Loe raamatut: «Lost Gates»

Ryan touched the wires together

The jolt of electricity made him gasp, and he was thrown backward with a blinding flash of light. The door squealed as the twisted metal tried to move in the straight grooves of the frame.

“Fireblast! I didn’t expect it to hurt like that,” Ryan groaned as he scrambled to his feet. Then he followed Jak’s gaze.

A thin trickle of water was visible, running faster and then furiously down the crack between the two doors.

Without warning, a high-pressure stream of water shot through the gap and caught Ryan in the ribs. The force threw him against the wall of the corridor, and for a moment light exploded around his head.

Then it went black.

Lost Gates

Death Lands_®

James Axler

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Fear is a habit; so is self-pity, defeat, anxiety, despair, hopelessness and resignation. You can eliminate all of these negative habits with two simple resolves: I can! and I will!

—Author Unknown

THE DEATHLANDS SAGA

This world is their legacy, a world born in the violent nuclear spasm of 2001 that was the bitter outcome of a struggle for global dominance.

There is no real escape from this shockscape where life always hangs in the balance, vulnerable to newly demonic nature, barbarism, lawlessness.

But they are the warrior survivalists, and they endure—in the way of the lion, the hawk and the tiger, true to nature’s heart despite its ruination.

Ryan Cawdor: The privileged son of an East Coast baron. Acquainted with betrayal from a tender age, he is a master of the hard realities.

Krysty Wroth: Harmony ville’s own Titian-haired beauty, a woman with the strength of tempered steel. Her premonitions and Gaia powers have been fostered by her Mother Sonja.

J. B. Dix, the Armorer: Weapons master and Ryan’s close ally, he, too, honed his skills traversing the Deathlands with the legendary Trader.

Doctor Theophilus Tanner: Torn from his family and a gentler life in 1896, Doc has been thrown into a future he couldn’t have imagined.

Dr. Mildred Wyeth: Her father was killed by the Ku Klux Klan, but her fate is not much lighter. Restored from predark cryogenic suspension, she brings twentieth-century healing skills to a nightmare.

Jak Lauren: A true child of the wastelands, reared on adversity, loss and danger, the albino teenager is a fierce fighter and loyal friend.

Dean Cawdor: Ryan’s young son by Sharona accepts the only world he knows, and yet he is the seedling bearing the promise of tomorrow.

In a world where all was lost, they are humanity’s last hope….

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter One

Ryan Cawdor groaned as he opened his eye. It was gummed, heavy and felt as though a branding iron was being thrust repeatedly into it. Other than that, he was glad to be alive. As always, if he felt this bad, chances were that his opponent had to have come off worse. If he could remember who his opponent was….

At least lacking one eye spared him the pain of double vision. It was a grimly humorous thought that would, under any other circumstances, have made him grin. Not now, though. That would have been a signal to any potential enemy that he had regained consciousness. Besides which, it would have hurt too much. His face felt as though it had been trampled on by a herd of mutie cattle. The type that had razor-sharp hooves.

As the focus of his eye gradually came into some semblance of clear vision, Ryan could see that he and his companions were in a darkened wag. The jolting of the chassis as it bumped over either a rough road surface or a cross-country route jarred his vision, making it hard to pick out detail in the gloom. It also made his body ache. Every muscle and tendon felt rubbery and sensitive to the slightest impact. It felt as though each muscle and tendon had been taken out, rubbed in grit and then carefully replaced. He would have winced, if it wouldn’t have alerted his captors to his conscious state.

Trying to keep as stable as possible, to improve his vision and stop the aches that ran up and down his frame, Ryan cast his eye over the dimmed interior of the wag. It was a basic wag, which looked as if it had been stripped at some point. There were no seats other than the two occupied by the driver and shotgun guard. He could make out three men, all armed with what looked like remade Armalite longblasters, who were hunkered down, backs resting against the shell of the wag. Between them were his companions. Jak, an albino, stood out because of his long white hair. Likewise Doc, whose head was down, his long silver mane shaggy as it banged against the floor of the wag.

With their darker hair and clothing, Krysty, Mildred and J.B. were harder to pick out.

The wag was a closed-in, metallic-bodied vehicle. It had no windows other than the windshield and the two on each door. There had to be rear doors, but these were solid. The pool of light from the front of the wag ended long before it reached the guards and the unconscious cargo in the rear. They were either not supposed to know where they were being taken—assuming the journey was long enough for all of them to regain consciousness—or no one was supposed to see in. Or maybe both. It kind of didn’t matter right now.

But how did they get here? And why?

Ryan was mentally in a fog, and it was hard to remember anything from before the black curtain had fallen. Had there been a fight? Were they ambushed? Or was it…

Fireblast! It returned to him in pieces, and he wondered how they had been slipped the jolt derivative that had got them into this state.

And just what was Baron Valiant getting out of the deal?

SEVEN DAYS. Not a long time in the great scheme of things, but an eternity when you were stuck in a pesthole ville in the middle of nowhere. Hopping from convoy to convoy, running sec, the companions had made some distance from the last slice of trouble on the way overland to the next redoubt.

Hawknose was a strange ville, with an odd name and a baron, Valiant, with an odd name. The ville was no bigger than a few dozen huts and shacks, with a few buildings that were older scattered around. Mildred could see that it had once been a truck stop on a long-since-disappeared freeway. There was a diner, some old storage buildings that had been converted, and a gas station with the pumps still intact. The reservoirs underneath the pumps were still sealed, as they would find out. This was how Valiant kept his ville above the starvation line. It was a way station for passing convoys and travelers who knew the region. He could supply them with enough gas to get them from here to wherever. In return, traders would supply him at a discount.

It was just as well. The ville had nothing else going for it. The surrounding land was overworked and barren. When the rains came, they soaked in and stayed. Even when the surface was dry and cracked, just beneath was sodden. They would never get thirsty, but they couldn’t grow any crops that wouldn’t rot before they reached maturity. So any jack Valiant made on the gas was eaten up by the need to buy food. Usually from the very same traders.

But the baron was ambitious. And a baron with ambition but no jack and no manpower was a very dangerous thing.

RYAN WAS SLOWLY starting to feel like himself. The aches were still there, but through sheer force of will he cast the pain to the back of his mind. He concentrated on flexing every muscle in his arms and legs. His feet and hands were numb from the ropes that had been tied when he was unconscious—he assumed that the same was true of the others—but there was enough give in the ropes for them to burn on wrists and ankles as he flexed. Moments later tingling ached and burned in his fingers and toes as circulation began to return feeling to those extremities.

Still, there was a void where memory should be. He was aware that they were being taken somewhere for a purpose, but that purpose still escaped him. It lurked on the fringes of his consciousness, but was tantalizingly out of reach.

It looked, in the saturnine light, as though he was the only one to be awake. Maybe not. If any of the others had awakened, then they would be doing their best to disguise it, as he was, until they had worked out the how and why of being here.

Hawknose. Stupe name, he thought. Why was it called that?

Then it began to return. Slowly.

‘SEEMS A WEIRD name, don’t it?” Travis chuckled, and it wheezed its way from laughter into a cough. He hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spit it out the door. “Mebbe it is, unless you know why.”

“And you’re going to tell us?” Mildred asked in a wry tone. It had been obvious that the grizzled man had been lacking in company, and was glad of the chance to talk.

“Since you ask so nicely, I will, little lady.” Travis’s eyes twinkled. He would, in all likelihood, have chuckled again if it hadn’t run him the risk of another coughing fit. “See, if we hadn’t had to move back in the early days, it would have been obvious. Originally, in the days before skydark, we came from a little place that was under the shadow of a bluff that was shaped like a hawk’s beak. Least, that’s what they say. I wouldn’t know. I might look old, but I ain’t really all that. It’s just this fancy living that’s made me so soft.” He chuckled again.

“Not much story,” Jak commented. He was tired, and hadn’t taken to the old man who was providing them with accommodation. The sooner he shut up and let them sleep, Jak thought, the better. It would be an early start. The albino youth didn’t mind hard work, but when it was monotonous it was that much harder to take the shit that went with it.

Travis shook his head. His graying hair hung in matted dreads that brushed his shoulders, putting his lean jaw into shadow.

“If that was all there was to it, then I’d agree with you. But it ain’t. See, we’d been there for hundreds of years, they say. Since the white folks first come to the old lands, there’d been a Hawknose. Almost as long as the Indians—and look what happened to them. We were survivors. And so it was with skydark. There were caves, they say, under the bluff that went right into the earth. Our people took all they could carry, and they stayed there until it was okay to come out. Some tried too early, just to see, and that was the end of them. But they did it for all of us, and we remember them for that.

“See, that’s what we do here. We look out for each other. Hell, most of us are related. It was such a small place. We get people stop by, drop kids or father them, then…well, some stay and some fuck off. Don’t make no matter to those of us who have blood going right back. But I guess it stops us being all born with four heads and no legs, or some such shit.”

That made sense. Since they had arrived, Mildred had noticed that most of the people looked like they came from a small gene pool. The men and women looked alike, and there was little to tell between one person and the next. And yet they hadn’t shown the signs of mutie inbreeding that she had seen elsewhere on their travels.

So yeah, that made sense, Mildred thought. Unlike his story. Where the hell was that going?

Travis had to have seen the look on her face.

“The name. Why’d we keep it? That must be what you’re wondering. Well, it’s like this. After they came out of the caves, they saw that the old ville had been flattened by the hawk’s nose. The fucker had blown off some time during the years they were hiding, and it had wiped out the whole ville. Too much shit there to clear and build. “Sides which, it was a sign. Leastways, that’s how they took it. Time to move on. So they hit the road—what was left of it—and ended up here. Good place to be.”

“You tried to dig that land?” J.B. murmured, his muscles aching in memory of his day’s work.

“Listen, son, you say that, but look at it this way—would you rather try and dig wet earth or live on rocks that can’t grow shit at all? And ain’t got no water?”

J.B. shrugged. He guessed the old guy had a point. “So why is this called after the old ville?” he asked, wanting to hurry Travis along for the same reasons as Jak.

The old man sniffed. “Should have thought you could see where I was going with that. We’re a loyal people. We stick together. We look after each other. And we remember the sacrifices of those before us. This was called Hawknose for where we come from, and in memory of the others. And one day, that name will be pretty damn big. Valiant believes in that. We all do.”

There was something about the way that he said it—an almost messianic zeal—that would brook no argument. Not even daring to exchange glances, the companions let the comment slide. But when the old man had finished wandering the rooms of the shack they now shared with him, and had left to go to the communal bar that lay in the old gas station, Krysty let out a long sigh.

“This is going to be a long wait until the next convoy rolls into the ville,” she said softly.

“That, I fear, is possibly the sanest and truest thing that we have heard all evening, my dear,” Doc muttered. “It is one thing for the baron of a ville to be so deluded and yet so firm in a conviction. But for this to infect his whole people?” He shook his head sadly.

“They don’t seem to be a threat,” Ryan said. “Unless you mean to themselves,” he added with a grin. “We’re just going to have to tough it out, people.”

They had been in the ville a short while. Long enough, however, to know that it was a typical struggling settlement, going nowhere and fighting, like everywhere else, for survival. There wasn’t enough jack to go around, and the land they lived on made raising crops and livestock an uphill struggle. The only thing they had going for them was the gas station and the reservoir. It kept them in business. Traders put them on the route as it suited them to have a way station here, but there wasn’t enough trade, gas or traffic to make it anything other than a case of the ville paying out with one hand for the jack they’d just taken in.

The grandiloquent Baron Valiant was onto a stone-cold losing proposition. But if he was anything like his people—or they like him, however it may be—then he was stubborn, proud, a believer in his heritage.

A fool.

Yet it suited Ryan and the companions to stop here. They had been riding sec on a convoy and it had taken this detour to refuel, a stopover that was short by any convoy standard, and that said a lot about the way the ville was viewed. Hawknose was the last place a person would want to get stranded. But the convoy was uneasy. There were tensions between the trader in charge and the quartermaster, who was bucking to oust his boss and take over. He had the backing of half the crew, and was looking for the right place to stage a mutiny. From the time they had hooked up with the convoy, it was obvious that this was why they had been hired. With no agenda, no knowledge of anyone else on the convoy, the companions would just follow orders and collect their pay.

Except that the convoy was headed across Colorado, bound for the remains of the eastern seaboard, territory that Ryan and his people knew only too well, and were in no hurry to encounter again. As the long miles passed, they realized that the reason the quartermaster was able to gain support for his schemes was down to the attitude of the trader. He was triple stupe, and Ryan had started to doubt if they would even get paid at journey’s end. They were there not so much to provide sec as to protect the trader from his own crew.

So when they reached Hawknose, and became aware that it was the last stop before a long haul into the east, Ryan figured that it was time to call it a day. The others weren’t disappointed at the time. They were sick of looking over their shoulders on what should have been an easy ride. If convoys were regular through here, then it wouldn’t take long to pick up another paying ride.

It had been almost comical to hear the alternating curses and imprecations of the trader when Ryan told him they were leaving his employ. Almost as blackly funny as the look on the face of the quartermaster as the convoy set to head out of Hawknose. It didn’t need to be said out loud that the chances of the convoy having a new trader by the time they hit the next ville were roughly the same as those of a stickie beating the crap out of a mutie bear in a shitstorm.

Yeah, it had seemed like the best option. But nobody was thinking that after a few days of the monotony and rigor of life in Hawknose. Even Ryan was hoping that the next convoy would roll in during the middle of the night.

The people of Hawknose looked the same, and they had attitudes to match. Sharp-faced and suspicious, they were dour and ground down by generations of just about keeping body and soul together. Sure, they had the conviction of their destiny, but it was nothing they took joy from. Rather, it was as though they felt they had to suffer this life to find that state. Both Doc and Mildred could identify this with the attitudes of religious communities in their day, and although the people of Hawknose believed in a redemption that came in this world, not the next, it was as though they believed it was always just out of reach.

It made them hard—hard in the manner of their lives, and hard in their attitudes to each other. And particularly in their attitude to outlanders. That much was obvious from the moment that the convoy pulled away without the companions. There was no welcome for the newcomers—not that they expected it—but neither was there hostility. Instead there was a kind of grudging and grim acceptance. They were there in Hawknose—fine. But now they had to work and fit in. Or leave. Convoy or no convoy to carry you out.

Baron Valiant was a hands-on baron. Unlike the rulers of larger villes who surrounded themselves with a sec force and whatever wealth they could secure, using the one to enable themselves to indulge the other, Valiant was one of his people in a very real sense. He worked and lived alongside them. They showed him deference, but that seemed to come from a genuine respect and belief in his birthright. The ville of Hawknose was inherited, and he was merely following the footsteps of his forefathers. They were believers in tradition. They believed in order. That was evident by the fact that in their short time thus far in the ville, Ryan and his companions had seen no need for sec except in the rare case of a person who couldn’t hold his or her brew. The sec seemed to be there purely for when convoys or outlanders passed through.

Maybe the law-abiding nature of the ville dwellers was more due to exhaustion than to any innate desire to walk a straight line, for life in the ville was hard. It soon became apparent that convoys weren’t as regular as Ryan would have hoped when he made the decision to pull out of sec duty. Supplies of food that were bought from any convoy were stored and carefully rationed. Water was plentiful, and as a result so was brew. Anything that could be made to ferment was stored and used. Any roots, rotting crop, or plantlife that could be harnessed in such a way was thrown into vats that bubbled as the alcohol was boiled and distilled from the resultant sludge. It seemed that most of the people in Hawknose spent their evenings in the bar, which was as much a communal meeting area as one to get drunk and carouse. Even in their pleasures they were a dour people.

Dour, but hardened to the potent brew that resulted from their thrifty approach. They were hard drinkers, and their ability to rise with the sun the following morning and work just as hard was something that Ryan and the companions soon found they couldn’t keep pace with.

The old service station and diner around which the ville was constructed lay in a valley, a bowl shaped by a landscape that had once been a series of gentle inclines but had been disturbed by seismic shifts as skydark hit. Pushed and pulled by nature, the land had risen to form a steeply sided bowl that required the convoys that passed through to have sharp brakes. The freeway that had once passed this way had long since been reduced to ribbons by the seismic shifts, and little evidence of it remained. Instead a carefully hewn and beaten track ran close to the site of the old road and was marked by the rubble that had been cleared in making the new path. It guided any traffic down the incline and through the ville before gently guiding it up the opposite slope and out.

That left the ville in a basin. Was it simply that the land surrounding had risen, or had the ville itself dropped? It was impossible to say, but whatever the truth, it had left the people of Hawknose with a problem that they hadn’t foreseen when they had taken possession of the old station and buildings and started to build around them.

The problem was that the land around had a high water table, and no matter what time of year it was sodden once you dug down a few feet. Any crop would rot. The land never really dried out, as the high ground around mean that the ville was in constant shadow. It was always damp and cold, even when the sun beat down from a cloudless sky. There was never enough to keep both the people and the livestock fed. Little grew wild. Both livestock and man were reliant on food brought in by convoy. Despite this, the people broke their backs on the land.

Belief in destiny was a powerful driving force. The people of Hawknose felt that in their very bones. They were in this place for a reason, not just because it happened to be the first place that was habitable that their forefathers stumbled across. And until that reason revealed itself, they would stay here. They would make it work, even if it would break the back of each person in the process. The one thing it could never break was their spirit.

Which was all very well if you lived there, and your roots were there. But, Ryan reflected as he settled on the hard bedding that had been supplied for them by Travis, it was bastard hard to get used to if you didn’t give a shit about the ville and were just waiting for the chance to move on.

People had to work for their living. You eat, you put something back. There was nothing wrong with that. Except that these people drove themselves so hard… Ryan thought it was little wonder that the ville folk drank themselves into oblivion every night. Even the children worked like pack animals. It was a fair bet that you didn’t make old bones in this ville. Travis looked as ancient as Doc, Ryan mused, but he wouldn’t have been surprised to have learned that he was younger than he was.

The one-eyed man’s head grew heavy as weariness overtook him. He could feel his mind slipping into oblivion as the fatigue of the day overwhelmed him.

RYAN WAS JOLTED back to consciousness by the sudden lurch of the wag. His attempt to recall how they had reached this point had driven him into a lapse of consciousness. It was only the whiplash of his neck and the sharp, painful crack of his head against the wag’s bulkhead that had brought him back.

Everything was rambling, unfocused. There was a reason why they were here, and he had to remember what it was before they reached their destination. It was important that he knew why.

Ryan flexed his neck muscles. Thoughts were starting get blurred once more. Through a hooded eyelid, he took another look around. He was becoming accustomed to the gloomy light in the interior of the wag. Now he could pick out his fellow travelers with a greater ease. Doc was still out cold. His physical state was always precarious, despite his inner strength. It was impossible to know how his heavily buffeted body would cope with anything thrown at it.

Jak was conscious and, like himself, was seeking to conceal it. Ryan, though, knew the albino youth too well. There was something about the set of his body. He was poised, keeping balance perfectly as the wag swayed and dipped over the rutted ground beneath. Jak was scoping out his opponents, and was perhaps even now thinking the same things that Ryan was thinking about him.

Mildred and Krysty were still out. Ryan was only too familiar with every aspect of the Titian-haired beauty’s body language. Her head lolled too loosely on her shoulders, and her sentient hair was limp rather than full or curled tight. As for Mildred, her body was jerking in muscle spasms. Her feet kicked in tiny arcs, her shoulders jerking uncontrollably. She was fighting the effects of the drug, and it was reflected in her body language.

That left J.B. The Armorer had his fedora pulled down over his eyes, at an angle that made it hard to see much of his face. But from the set of his jaw—a small sign but a telling one in a man that Ryan and known most of his adult life—it was certain that J. B. Dix had lifted himself from the depths of unconsciousness and was now observing his surroundings. Even as Ryan watched, the man moved slightly—a twist of the hip, shifting his weight on the floor of the wag. Caught from the corner of a guard’s eye, it would have seemed to have been nothing more than a result of his being jolted by the movement of the wag. But to a careful observer, which J.B. obviously hoped Ryan was, it could be seen that he moved contrary to the shift of the wag.

Ryan responded by signaling back. He lifted his right foot as far as it would go without dragging his left. Which, in truth, wasn’t much given how tightly they were bound. He then let if fall so that the heel struck the floor of the wag. He did this in short succession, paused, then again. Unless they were listening carefully, it was doubtful that the guards would catch this. But any of his companions would understand.

It was a code they had worked out in the past: a J and a B.

Ryan watched carefully, and saw the Armorer’s fedora dip in assent. Switching his attention, he saw that Jak also moved in acknowledgment.

That made three of them who were recovering. Not that it did them much good right now. But at least when they reached their destination, they should be clearheaded enough….

Fireblast! If only they had been clearheaded enough when they were back in the ville. They should have seen it coming. There had been warning signs, after all.

“WORK IS ALL. Without it we are nothing. And it will be rewarded my friend. When the time comes…”

“Mebbe we don’t want to hang around that long,” J.B. murmured as he slammed the blade of the shovel deeper into the mud.

For a moment Hardy stared at him with incomprehension on his long, lean face. Then he began to laugh, a dry, crackly sound as though it were being forced out of his lungs through layers of rustling leaves. His jowls shook, and his eyes ran with tears. He put down his shovel and took out a length of rag from his pocket, using it to blow his nose with a mighty honk before wiping his eyes.

J.B., too, stopped digging. He wouldn’t need much of an excuse, as they had been attacking the same patch for three backbreaking hours. At least, that was what his wrist chron told him, though it seemed much longer by the ache in his back.

“What’s so bastard funny about that?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. If anything, he would have expected the tall, skinny ville dweller to be angered by his dismissive comment. It had slipped out before he’d had a chance to bite his tongue.

“It’s just what any of us would expect from an out-lander.” Hardy wheezed when he could speak. “You people are all the same when you first arrive. You can’t see the bigger horizon, just what’s in front of your nose. Then you get it, and stay.”

J.B. was still puzzled. He knew that any kind of humor or levity seemed in short supply in Hawknose, but this?

“What about those of us who do move on?” he countered.

Hardy shrugged. “Well, who cares what you think when you’re gone?”

J.B. furrowed his brow. There was a kind of logic in there, he supposed.

Hardy took up his shovel once more and gestured for J.B. to do likewise. “Listen, son, it works like this. Big work gets big reward. We make this ville into something, and we get the riches that will bring with it. But on a smaller scale, it works like this. We put in a hard day here and we grow stuff in a land that don’t want to grow. So we, the workers, get rewarded by the baron, who oversees our homes and feeding. You don’t work—don’t pull together for the common cause—and you get jackshit. That’s how life should be. You put in and you get given in return.”

J.B. looked around and was dubious about the truth in that. They were about a half mile outside the main part of the ville. All around, for a distance of about three miles, spread across the rubble-and-rock-strewed landscape were fenced-off areas that were used for farming. Herds of scraggy livestock grazed on the perfunctory meadow that had been created for their use. The paddocks were waterlogged for much of the time, and the creatures looked out with doe-eyed and weary stares, the smell of decay palpable from the diseases that were engendered by the damp conditions.

Between the livestock meadows, protected by wild dogs that were housed in kennels on each corner, secured by long, rusting chains, lay the crop fields. J.B. stood in one of them, casting a weathered eye on his surroundings. What should have been fields of green and gold waving in the chill breeze that swept along the sheltered valley became nothing but stumpy pastures of brown, battered and rotting stalks. The root crops were immured in mud, and the wheat and grasses that were supposed to climb high were stunted and decaying at their base.