IX. Worlds Under Fire
It Ain't Getting Any Saner Out Here!
Like savage clockwork, it was time for the wilderness to show its ruthless colors once more, for not even the villainy of the Black Country could compare to the overwhelming terror of a stampede.
Surging towards Captain “Grim” Herrera and his tan companion Jack T. Wellman was an exodus of damn-near biblical proportions. Scores of bizarre, dark-hued creatures came thundering towards them, with sharp horns and steady hooves. The duo packed up everything into the truck and caravan, and tore away into the dark.
As the hump-backed hoards closed in, the caravan lunged and swung at by the mildewing beast’s mighty horns, the black officer barked that terrible order; take aim and defend the ride. Wellman readied his shotgun, the entourage already at the buffeting crush’s mercy. The bronzed wolf gritted his teeth and squeezed off his shots. It took the slaughter of four to dispel the mindless herds away from the cabless truck, but as soon as they had arrived, they vanished into the dark.
“It wasn’t as it should’ve been,” Grim consoled solemnly. “But our mission is of too great an importance.”
The seasoned Indian wolf made no protests on the matter. “Ain’t the first time I had to put ‘em down in self-defense.” he sighed. “How you think we got those mounts at me and the wife’s place?”
The black officer nodded, turning the truck around. “Well, they must’ve been running from something.”
Wellman nodded, waving Herrera on. “It was either in-fighting, a hunt gone bad, or maybe those mysterious villains of yours upset them. I thought most of those alien critters died out ages ago. Most tests said they couldn’t survive after the fallout fully dissipated.”
“If those tarados are experimenting with nuclear weapons,” Grim growled savagely, “I’ll gut them myself.” The vaquero flattened his throttle, and the jacked-up Harvester Scout bounded away into the settling dust. Where once hooves drummed, long and low creaks sounded off, as if a great door had been left ajar.
“Those mean anything to you?” the black wolf quizzed.
“If we were by the sea.” Wellman chuckled. “Wouldn’t be far off from whale calls.”
Grim nodded as the metallic groan grew louder. Whatever it was, it was massive. And whatever it was, Herrera was ready for it. Just not the sight of it.
“Madre de Dios,” the black wolf gasped as the light caught the edge of a towering missile. Not the average anti-tank rocket launcher, though plenty stood idle in the dark, but disproportionately large rockets, likely intercontinental, arched upwards and towards the skies, all facing the East.
The groans came from the loose swing of missiles, cutting the profile of old Texas oil derricks. Their seesaw teeter kept the officer and civilian live and wired, and the boxy pickup racing through the shadowy munition fields as her master drank in the bizarre display.
“You figure we’re in Black Country yet?” Wellman asked, the bronze adventurer clinging to his shotgun.
“If we’re not,” Grim answered, fixing his cowboy hat, “take a good look at how they blew this whole planet to hell.”
No sooner had he said it, than a flash of light ripped through the truck’s rear-view mirrors, and the idle groans grew to a deafening roar; the missiles were being armed. “Check the cartridge Señor,” Herrera barked, “Looks like Round 2 will be against quite a different hoard.”
Knox stood in his conference room with his own private war. A scale model he had spent months preparing from a mountain of data and history. He was about to pull together something he could count on with almost complete assurance, and would deliver him the blows he so desired. Not since the Centurion had he planned on this scale, ready to take the war red-hot.
From the comfort of his warm, oak-furnished space, he walked the table-sized war game’s perimeter. He had taken stock of everything; all that Agent Roger Steele had uncovered during his decades of reconnaissance in Haven, the gains and losses of the Centurion in 2466, and all the land reclaimed from the city’s network A.C.E.S. thereafter. He also took stock of all the mental horrors the digital bitch was capable of. Whenever he was in doubt, he pulled out a perfectly preserved photo of his dear “Angel” Lorraine, held it in his silver hand, and gave the photo a gentle nod before returning to his calculations.
After jotting down a few more numbers and notes on a pad, he crossed the room, dialed a long number on his crimson-colored phone, and waited for the connection.
“Valentina…Cazador, I presume?” asked the dark gray general.
“Adam Knox, I presume?” came the curious tones of the white Valentina.
“Glad you remembered,” he smiled. “I understand and sympathize with your plight, and wish to make use of you and your hunters. I’ll give you the go-ahead to enter Haven when we’re ready to ride ourselves. Don’t break in until then. We have reports of electric phenomena in the city that you may get lost in. Once you’ve tended to your personal tasks, peel open that border and hold it down for the cavalry. I’ll send a telegraph unit to Eric’s so you can contact our insider Lita Ridgefield. Discuss logistics with her while we’re straighten things out here.”
There was a silence that could stop time, then a question. “Why should we? Wait that is. We have the location, we understand the nature of the forcefield. I think we’re plenty prepared.”
Knox sighed. “I stand here holding a phone with a hand that ought to be made of bone, muscle, and blood, Cazador. And yet it’s made of cold, uncaring metal, through which I have seen the blackest hell that machine who tried to make leashed savages of your pack could conjure up. Your Colosseum’s death is an important one, but it alone is not the death Haven needs. It must be complete!”
He couldn’t stop the bile on his tongue, try as he might. The lapse of composure was rewarded with another round of that chilling silence before the answer.
“It would be our greatest pleasure.” Valentina growled, the tone bordering on sensual. “Let us know when.”
“Will do.” Knox nodded. “May God bless you and your crew.” The tension bound in the General’s gut deflated with another great sigh. There was something about Valentina that he could never quite understand, but given their capture and covert torture, but their mutual ax to grind with the Neon Goddess made her an essential ally. No sooner had he hung up, though, than another call came through. “General Knox, who is it?”
“Arch Commissioner Henson, Hell Patrol.”
“What can I do for you, Commissioner?” Knox quizzed.
“Blood’s in the water, General. I don’t know who sent these raider gangs into the fit they’re in, but we got a pack razing towns up in the North.”
“Manage to reform your Northern Patrol, I hope?” Knox remarked casually. Whether from sunstroke or the region’s drinking culture, the in-joke of the desert among anyone in authority was that Northern Hell Patrol could only be counted on to arrest every keg and flask within a 100-mile radius. The lightness of this private rib died upon the Commissioner’s next remarks.
“North Patrol is as good as dead. Our office in MacShane was razed, I’ve lost every good hound and bitch between towns, and I’ve personally ordered the sheriffs we’ve installed to defend their towns and their towns only. Calling in spare officers from everywhere to provide back up, but those reserves ain’t flush.”
The halfcocked grin vanished from Knox’s square muzzle. “Where were they last seen headed, and how many?”
“Headed West for Limore, entourage sits at about 50.”
“Chrissakes, that’s a standing army.” the General muttered to himself. “I’m gonna scramble some of our Scorpions for the task. I think anti-tank is just what we need to bury these bastards. Besides, I know a few hell-fighters who could use the workout.”
“Godspeed General, keep us posted.”
Knox hung up the phone, and dialed again. “Nothing like playing switchboard all morning.” he grumbled.
The team leader that came to mind was Evelyn “Teddy” Blanc. She had become quite the enthusiast for these scrappy, tread-wearing mobile guns, and that enthusiasm translated to a promotion and routine rotation between Corpman duties and drills. Odds were 10-to-1 she was in the hangar for her own amusement, which would make mobilizing the task force a cinch.
Sure enough, while the invisible wire hummed, and Knox waited for his connection to be made, the earthy-furred soldier was in the spacious garage, giving a tour of her prized ride.
“Gibson, meet Ryo! He’s the fleet’s fastest by a fur, and there’s just enough room to lay me down in the back!” Evelyn’s playful rasp was halfway through dumping stats all over her hubby when the announcement was made on Outpost 152.
“Calling all drivers and gunners! Calling all drivers and gunners! We got a 5-Team deployment. I repeat, 5-Team, heading for town of Limore. Orders are to destroy the invading force of raiders. Support from Base will rendezvous there.”
“That’s me Gib.” Evelyn smiled, throwing herself around the tan biker. “But where the hell’s Damon?”
“PROBABLY SCARED ‘IM OFF WITH YOUR DRIVING, ROUGH RIDER!” hollered one of the soldiers deep in the echoing garage.
“BLOW ME CHRIS!” she roared with a rebel yell.
“Y’know,” began Gibson innocently, “I’ve shot sidecar before. And it’s my day off. If you want I can—”
“Get in there you slick sonofabitch.” she grinned sweetly, stealing a kiss.
The Indian soldier plucked the walkie-talkie off his belt and clambered behind the massive barrel. His crop-top clad lover slid behind the camo-green wheel with ease.
“Lieutenant Blanc to Post 152.” Gibson barked. “I’ll be filling in as gunner on Scorpio-1 ‘Ryo.’”
“No hanky-panky now,” the announcer chortled, much to the other drivers’ delight.
“Well…sorry we can keep it up all night.” he shot back, the chorus of soldiers roaring with laughter.
“Scorpio-1 to Team-5,” Evelyn barked, fixing her red bandana. “Behave yourselves and remember what this lead paw is used for. I kick ass just as good as throttles, not to mention that we’re riding with a Lieutenant today.”
“MA’AM, YES MA’AM.” barked the drivers and gunners in unison.
“God it’s good to be the boss,” Evelyn chortled, patting the top of her Scorpion’s blast plate. She ripped the machine into gear and floored him, the remaining four not far behind. The troop made their tracks northward, bound for what could only be described as one of the stranger battles they had faced.
The night was alight with the sturm und drang of a one-truck war machine, bolting through a hundred crosshairs. If mere groans had startled the East’s alien herds, the mighty crash of rockets was surely setting off stampedes for miles around. The boorish cries and distant wails were drowned by the roar of the Scout’s V8 and the symphony of cannon fire surrounding her.
Captain Herrera had brought out his truck’s big red button. The accelerator nailed the cargun button to the floor, the twin barrels beneath the front bumper firing on everything in sight. It was a gamble, but with his Ultra-Geiger silent, he was hellbent on destroying the entire field to make sure the bombs could never be made nuclear again.
Though he had never served a day in his life, the tan-furred Wellman felt a natural behind the ammo crate as he lit into the ground-to-air units behind them. Whenever he cried “coming on your 6,” he dropped down and braced himself as the seasoned driver swerved his truck and caravan through the mobile minefield. The camper teetered and rocked with each turn, Grim doing his best to keep it balanced, and Jack doing his best not to shoot out his own windows.
Then came the deadly hit.
What missed the caravan’s bumper blasted the desert beneath to gray ash as the Scout and camper were lifted clean into the air by the wave.
“HANG ON!” bellowed the black captain as he clung to the wheel, Wellman clinging to the cabless truck’s roll-bar. What lasted seconds felt like hours as the truck and trailer crashed to the ground at full force.
“WE’VE LOST ‘ER!” roared Wellman. The crash had broken the hitch, the trailer now a sitting duck in a sea of guns.
“VÁMONOS, SEÑOR!” the vaquero bellowed as he slammed the brakes and whipped the truck into reverse. The cabless blue pickup screeched up to the camper and Wellman hastily re-rigged the hitch. The Scout’s banshee tires screamed as she bolted from the incoming missiles, rockets on all sides.
BOOM!
Rather than upward, the blast shoved the entourage forward, Grim fighting for control before the truck skidded to a grinding halt. When he looked back towards the cratered desert made of the missile fields, a startling sight greeted both him and Wellman; it had stopped.
The towering rockets teetered down to earth, and came to rest on the sands. The conventionally-sized ground-to-air missiles collapsed into the ground, and only the projectiles themselves could be seen resting on the surface.
“WHEEEEEEW LAWD!” Wellman gasped, his bronze fur fixing to turn white. “How the fuck you do that for a living?” When his breath was caught, he leapt out to check the caravan over.
“You aren’t seriously injured?” Herrera asked, breath heavy with adrenaline.
“I been shaken up by worse.” the stocky wolf sighed. “Be glad I ain’t one of them lily-livers who thinks life’s a petting zoo. One more bad stunt show like that, though, and the caravan could be as au naturel as that four-wheeled battle-axe of yours. Braces at the bottom–here along the chassis–are all stressed to shit.”
The slender Latino nodded, clambering down from the driver’s seat. Out came a camera, snapping photographs of everything behind them. “They must use the desert winds as cover when the missiles aren’t in use.” The camera clicked softly and steadily as he grabbed every shot he could. What he couldn’t figure was why. Why had it all stopped so arbitrarily?
“Silencio es muerte” the leather-clad vaquero muttered, the light growing dim. “It’s an automated system, surely, but how in God’s name could we miss something like this!?”
Wellman chose his words carefully. “Hey-uh, perdón? That’s the word ainit? I think it’s just the fact no one bothers with it out here. Just crooks, crazies and a few adventurer types. It’s how you got ambushed by those anti-tank guns in the first place. Hell Patrol had reports of fugitives coming out here, but most of those guys don’t know shit from shinola when it comes to survival. Found the body of a fella named Vanderburton. Trafficked hounds around the Wastes as sex slaves, and it turns out some of our horned friends gored him before he made it halfway through New Mexico.”
Herrera nodded again, the black-furred officer drinking it all in. “I think we’re on the right track at least.” he replied, pocketing the camera. “Just one more thing I’d like to do.”
“What’s that?” Wellman asked.
“Pull the Scout ahead, get the caravan clear, and grab me the black box marked ‘Cocaína.’” The bronzed wolf did just that, and upon picking up the crate, one that he had sat upon during his tail-gunning stint, it was upon its opening that he realized the Captain wasn’t about to powder his nose. Instead, he produced a long, tube-shaped grenade, complete with a metal bulb at the top.
“So that’s what we’re smoking,” Wellman chuckled wryly.
“Let’s see how fast-acting this system is.” Herrera grinned with an impish pleasure. He pulled the pins and swung the grenades hard towards the missile towers. He made sure there was one for each he had eyes on. Sure enough, the smaller air-to-ground units sprang up from the sand and fired instantly.
“Let’s get going.” Herrera ordered. “Our time on this killing field will be a firecracker compared to what’s about to happen.”
They were halfway to the truck when the fireball screamed up from the towers and rockets. Herrera dove into the driver’s seat, landed boot first on the throttle, and with a heaving jump, Wellman grabbed hold of the caravan’s backdoor as the entourage sped away. He clambered along its side as the flames lashed the blackened sky, and the boxy pickup gained speed. Winded from the sprint, Wellman resigned himself to behind the ammo crate, shotgun resting by his side. Even with all the noise, sleep came easy to him.
“Tarp’s a good blanket, Señor.” Herrera chuckled as the towering inferno slowly faded from view. It was a helluva road marker if ever there was one.
Hell had come to the town of Limore, the village nestled beneath the mountain range that marked the North’s end. What Evelyn Blanc and her hounds found there were the ringleaders of a true Wasteland circus.
Never before had a team of raiders presented themselves so extravagantly. A crush of hot rods bounded over the mountains, rusty-and-rotted machines pounding sand as scrappy bikes filled the ranks. And as the Scorpion gunners loaded the laser shells, and the drivers followed the Blancs’ lead, there came a sight that perplexed the entire troop.
It cut the profile of a backwards penny-farthing bicycle, with a massive main wheel, and a small pilot. A block engine hung in the middle, powering a massive propeller blade, and the drivers sat on a small flat seat, clinging to the wheel that steered the fan.
They were naturally the first targets.
“COMPANY! FIRE!” radioed the tan lieutenant. The five mobile guns lobbed their volleys, and each streak made their mark. While most of the bizarre contraptions went up in a blaze of blissful glory, one deflected every electric bullet sent his way. He was the odd hound out in that he didn’t wear the white jumpsuits or black vests, but instead rode in the tattered remains of a stock-car driver’s suit, complete with a warlike helmet.
“Kayfabe’s over pal.” Evelyn grimaced as she opened up her Scorpion’s mighty V12. “GO’ON-N-GIT ‘EM, BOYS!”
The five short-n-stocky devils roared to life and crossed the battlefield as their backup finally arrived; two units of Auto Corp and Moto Corp, fit to make a real show of everything. The sleek and slender muscle cars and the well-kept cruisers and choppers were dwarfed by the mobile scrapyard that was opening fire on them all, but the fight was anything but assured.
The gray warrior on the propeller machine bobbed and wove like he had a Harley between his thighs. The level of control he possessed betrayed the visible instability of the machine he rode. And yet here he was, lighting into the windows of Camaros and Mustangs that were lighting into his hounds’ coupes and open-air engines. The whole scene reeked of burning gas and diesel as the chaos roared on, rides from the Force and the raiders crashing into one another in a massive display of demolition driving. It was amid the blinding barrage of star-spangled beasts and graffitied beaters that Gibson soon lost track of the foe.
“Keep ‘em live Teddy, he’s gotta be around here some–”
“DUCK!” Her husband dropped as the white laser fire cleared his head by mere inches. She swung the Scorpion around as quickly as she could, but even the souped-up engines couldn’t make up for the grinding skid of the mini-tank’s poor drifting.
The gun that had nearly domed Gibson was a polished Colt's Dragoon, and its wielder was the mad-hound dressed for the Daytona 500, still riding that overpowered penny-farthing.
“GET ME CLOSE TO HIM,” Gibson bellowed. Finally the right way around, Evelyn’s Scorpion roared forward, front lifting as it charged on the ringleader of this apocalyptic circus, a feral smile creeping across his gray muzzle as he trained the revolver on the tan soldier’s head.
“Hang on!” Evelyn barked, slamming the brakes and swerving the Scorpion. Gibson leapt up and tightrope-walked across the mobile gun’s long barrel. He could sense his dear Teddy’s worry, but he didn’t have time to console. He wanted this mad dog alive.
The biker wolf steadied his footing and slammed his chest with a clenched fist. “C’MON!” Gibson goaded. “YOU WANT ME, DON’T YA? WELL COME-N-GET ME, YOU CHICKEN SHIT HICK!”
Sure enough, the trick worked, and the killer’s rage brought him within reach. The propeller-blade swung towards the leather-clad soldier, ready to slash him to ribbons. Closer and closer the blades came, the silver edges catching the sun with each blinding spin. With not a moment to lose, Gibson leapt off the barrel and landed on the ground. When the blades slashed into the barrel, there came a deafening shriek, and pained gasp from the backward bike’s engine.
Amid the sparks and smoke, Gibson yanked the rider off of his seat and onto the desert floor. When the gray tried to draw his gun, the tan lieutenant slammed his harness boot down his wrist, the gun sent flying into the chaos of battle.
“You ain’t getting off easy, Pal.” Gibson snarled as he cracked the butt of his Colt across the raider’s neck, the gray knocked out cold.
As with many battles, once the leaders were dealt with, everything else soon falls apart. Upon the ringleader’s capture, those whose bodies weren’t baking in the sun soon dispersed. Evelyn led her team back to Outpost 152, and helped Gibson bring the raider back to Base. He was afforded the five-star comfort of her black-and-bronze Rebel Machine’s tool-filled trunk, and a proper rough ride from ol’ “Teddy” Blanc.
It was in Room 505 where the meaning behind the madness was learned.
When the sunglasses came off, the gray revealed himself to be the owner of white eyes. Not android’s eyes, nor the film of cataracts; just pure white pupils sat upon pure white irises. And as perplexing and scientifically improbable as they were, the eyes followed General Knox around the room to perfection.
“It’s do-or-die, Daddy-O,” the raider snidely chuckled. “We want to keep the Wastes good and clean, free of all this claptrap you hounds mistake for towns, and councils and organization. Don’t make for so much fun. Aina big pow-wow he had about it either, we’s just feel it in the air.”
“Is it a crime,” General Knox began, leaning against the table with an outstretched silver hand, “to have some sort of structure? To have someone you can count on. Neighbors you can depend on?”
“Noneits my problem.” he smarmily answered. “Only thing that matters is those who can get it, and those who can lose it. Raiders like me always be getting’”
The tall, dark general took a seat on the desk and lit himself a cigarette. He clenched the cancer-stick tight between his fangs before continuing. “So a couple centuries of wayfaring and you want to make wayfarers of everyone, even those who don’t wish to be. Am I getting this right?” The tone was polite, innocent, and inviting as the smoke rolled gently from his snout.
“Bout the long and short of it.” the gray raider chuckled, kicking his fireproof racing boots up on the interrogation table. “So whaddya do with me? My hoard’s scattered, I didn’t drop any of your boys and girls in green. Am I free to go…officer?”
Whether planned or not, the chord that word struck reeled the General back. He swung the white-eyed Wastelander up by his racing jacket’s collar and held him an inch from his face. The dragon-fire smoke of Knox’s cigarette bellowed out on a snarl before he recomposed himself to those polite, raspy tones.
“We used to be a peace corps. Used to go around fixing things up, showing folks how to live again. Didn’t have to install dictators or special councils to make it happen, just showed ‘em the ropes. Thought we’d be able to keep folks like you down to the minimum. You can do whatever you like, travel from town to town, raid to raid. But we’ll be there. Whenever you come around to rain hell on these little towns, by God, we’ll be there. I’ll bring everything down on you until your fur’s the color of my burning blood, and those white eyes of yours are a pit of black. Remember this, I’m running a war. And even with two shitstains breathing down our necks, I ALWAYS make time to put this nation back together the way it ought to be.”
He slammed the gray raider down against the cement floor and started towards the door.
“So, what am I in for then?” he hollered between seethes of pain.
“Death toll in excess of 100.” answered the dark gray general. “Not Limore, just the rest of it. Either way, that’s kill-on-site last time I read the handbook.”
“When’s the execution then, Mister By The–”
BAM!
The raider’s answer was a lead slug of .44 Magnum, his body slumping to the floor with a hole in its head. Once the shot’s echo had died, Knox pressed a button on the door’s silver panel. “I’ll go tell Hell Patrol about my plans for ‘em.” he told the observation staff. “Come scrape him off the floor.”
The plans came upon a wooden pole, where the gray wolf’s body was tied up by the wrists and ankles, a mile out from Limore. Nailed to his chest was a note etched in deliberately rusted metal:
This town is protected. The decent are welcome. All others are as good as dead.
The few Infantrymen killed on that fateful day were afforded a proper burial, full honors. The rest of Limore’s dead were strung up as scarecrows across every town in the North, as well as neighboring villages in the Eastern, Western, and Central Regions.
Of all these ghoulish specters, none held the peculiar power of that raider’s cold white eyes. The towns bequeathed these displays have gone without significant trouble ever since.
The red letter E was his chance to stop. The blistering light of the flaming missile fields was long in the distance, and had given way to the rich deep red of the sun as it rose. Grim Herrera brought the Scout to a gentle stop. Carefully, he got out, walked over to the tank flap, and plucked up the gas can tucked between the shuffling harness boots of his slumbering bronze compadre.
He unscrewed the cap and filled up his great steed, petting her as he would a horse. “Eres maravillosa, Azul,” he soothed. The name “Azul” was the one his daughter Rosita had taken to calling Papa’s camión. The image of his dearest Soledad and their beautiful babe brought neither tears nor terror, but a warm smile to the black wolf’s face. “Soon.” he soothed to himself, setting the gas can back in the truck. “Soon. I can feel it.”
It was the last thing he felt before a fist crashed across his neck, and the veteran soldier fell lifeless to the desert floor. The slam of the gas can jolted Wellman awake, and by the time he had his shotgun in hand, he was met with a sight that petrified him.
It was tall, a good 10 to 12 feet, black with glowing neon strips long the length of its torso, and staring at him was its lone, blood-red visor. It was a Black Android, a lumbering wolven war machine. One designed by A.C.E.S. herself.
6 ELECTRIFYING ADVENTURES IN A WILD, WOLVEN FUTURE! STARRING THE 25TH CENTURY’S BRAVEST HOUNDS & THEIR TREMENDOUS MACHINES!
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