James Axler - Bloodfire

Reaching an embankment, the companions slowed their mounts to hurriedly walk down to the lower desert floor. Now patches of rock could be seen amid the salty sand of the desert, and Ryan called a halt to check his rad counter.

“This is far enough,” Ryan said in relief. “We’re clear.”

Exhaling in relief, the companions brought the horses to a ragged stop, then walked them about until facing one another.

“Out rads?” Jak demanded, slipping to the ground from behind Dean. During the long morning walk, Mildred had taken the opportunity to clean and bandage his bad arm. It was sore, but he could use it again to fire a blaster if necessary.

“Seems so. I’m reading only normal background count,” Ryan said, aiming the rad counter around just to double-check.

When satisfied, he attached it to his collar again.

Gazing back the way they had just come from, J.B. removed his hat to fan himself. “Damn good thing you woke up when you did. I was strolling us smack into a rad pit hot enough to chill us all.”

“Radiation,” Dean growled. “Hot pipe, I’d rather fight stickies.”

Stickies were the curse of the Deathlands. The size of a norm, stickies had sucker pads on their fingers and feet, and could walk walls and ceilings like insects. They attached their suckers to a person’s flesh and ripped off pieces until the screaming victim was only a mass of still beating organs. Ryan had once seen a sec men attacked by a swarm of stickies take a blaster and put a round into his own heart rather than be savagely torn apart by the muties.

“Gotta go,” Jak said, hitching up his belt. “Give bag.”

Krysty passed it to him and the teenager went behind a dune to answer the call of nature. A few minutes later he returned and passed her back the sloshing container.

“Here,” Dean said, offering his canteen.

Jak nodded in thanks and took only a sip, then passed the canteen back and placed a smooth pebble in his mouth. It helped a person to lose less moisture by keeping his or her mouth shut, and the salvia generated eased the pangs of thirst.

“Which way now, my dear Ryan?” Doc asked, shifting in the saddle.

His long hair ruffling in the dry wind, Ryan checked the rad counter carefully.

“West and southwest are clear,” he said in a measured tone. “I’d say south by west as that heads us closer to the Grandee.”

“River means fishing and means villes,” J.B. agreed, pulling out his minisextant from under his shirt to shoot the sun and check their position.

“Okay, we’re about four hundred miles from the redoubt on the Grandee,” he said, tucking the priceless tool away. “Might as well make that our goal, and we can expand our search for the Trader from there.”

“Hell, he might be there,” Ryan growled, chucking the reins to start his horse trotting.

As the companions rode their mounts at an easy pace, the sun reached azimuth directly overhead and started to turn the world into a searing crucible. The sparkling sand reflected the heat until it was difficult to see from the reflections, and the salt infused the atmosphere, making it difficult to breathe as every breath tasted of salt and leached moisture from their flesh. Knives were used on spare clothing to form masks, and the companions regularly wet a rag and wiped down the faces of their horses. The animals were starting to heave deeply, near total exhaustion, but until shade was found, there could be no respite.

As they walked the horses, Mildred reached into her satchel and pulled out a small leather-bound notebook to jot down the location of the radiation field. The notebook was a recent acquisition, and she often wrote her thoughts into the journal. Someday when she had the chance, Mildred planned to organize the material to leave behind a sort of legacy for others: medical knowledge, a true history of the Deathlands and its people, danger zones, etc. Perhaps nobody would ever read her words, but she felt compelled to record her observations.

The hours passed under the baking sun, and then cool relief came as a swirl of storm clouds expanded across the sky, blotting out the sun with unnatural speed. Now lightning crashed amid the purple-and-orange hellstorm above the world, and the companions paused for a terrifying minute as there came the strong smell of sulfur on the wind. Quickly pulling out the heavy plastic shower curtains taken from the redoubt a few days earlier, the companions braced themselves for an acid rain storm, but the reek faded away with the dry desert breeze and they relaxed. Muties and sec men could be fought, rad pits avoided, but when the acid rain came only stone, steel or heavy plastic could save a person from burns. And if the acid was strong enough, the plastic would be useless.

Doc suddenly gasped in delight as he spied a touch of green on the side of a small dune almost hidden from sight behind a much larger mound.

“Eureka,” Doc cried, and started to gallop in that direction.

With only his eyes showing through his makeshift mask, Dean scowled. “Trouble?” he demanded, the words muffled by the cloth.

“Good news,” Mildred translated.

Gesturing grandly, Doc cried out in delight. “Behold, ambrosia!”

Slowing his horse, Ryan looked over the area then checked his rad counter just to be sure. In the lee of the rocky dune was a small stand of cactus—Devil Fork, they were called because they resembled a fork with its handle stabbed into the ground. Some barrel cactus were mixed in, but mostly it was all Devil Fork. The husk of the desert plants was as hard as boot leather and covered with needles that could stab through a canvas glove. Dangerous stuff, but their roots went down for hundreds of feet into the sand, and the delicious pulp inside was a sponge filled with sweet water.

“We’re saved. That’s more than enough to replace the poisoned water,” Mildred said in relief, and climbed from her horse to walk to the cactus stand.

Pulling out a knife, she debated where would be the best place to start to cut when a breeze shifted the sand in a small whirlwind and the glint of steel reflected from amid the lush greenery. Now Mildred found herself staring at the bleached white bones of a human skeleton. Only a few tatters of clothing covered the body, and a scattering of brass cartridges and a homemade blaster made of bound iron pipe and wooden blocks lay near the hand.

Leaning forward, Ryan scowled from his horse. “He died fighting,” he said slowly. “Must have been an animal, something too big to reach him behind the cactus needles.”

“Why an animal and not a person?” Mildred asked, then she answered herself. “Of course. Because a man would have taken the rounds afterward. Check.”

“Doesn’t really matter, chilled is chilled,” Ryan stated pragmatically. “More importantly, those rounds look intact to me. Might be live.”

“Any chance they’re .44 calibers?” Doc asked hopefully. He was well stocked with black powder and miniballs for the LeMat, but he was dangerously low on bullets for the Webley.

J.B. adjusted his glasses. “I’d say those were .45. Sorry, Doc.”

The old man shrugged in resignation.

As J.B. started divesting himself of bags and weapons, Mildred walked over to the plants.

“Don’t bother, John,” Mildred said, starting to reach between the cactus, “I’ll get them.”

But as she knelt in the sand, there was a whispery sound and the companions turned to see an incredibly thin figure rise from the desert sand and lurch forward to hurl a spear directly at Mildred!

Caught by surprise, the woman didn’t react in time and the metal rod went straight past her, coming so close she could feel the wind of its passage. Then she dived aside and rolled over, drawing her .38 ZKR when there came a high-pitched keen and the cactus burst apart, writhing green tendrils streaming into view from inside the plant. Moving like uncoiling snakes, the tendrils stabbed for Mildred, and she cut loose with her blaster just as the rest of the companions did the same.