"Wonder how the greenhouses survive intact?" Mildred asked pensively.

"Not care," Jak said. "Their prob."

"However, when the storm stops, we can expect company."

Finished with her repast, Krysty wiped her mouth on a tiny moist towelette from the MRE pack. "Think Dean will be ready to travel by then?"

Mildred shrugged. "Hopefully."

"We aren't waiting that long," Ryan said, dropping in a clip of fresh round and ramming the bolt home.

"Once the wind dies down a bit, Krysty and I will move out to hit them hard. Cut down the numbers of the opposition as much as possible."

Unwrapping a stick of sugarless gum, the redhead nodded. The matter had already been discussed between them.

"During a sandstorm," Doc said, slowly arching an eyebrow. "How?" Jak asked pointedly.

Mildred added, "Can't wrap blasters in cloth as protection from the grit. Bolt action and autos would jam immediately on any loose fold, and the revolvers would set the material over the cylinder on fire."

"Nothing like that." Ryan laid the a.s.sembled weapon across his lap. "True, we'll need some specialty equipment, but I spotted the place to get it when driving back here."

"Don't remember any scuba shops or anything like that," J.B. said, scratching under his hat. "Mebbe a pharmacy. Going to put condoms over the barrels? No, the guts would still be exposed. What's the place?"

"Shoe store."

As the desert winds fiercely rattled the windows again, the companions stared blankly at the one-eyed man. Already knowing the answer, Krysty allowed herself a half smile waiting for the man to explain.

Only J.B. burst into laughter. "You crafty b.a.s.t.a.r.d. They'll never know what hit them."

"Agreed. As soon as the storm breaks, we attack."

IN THE NORTHERN section of the ruins, sec men were using the b.u.t.ts of their blasters to nail boards across the inside of thick Plexiglas windows. Boards were already on the outside, but the white expanse of the drive-through window shook from the fury of the storm, so it seemed a wise precaution. The front door of the bank wasn't even visible through the stack of sandbags offering them protection from the storm.

At a teller's cage, the quartermaster was frying onions in a skillet held over a small fire of paper money to add to the soup for dinner. A lone corporal was playing harmonica in the lobby, while the night crew was sleeping in their bedrolls down in the cellar. Some officers were upstairs throwing dice for cigs. One enterprising private was skinning a lizard he'd caught, and the rest of the sec men were sitting on their duffs, ritually field-stripping their blasters merely for something to do. Out of the seventy-four men, only six stood guard duty with loaded weapons.

"Hey, Marv, play something snappy," a corporal asked, dry shaving with a straight razor.

Tapping the moisture out of his harmonica, the musician seemed offended. "I was."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry."

Playing poker at a table with other sec men of various ranks, a lieutenant muttered, "Son of a b.i.t.c.h only knows four songs, and we've heard them all twice by now."

"Better than quiet," the private said, drawing a new card.

A snort. "That's your opinion. I bet two cigs."

"Fold."

"I'll cover that. Whatcha got?" "Read them and weep."

"s.h.i.t."

Using a paper clip to sc.r.a.pe the warm ashes out of his corncob pipe, a private asked, "Anybody got some corn silk? I can trade."

"Whatcha got?" a corporal asked, st.i.tching a hole in a sock.

"Token from the gaudy house for an hour with the new girl."

The quartermaster looked up from the sizzling onions. "You mean Laura? The one who's so wild they gotta tie the b.i.t.c.h down to keep her from breaking your back? I'd trade a whole cig for that."

"How about a nice lizard?" the hunter offered hopefully, proffering his filleted catch at the end of a b.l.o.o.d.y knife.

"Dream on, gleeb. I'll take the cig." The exchange was made.

"One day," grumbled a private off by himself, stabbing at the carpet with a knife. There was concrete under the flooring so the blade couldn't gain purchase and kept falling over. "We leave the ville, the tunnel explodes, ten guys croak and now we're stuck in a freaking sandstorm. In a single day. s.h.i.tfire!"

"Could be worse," another sec man suggested.

"Yeah?"

The man winked and nudged his friends. "Sure. Might also have to listen to some loud-mouthed blow-hard whine like a mutie with a broken bottle up its a.s.s."

The knife took on a more aggressive posture. "Oh yeah, lard bucket?"

"Cork it, the lot of you," Sergeant Jarmal said low and menacingly. He was sitting against the wall, his thick arms crossed, with his battered cap covering his scarred face. But that didn't always mean the coldheart was asleep. "Any more chatter and you'll both walk the perimeter. Outside. Get me?"

That dire announcement stopped conversation for a while, but over the long hours the voices slowly returned to the usual mix of lewd jokes, dreams, suggestions, b.i.t.c.hing, yawning and lies, the ageless talk of bored soldiers.

Reading a paperback war novel found in a desk, Leonard was sitting on a cot in the vault of the bank, the open door letting him listen to the troops. They were restless, but had good reasons to be. Luckily, he had the foresight to bring along extra provisions and supplies. Leonard thought they might be needed if the chase went into the desert. Now the rations were keeping them alive while trapped by the storm, although they were low on water and he was getting mighty sick of fried onion soup and baked potatoes.

Outside, lightning flashed and the winds howled.

"How b.l.o.o.d.y long will this last?" the young baron growled, placing aside his book. Too many of the words in it were unfamiliar to him, and he detested feeling like a stupe. In a fit of pique, he tore the volume into pieces, the pages fluttering to the floor like dead leaves in autumn. There, who was the stupeone now?

Thunder rumbled again.

"Seen worse," Jarmal drawled from under his hat.

"I doubt it," Leonard snarled. "Captain Kelly, any word on the tunnel? Have the civvies broken through yet?"

The officer turned from the poker game. "Unknown, my lord. I twice sent men to check." He hesitated.

"But none ever returned."

"Then send more," the baron ordered impatiently. "Lash them together with ropes, tie bricks to their feet, but get me some information!"

"As you command, my lord," the officer said coldly.

Then Leonard saw the faces of the sec men, the fear, the unwillingness to do the job, that first fledgling trace of resentment, the brother to hate.

"Cancel that, Captain," the youth stated, fear a knot in his belly. Then, in forced gaiety he added, "Quartermaster, break out some wine. That'll cut this dust from our throats. There were a couple of bottles in the trunk of my wag. Use them all! Give every man a half cup, starting with privates, then the officers. I'll be last."

A score of heads turned his way, tired faces showing interest, with a dash of disbelief.

"B-but, my lord," the man stammered, rubbing his hands as if in absolution. "There won't be enough to go around."

"Do what you can, but the men come first," Leonard said with a straight face.

"Three cheers for the new baron!" a private called out, and the rest took up the cry.

Eagerly, the sec men formed a line for their liquor ration, and Leonard retired to his bulletproof room.

He was a fool, an idiot! One of the very first lessons he learned was to always stay on the good side of the men. Whoever had the blasters was in charge. That was a fact of life he could not afford to forget again.

And when the winds eased in force, the men could then prove their loyalty by bringing in that cursed redhead alive. How well he remembered the fierce beauty of her face and those ample, womanly curves.

Starting a dynasty with the redhead had been a splendid idea of his father's. Yeah, a very good idea.

And after they were safely back in the ville across the river, his troops would burn these ruins to the ground, removing the problems of the wolves, the winged muties and the hidden weapons cache permanently. But first, he had to find the b.i.t.c.h.

To h.e.l.l with waiting for the storm to stop. Just as soon as the winds eased in force, Leonard would unleash all of his troops and let the final hunt begin.

REEKING YELLOW WATER swirling around his patched boots, Harold slogged through the sewer of the ville, a tiny candle in his cupped hands lighting the way. A voice inside his head said a major stormhad to be raging for the river water to be this high, and the hunchback was forced to cover his face in an effort not to choke on the chemical stink. Even if the acid rains didn't reach the ville, the runoff from the mountains raised the level of the river until it flowed back into the normally dry sewers. Splashing in the wastewater, a rat scurried by, already dying from the diluted acid. There was no sewage down here.

Alphaville saved its solid waste for the greenhouses.

Counting the feeder pipes carefully, the hunchback reached the last familiar intersection. Here was where he usually turned left to reach the ruins, but not today. Patrica was dead, the deal was off and he was going to claim his bride. A strange kind of cold anger was building within him, and he was eagerly looking forward to meeting anybody who tried to stop him.

The previous day, Harold had reached the secret place where the old baron used to hide blasters.

Oddly, the bas.e.m.e.nt of the skysc.r.a.per was completely deserted, not a mutie there. But the sergeant left the bundle of food for their young anyway, took what he went for and departed again. The hunchback hoped his pets were okay. They were so innocent and shy.

The two huge blasters rode heavy at his hips, and the rifle slung across his back was the biggest in the plastic trunk. Did he remember to release more argon gas into the trunk after he sealed the lid shut? He shook off the thoughts. It didn't matter now. Harold knew he probably wasn't going to survive this journey. But that was okay. He and Laura could be together in death.

Reaching another intersection, the hunchback paused, waiting for the voices to tell where to go. He had never been in this section of the sewers before. It was forbidden for any to go down there, twenty strokes, and owning a map of the sewers was death by the Machine. The faint light of his candle displayed several side tunnels, extending out from a central pit. At the bottom was a main feeder pipe, and in a rush he knew that was his destination. A ladder was bolted to the side of the pit, and, starting to climb down, he stopped halfway as there came the telltale squeaking of rats. Lots of them.

Holding on to the rungs, Harold lit a match and dropped it. Before the sulfur tip burned out, he caught a glimpse of what was below. Lining the bottom of the pit were river rats, hundreds of sleeping rats, their naked pink tails lashing about as the piles constantly shifted and moved. Real fear seized the man, and he had trouble breathing. This was bad. The hunchback knew the appet.i.te of a rat. A pack like that could take the meat from his bones before he covered the few feet to the main pipe. Instinctively, he knew the silent whistle wouldn't work here. Scaring the horde would only make matters worse.

Several voices shouted conflicting suggestions to him, but only one rose above the others in clarity, ordering the hunchback to give the rats exactly what they wanted. All the food they could eat.

Drooling slightly, Harold eagerly nodded. Yes, that should work fine! Pulling out his eating knife, the man carefully cut off the sleeve of his shirt, then realized he had no rocks. Taking one of the blasters, the hunchback tied it tightly inside the sleeve, leaving a nice long tail hanging loose. Then, stabbing his thumb with the knife, he squeezed out blood and rubbed it over the bundle until it was good and soaked.

There was a flurry of movement among the rats, and Harold waited with a pounding heart until the rodents succ.u.mbed to sleep once more. One particularly large rat lying prominently on the very top of a pile yawned until its jaws threatened to crack, then blinked sleepily and settled back into position.

Taking hold of the end of the cloth strip, Harold began whipping the bundle around and around, building speed until it started to hum, then released the makeshift bolo. Off it flew over the rats and landed with a clunk in a side tunnel, bouncing and rolling for another yard or so. Suspended above the furry killers, he clung to the ladder and watched. His vision was becoming adjusted to the darkness, faint streamers of light coming in from a street grating far overhead.

In the side tunnel, a pink nose twitched as a rat at the far end of the pack lifted its head and glanced around, sniffing curiously. Waddling from its cozy position on the bottom of the gently breathing pile, the yawning rodent ambled over to the pistol and took a sniff, then a lick, then began happily gnawing on the b.l.o.o.d.y rag. Its squeal of delight roused another rat, which joined the first. Their quiet nibbling awoke a third, then a fourth. Soon a group was working on the warm morsel, and as more arrived, rats began crawling over one another to get to the food. Wiggling for position became shoving, then teeth were bared and hissing turned to snarling. One savagely bit another, and blood spurted. Its squeal of pain aroused hundreds more, and the wounded rodent was torn apart and eaten by its comrades.

Soon dozens, then hundreds from the pile joined in the cannibal feast, the hot smell of fresh blood driving them insane. Screams filled the sewer as the hungry rats turned on one another, slashing and clawing in a wild feeding frenzy.

Quickly reaching the bottom of the ladder, Harold tried not to step on any of the scampering rats underfoot as he crossed the pit into the tunnel. A few scurried after him, and the hunchback waited until he was a good distance away from the feeding frenzy before stomping them to death. One seemed less mangy than the rest, and he stuffed it into a pocket for dinner later.

Moving fast along the pipe, he found more ladders leading into access shafts. The voices counted merrily until reaching number fourteen, then screamed at him to climb exactly here. Shivering under the chorus of commands, the hunchback obeyed meekly. A heavy iron grating blocked the top of the shaft. Harold quietly lifted the covering and gently set it aside as he climbed from the sewer.

Standing, the hunchback saw he was in a storage room, boxes and barrels stacked haphazardly about in careless abandon. Moving quietly to the door, he peeked through the keyhole and saw Jimmy in the next room brushing his teeth at a dirty sink, humming a tune. The voices had done it. This was the gaudy house. The next part was his alone to complete.

Lifting the door by the handle so the rusty hinges wouldn't squeak, Harold crept forward, and, releasing the door, he drew the knife. A creak from the settling hinges caught the bouncer's attention and as he turned, the hunchback charged and smashed the skinny man against the wall, knocking the breath from his lungs.

Gasping for air, Jimmy desperately slashed at the brute with his straight razor, but Harold knocked that aside with a meaty arm and grabbed the bouncer by the throat. Jimmy left the floor kicking, his eyes bulging as if about to burst from his head. Jamming a hand into his pocket, the bouncer partially drew the homemade zip gun when something loudly snapped in his neck. He trembled, then went completely limp, the razor dropping from twitching fingers.

Squeezing some more until he was sure the man was dead and not trying a trick, Harold laid the corpse on a filthy bunk in the corner and covered him with a thin blanket. Now drawing the .44 AutoMag from his holster, Harold started up the dank wooden stairs to the first floor of the brothel, his face an inhuman mask carved from ice.

Let the storm rage and thunder outside-this was his wedding day.

Chapter Twenty

Digging in their heels and shouldering the door to the shoe store open, Ryan and Krysty burst onto the street. Instantly, the wind slammed the door shut, shattering the gla.s.s. The sandstorm invaded the shop ruthlessly, overturning displays and sending shoes flying madly about in a whirlwind. Sacrosanct for a century, it was now just another dead store amid the crumbling predark city.

Hunching over to walk against the fierce gusts, the companions started toward the destroyed skysc.r.a.per. The once mighty edifice had been reduced to a mere ironwork skeleton from the fires, but it still served as a landmark to direct them through the madness to the tunnel.

Thunder rumbled in the murky sky as the quieting sandstorm still raged over the ruins, the winds howling along the barren streets, driving the sand before it with pounding fury. The windows of the buildings shook, and loose debris flashed by to disappear into the maelstrom. More than once, they found a dried splotch on a wall, marking where a lizard had braved the storm and had abruptly become part of the landscape.

The pair was completely wrapped in strips of cloth bleached to mottled colors to help blend into the storm. Desert camouflage. Their right hands were swaddled in lumpy b.a.l.l.s of oily cloth. Even their faces were hidden behind overlapping layers, only their eyes showing through the narrowest of slits.

The wind noticeably lessened as they moved to the lee of a bowling alley, and Ryan and Krysty paused to examine a dead man embedded in the ground, his mouth packed solid with sand. The body was flayed to bones in spots from abrasion, and a smashed muzzle-loader that lay nearby showed he was from Alphaville. Tightening their own masks, the pair moved on.

Suddenly, there was a tremendous crack and a billboard flew by overhead, tumbling end over end as the winds tore it apart. As if renewed by the destruction, the storm rose in power until the whole world seemed on the verge of shattering. The pair was forced flat against the wall, helpless to take a step in any direction. Then the winds diminished, dropping to a soft breeze. The lightning and thunder also eased, then died away completely. For a few moments, the companions stood listening to the blood pound in their ears as they adjusted to the unexpected silence. Then the tempest returned, but not as strong as before.

"Almost over," Ryan shouted, using a knuckle to rub the windblown grit from his eye.

"Too fast!" Krysty replied. "We need another hour!"

"We aren't getting it! Better hurry."

A single strand of her fiery hair flying free, Krysty gestured onward with her cloth-wrapped hand when a figure walked around the corner of the building. The man was dressed in military fatigues, with a handkerchief covering his mouth and an M-16 a.s.sault rifle in his grip.

Instantly, Ryan raised his swaddled hand and fired, the silenced SIG-Sauer coughing once inside the big shoe box, the rags outside m.u.f.fling the noise to almost inaudible. But the wind shifted his aim and the sec man staggered, only wounded in the shoulder.

Snarling in pain, he pointed the M-16 and savagely pulled the trigger to no results. The dirty autofire was hopelessly jammed. Lunging forward, Krysty stabbed the sec man with the stiletto knife in her free hand.

Dropping the blaster, the sec man fell backward clutching his gushing throat.