prominent that it looked as if he'd swallowed a pelvis.

  "Howdy there, outlanders. Belly up here and name your poison. Yes-siree."

  "Man's seen way too many Roy Rogers movies," Mildred whispered. "Like he's playing a supporting part in a B-movie Saturday-morning special."

  "We got a range of gut rot'll put hairs on your chests. Sorry, ladies. Nothing meant by that. Our own ladies are taking their afternoon siesta, but if any of you have a taste for some female company I can easy rouse them. Got a fine Mex girl, near virgin, weighs in close to three hundred pounds, gives any gentleman two downs for every up."

  "How about rooms for a night?" Ryan asked. "Just that and food."

  "We got. I know you, don't I, mister? That one eye sort of sticks in a man's mind. And you." He pointed a bony finger at J.B. "Both rode with the Trader, didn't you?"

  There wasn't any point in arguing with such a positive identification. The only question for Ryan and the others was how had this man been treated by Trader.

  "Can't say I recognize you."

  "Name's Clinkerscales. Peter Clinkerscales. Hell of a mouthful, ain't it? I was barkeep in a gaudy close to Butts, in the Darks. Was having trouble with some trappers. You two were there when Trader leaned on them and cleaned them out. Made sure they never came back to bother me."

  J.B. eased away the Uzi that had suddenly appeared as the man recognized him. "Sure. I remember. Dark night! Must've been at least ten years back."

  "All of that. Sorry, friends, but I don't recall your names." He tapped his forehead. "Accounted to my age and white port wine. Don't seem to be able to remember things quite as well as I used to."

  Ryan introduced himself first, running through the list of everyone's names. Clinkerscales insisted on enthusiastically shaking hands with all of them, grinning broadly, showing chipped, stained teeth.

  "This is my gaudy," he said. "I been waiting all this time to repay that good deed of Trader. You can have rooms and free food for as long as you like. And as much drink as your stomachs can handle. How about that?"

  "Nev
er turn down a generous offer," Ryan replied. "Just three rooms-seven beds, two twos and a three-for one night'll do it. Won't turn down supper and breakfast tomorrow, before we get on our ways again. Thank you kindly."

  "Sure thing. Tell me, Ryan Cawdor, whatever happened to that fine old boy, Trader? Heard he'd bought the farm against some renegade Utes up near the Sippi?"

  "No. Last I heard be was somewhere out in the western islands. Give him your best next time I run into him."

  "Do that, Mr. Cawdor. Please do that." He smiled and nodded like a clockwork Buddha. "Now, you turned down the ladies, I believe. Jack-free offer extends to them if any of you. No? Fair enough, friends. Let me show you to your rooms and then there's a bathhouse out back with good hot water."

  "Food?" Krysty asked.

  "Of course." A slight frown crossed his eager face. "Right now only some heat-up soup and bread with refined beans. Cook's not here until six in the evening."

  "Perhaps we might delay our repast until the evening," Doc suggested.

  There was a general murmur of approval, though Dean sighed, rubbing his stomach meaningfully.

  Clinkerscales smiled again. "How about a small drink before you go up to the rooms? We got the best range of predark rarities anywhere round Washington Hole."

  "Predark drinks!" Jak stared suspiciously at the barkeep.

  "Cross my heart and hope to die, friends. The center of the old ville was wiped clean away on minute one of hour one of day one of skydark. But plenty of the stores out in the suburbs were still left standing. Not many people alive for miles, so there's plenty of stuff around."

  "What kind of drinks?" Mildred asked.

  "Normally some of them go for a barrow-load of jack, lady. But for friends of Trader."

  "Come, jovial mine host," Doc urged, "list us your drinkables, there's a good fellow."

  The arrival of Ryan and the others had silenced the card players, who were all sitting, open mouthed, staring at the exotic newcomers.

  "Well." Clinkerscales began to tick off his drinks on his fingers, glancing at the row of dusty bottles behind him to refresh his memory. "Peach schnapps, cream of menthe, amaretto, Cointreau.that's a land of fiery orange flavor. Real nice. Not sure how you pronounce that blue stuff next to it. Spelled c-u-r-a-c-a-o. Sounds kind of Mex to me."

  "You got any fine drinking whiskey?" Ryan asked. "Those all look and sound too fancy."

  The barman tugged at his curly side-whiskers, sniffing and wiping his beaked nose on his sleeve. "Well, I wouldn't steer you wrong, Mr. Cawdor. First things to go were the good whiskies. Corn and malts. There was a warehouse out beyond Rockville. Been buried under some nuke damage for years. Quake uncovered it eight years ago. Baron Sharpe was out that way on one of his hunting expeditions. Him and me had a sort of arrangement over my girls." He winked at Ryan. "Know what I mean?"

  "Yeah. I know what you mean. And you got first hands on the liquor."

  Clinkerscales nodded. "Sure did. But these foreign drinks is all I got left. Folks say they taste real good. Why don't you try some of them?"

  "I'll have a glass of the Cointreau," Mildred said.

  "Same for me," Doc added quickly. "Make it a double, if you will. Most excellent. Fill the flowing bowl, landlord, and let who will be sober."

  "How's that, Doctor?"

  "Ignore him," Krysty said. "I'll try that green drink. Cream of something."

  "Menthe. Reckon it means mint. That's what it tastes of. Kind of sweet."

  "Can I have that as well, Dad?" Ryan nodded. "Sure."

  The barman was busily blowing dirt off the bottles, finding an array of glasses and wiping them round with a corner of his apron. He poured out generous measures of the clear Cointreau and the dark green mint liqueur.

  "Gentlemen?" he said to Ryan, J.B. and Jak.

  "Nothing for me," the Armorer replied. "Hot bath and a rest'll do for me."

  "Got some Russkie vodka. Strongest proof you ever knew. Got to swallow it soon as it touches your lips. Or it strips the coating off of your teeth."

  "Yeah," said Jak. "Try that."

  The liquor had an oily sheen to it as Clinkerscales poured it into a shot glass. "Mr. Cawdor?"

  "I'll try the same."

  There wasn't any kind of rotgut all along the frontier that hadn't been sampled by Ryan.

  He took the glass and lifted it, offering a toast to the barkeep and his friends. "Here's to blasters fixed good and firm-feelin' women." Seeing Krysty opening her mouth to reproach him, he added, "Only joking. Used to be Trader's favorite toast," he explained to Clinkerscales.

  "Here's to warm beds, good food and honest friends," J.B. said.

  "Better." Krysty sipped at her drink. "That's good."

  Ryan gulped half the contents of the shot glass into his mouth. For a moment this high-proof vodka tasted cold, so fast was it evaporating. Then the heat began to make itself felt and he quickly swallowed it. There was a half second when it didn't seem any worse than any other gaudy liquor.

  "Fireblast!" he spluttered out as the fire scorched down his throat, reaching his stomach in seconds. He blinked away a tear from his good eye. "That'd strip the paint off a war wag's belly," he gasped.

  He glanced sideways at the albino teenager, who had drained his glass in a single swallow. Jak grinned at him, showing no visible sign of distress. Though Ryan noticed that his eyes, usually pink, seemed nearer to crimson.

  "Another," Jak said.

  Ryan finished off the drink, managing to hold it down. "Yeah. Me, too," he said, his voice sounding higher and thinner than he remembered.

  "Don't get into a tough man's contest, Ryan," Krysty warned. "Try this stuff."

  "No. No, thanks. Stick to this vodka."

  The second glass wasn't any easier, though Jak failed to muffle a cough as his drink burned its way down.

  "Prime stuff, ain't it, friends?" Clinkerscales said. "They knew how to brew hooch in the old predark days."

  "You won't hear any argument from me on that matter." Doc placed his glass carefully down on the bar top. "But I think one is sufficient. Mayhaps a second round of imbibing when we come down to dine."

  The barkeep grinned, showing a mouth that seemed overfilled with a jumble of teeth. "What I like to hear, Doc. What I like to hear. Now, let me show you to your rooms." He patted Ryan on the arm. "After supper, mebbe you could sit with me and tell some tales of Trader and those good old days."

  "Good old days?" Ryan repeated, feeling that someone had replaced his brain with warm gruel and somehow made his tongue swell to twice its normal size."Good old days? Trader used to tell us that they was just a bunch of people, doing the best they could. That was all the good old days was."

  THE STAIRS WERE STEEP and uneven, and Ryan tripped halfway up, nearly dropping the Steyr off his shoulder. There was a burst of laughter from the locals in the saloon, quickly stifled when the one-eyed man looked angrily around.

  Clinkerscales showed them to their rooms, a front double for Ryan and Krysty, identical one across the passage for J.R and Mildred and a bigger family room for Doc, Jak and Dean at the end of the corridor, next to the bathroom.

  "Best Green Hill's got to offer," the barkeep said. "See y'all later."

  Chapter Eleven

  Everyone took advantage of the unusually good bathing facilities, a proper bathroom, with a large tub and endless supplies of piped water, coming, Clinkerscales explained, from local hot springs.

  Dean raced to be first, emerging as pink as a peeled prawn, black curly hair pasted flat to his scalp, looking much younger than his eleven years.

  Doc insisted on the courtesy due to his age and claimed second place, singing romantically maudlin old parlor songs at the very top of his booming voice. Occasional lines gloated up from the first floor back of the gaudy to the rooms where all of the others were waiting.

  "She was poor but she was honest, victim of a village crime."

  After Jak had gone down and knocked several times on the bathroom
door, Doc had come out, rosy-cheeked, beaming from ear to ear. "Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "The jug of wine and loaf of bread can take second place to a hot bath any day of the week." He hesitated a moment. "Though I am rather looking forward to the loaf of bread and jug of wine a little later this evening."

  MILDRED AND J.B. TOOK fourth and fifth places.

  The Armorer, still surrounded by wisps of steam, knocked on Ryan's bedroom door. He had a towel around his middle, with the Uzi slung over his naked shoulder, his misted spectacles gripped tightly in his left hand.