Labyrinth

Krysty pointed at a corner of Ryan’s mouth. “You’re dripping,” she told him.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then looked down at a smear of red across his knuckles. Something tickled in the back of his throat, and he sneezed suddenly, and with great force. A gob of bloody matter shot out of his nose and landed on the tablecloth. As he stared at it, the gob fell apart, its minute components wriggling off in all directions. Ryan belched and tasted copper; his head started to spin, then his stomach convulsed. Hunching over, he vomited a shapeless, fluid mass onto his plate. Gray under their sheen of blood, like fibers of steel wool, the squirming wire worms gave off a rotten-egg stench.

Ryan shoved violently back from the table, and looking up, viewed the feast in a new light.

Literally.

The row of torches had ignited the threadbare tapestries, and the walls seethed with flame, brightly illuminating the hall—and its occupants. Seated at his table, and all the other tables were cobwebbed, moldering corpses. He turned to Krysty, and seeing her, let loose a bellow of pain.

A small, hairy-legged spider had built a home between her shriveled breasts. Her hair hung lank and lifeless to her shoulders. Her eyes were closed, and deeply sunken in their sockets, but the skin of her eyelids, face and neck twitched and rippled, animated by the stillbusy parasites beneath.

As Ryan recoiled in shock, the high-pitched notes of the fiddle and squeezebox turned into a shrill, electronic whine, and the drumbeat became an intermittent whipcrack.

He came awake with a hard jerk, gasping for air.

There was none.

He lay curled on an armaglass floor, his throat scorched, a burning pain spearing deep in his lungs, and withering heat beating against his back. Gray smoke, thick with particulate matter, swirled in the small chamber, transected by wild flashes of electricity.

The jump dream had ended but his nightmare continued.

The mat-trans unit was on fire.

Beside him on the floor, he could see the slumping forms of his five companions. As he pushed up from the blistering hot armaglass, his world went dim around the edges—lack of oxygen was shutting down his brain. If he allowed himself to pass out, they would all die, and horribly. A tingling rush of adrenaline brought Ryan to full consciousness.

He had to use his shoulder to crack loose the door of the mat-trans unit, which was stuck in the jamb. It swung open, revealing an anteroom lit by a bank of flickering fluorescent bulbs. Fresh air rushed in around him, feeding the flames. Ryan sucked down a quick breath, then turned back to the blaze and his helpless friends.

He grabbed hold of the nearest arm and dragged its owner’s body over to the portal. The tails of Doc Tanner’s frock coat were smoking as Ryan tumbled him out of the chamber. The lanky old man didn’t move. There was no time to check for a pulse—fire was starting to shoot up along the expansion seams in the armaglass floor.

Ryan gathered Krysty in his arms. Though she was unconscious, her prehensile mutie hair had retracted into the tight ringlets of mortal fear. She moaned as he unceremoniously pitched her out of the doorway.

When Ryan tried to do the same for Jak Lauren, the albino came to in his grasp. Faster than a blink, the wild child of Deathlands had the razor-sharp point of a leaf-bladed knife jammed against the front of Ryan’s throat, his slitted, blood red eyes glittering.

“Jak, it’s me,” Ryan said, giving him a hard shake. “For nuke’s sake, wake up.”

The youth’s eyes widened, and he immediately lowered the blade.

“Come on,” Ryan said as he turned back for the others. “We’ve got to hurry….”

After dragging their two remaining companions over the threshold, he and Jak did the same with all their backpacks. Crossing the chamber was like being caught on an armaglass skillet. Impervious to heat, the unit’s floor plates weren’t burning; it was the material beneath—circuitry, floor joists, insulation—that was on fire. Boot soles melting, Ryan retrieved his predark treasure, a scoped Steyr SSG-70 sniper rifle.

Jak staggered out of the mat-trans ahead of him, his lank white hair and ghostly skin peppered with soot. Ryan was relieved to see the rest of his crew, certainly worse for wear, but alive and awake.

Krysty sat on the floor, her long legs drawn up to her chest. She looked dazed, but she wasn’t burned. In the eerie, flickering light, trapped smoke rose like steam from the shoulders and back of her fur coat.

Dr. Mildred Wyeth knelt beside her. The stocky black woman was dressed in an OD jacket, camouflage BDU pants, jungle boots and a sleeveless gray T-shirt. She wore her hair in braided, beaded plaits. On her hip was a Czech ZKR 551 revolver in a pancake holster, the same weapon she had used to win a silver medal in pistol shooting in the last-ever Olympic Games. Shortly after that victory, she had been the victim of complications during surgery, a result of reaction to anesthetic. To save her life, the medical team put her in cryogenic stasis. Less than a month later, when a massive thermonuclear exchange between the United States and the Soviet Union ended civilization, Mildred slept dreamlessly through it. She continued to sleep for another hundred years, until Ryan and the others revived her.

What had gone so terribly wrong on January 20, 2001, was anybody’s guess.

Human error. Machine error. A combination of same.

And the sad truth was, it no longer mattered.

All the people who gave a damn about laying blame had been vaporized The great mistake, once made, was uncorrectable; by its very nature, it could never be repeated. It had destroyed Earth and its potential; it had derailed human history.

While Mildred attended to Krysty, Doc released the catch on his ebony sword stick and unsheathed the rapier blade. Satisfied that it wasn’t damaged, he re-sheathed it and checked his side arm. From a tooled Mexican leather holster, he drew a massive, gold engraved revolver. The two-barreled Le Mat was a Civil War, black powder relic, and the original “room broom.” Beneath a six-and-a-half-inch pistol barrel, hung a second, scattergun barrel, chambered for a single load of “blue whistlers.”

Though Dr. Theophilus Algernon Tanner appeared to be a well preserved sixty, as with Mildred Wyeth, appearances were deceiving. Chronologically his age was closer to four times sixty. The Harvard- and Oxford-educated Tanner had the distinction of being the first human time traveler, albeit an unwilling one. He had been ripped from the loving bosom of his family in 1896, and drawn one hundred years into the future by the whitecoats of Operation Chronos. Doc had spent his brief time in the late 1990s as a prisoner, locked down inside the ultrasecret facility. The jubilation of the twentieth-century scientists over their success was short-lived, thanks to Tanner’s ingratitude, truculence and general unpleasantness. Shortly before skydark, to rid themselves of the troublemaker, and to further test the limits of their experimental technology, they had hurled him forward in time. In so doing, they had inadvertently saved him from the nukecaust.

John Barrymore Dix, his fedora pushed way back on his head, was preoccupied, patting down his coat pockets. Ryan and J.B. had been running buddies since their convoy days with Trader, Deathlands’ legendary freebooter. It was Trader who had given J.B., a weapons specialist of extraordinary talent, the nickname “Armorer.” Finding nothing in his coat, with more urgency J.B. turned to his trousers. When he looked up from the fruitless search, Ryan read the expression behind the smudged, wire-rimmed glasses.

Triple red.

Dropping his Smith & Wesson M-4000, 12-gauge shotgun, J.B. jumped for the mat-trans unit. “Fire in the hole!” he shouted. “Get down!”

As J.B. grabbed the edge of the door, a string of explosions from inside the chamber rocked the room. In the same instant, a volley of buckshot ricocheted out the portal at a steep upward angle, cutting ragged furrows in the acoustic tile ceiling and shattering fluorescent bulbs.

J.B. slammed the door shut, sealing the last of the 12-gauge cook-offs behind armaglass and steel. Over the muffled explosions of the accidentally dropped shells, J.B. cursed a blue streak. He had cause to be upset with himself. In Deathlands, reliable ammo was more valuable than gold.

Even with the door closed, the adjoining walls and ceiling were starting to blister from the heat. Though there were smoke sensors and fire suppression nozzles placed at intervals along the ceiling, the century-old system was inoperative.

Still a bit dazed, Krysty got up from the floor. “What the blazes happened?” she groaned.

Ryan pointed out the deep scoring of tool marks along the door frame. Next to it, a head-size hole in the plaster revealed a mass of melted conduit and charred wiring.

The conclusion was as unmistakable as it was disheartening.

“Somebody’s beaten us here,” Mildred said.

“And when they saw the heavy door,” Ryan added, “they must’ve figured to find sweet pickings on the other side. They couldn’t open it with their pry bars and sledges, so they attacked the wall, looking for another way in. That was a dead end, too.”

J.B. agreed with him. “After the damage was done, the unit just sat there until we showed up,” he said. “The rematerialization power surge short-circuited the system. We were lucky to come through in one piece.”

“One thing is certain,” Doc said as he dusted off the lapels of his frock coat, “the machine has jumped its final cargo. Once again we find ourselves reduced to more primitive means of transportation—namely, our own two feet.”

“The smoke is getting worse in here,” Mildred said. “No telling what kind of toxic fumes we’re inhaling. There could even be a radiation leak if the containment vessel’s been breached. I suggest we take this show on the road before we start glowing in the dark.”

She didn’t have to add that whoever had wrecked the unit could still be lying in wait.

After drawing their weapons and shouldering their packs, the six companions exited the anteroom and control room, then entered the long, doorless corridor that separated the mat-trans unit from the rest of the redoubt. Jak took point, with his lightning reflexes and .357 Magnum Colt Python revolver.

Motion sensors triggered the overhead lights as they rapidly advanced, single file. Some of the fluorescent tubes were missing, some blinked erratically, others just buzzed and snapped. Vandals had caved in the walls in places; chunks of concrete and bits of glass from broken lights crunched underfoot. The dusty floor of the hallway revealed no recent bootprints. The air was as still and stale as a crypt.

The hall ended in an open doorway. As the companions stepped through it, the light banks switched on, revealing a broad, low-ceilinged room. What had once been a communications center had been turned into a debris field of broken glass, plastic and metal, waist-high in places.

At the sight, J.B. muttered a string of obscenities.

He and Ryan had spent most of their adult lives seeking out and pillaging similar predark strongholds. The network of secret installations, complete with stores of food, ammunition, fuel and vehicles, had been built to shelter and support America’s political, military and scientific elite in the case of nuclear war. But the end had come far too quickly for mass evacuations, and the installations were never occupied and used as the builders intended. The quirk of fate had left the redoubts’ caches of matériel and technology waiting, intact, for someone to find.

In this case, discovery was a done deal.

Here and there in the mounds of trash, individual sleeping chambers had been burrowed, then insulated and cushioned with layers of cardboard. In the middle of the room, a four-foot-high berm of trash had been pushed back, exposing an area of the floor and a wide, blackened hole chipped into the concrete. Smoke stained the ceiling above the crude firepit. Ringing the pit were a half-dozen ergonomic chairs missing their wheels and to one side of the hole lay a neat stack of fuel: gray plastic-veneered pressboard from workstations and cubicle dividers hacked into kindling.

Dix knelt and picked up a chunk of charcoal, which he easily crushed to powder. “Nobody’s lived here for years,” he said.

The alcove they found on the far side of the room confirmed that.

Once a lounge for computer operators, its row of vending machines were torn open and gutted, spilling waterfalls of multicolored wire. Shredded candy wrappers and crushed aluminum cans littered the floor. Along the alcove’s opposite wall were eight, molded plastic and tubular steel arm chairs. A large hole had been cut in each of the seats. Though the wastebaskets positioned beneath the chairs contained heaped evidence of their function, it had been so long since anyone had used the communal toilet that no odor remained.

Among the cartoons of sexual organs and acts defacing the alcove’s enameled walls were scattered bits of writing. In addition to the names and erotic interests of people long gone, if not long dead, were some familiar commentaries.

“Science Blows.”

“Jolt Is God.”

“So many muties, so little rope.”

And across the wall in a banner of rusty ink that was most likely blood: “I want to eat your liver.” To Ryan the letters looked like they had been applied with a mop. Or perhaps a neck stump.

Below the graffiti was a postscript so tiny and cramped that he had to lean close to the wall to make it out. It said, “I’m right behind you.”

He didn’t turn and look, of course, but for an instant he thought about it, just as the writer had intended.

With a resounding clunk all the lights went out, plunging the companions into pitch darkness.

From Ryan’s left came the scrape of a chair and shit bucket being kicked over. “By the Three Kennedys!” Doc moaned in dismay.

Heart pounding, Ryan cleared his SIG-Sauer pistol from shoulder leather. If the blackout was a prelude to an ambush, at least they were in a good defensive position, with the closed end of the alcove at their backs. Dropping into a fighting crouch, he let his eye adjust.

After a few seconds he could see the fire’s faint orange glow at the doorway on the other side of the room. He smelled caustic smoke. Then a turbine started to whine on a floor far below them, and the lights came back on, only this time much weaker and with a more pronounced, almost strobelike flicker.

There was no ambush; they were alone.

“There’s no point in our searching the storage levels,” Ryan said as he reholstered his side arm. “This bird’s been picked clean.”

Successful looting of predark caches boiled down to two things: luck and timing. The luck was in finding them, as the redoubts were well-hidden, usually deep underground, often in remote areas. Though the companions’ access to the mat-trans system gave them a big advantage over the competition, it didn’t guarantee piles of booty at the end of the day. Booty required timing; in other words, getting there first. They had faced this disappointment many times before, and they took it in stride, now. Coming up empty-handed was part of the game.

To locate their position in the complex, and find the quickest way out, the companions started searching the adjoining rooms for a copy of the redoubt’s floorplan. They found it in a ransacked office, behind a sheet of Plexiglas screwed into wall. J.B. shattered the plate with his shotgun’s steel butt plate, and Krysty freed the paper map, which laid out and labeled the stronghold’s levels, and all the exits.

From the other side of the room, Mildred called out to the others, “Hey, take a look at this.” She stood before a three-dimensional, injection-molded, plastic relief map that covered a section of wall, almost floor-to-ceiling. Though the map had been defaced and damaged, it was still readable.

“From the lat-lon grid, that must be us,” she said, indicating a small red circle nestled between a pair of desert mesas at the upper left corner. Halfway down the map was the start of a long, diagonal stripe of blue, a stripe that grew wider and wider until it necked down and abruptly stopped, blocked by a narrow white barrier.

The label on the barrier read: Pueblo Canyon Dam and Reservoir.

“I was there on vacation once, about a hundred years ago,” Mildred said.

“A boating holiday?” Doc asked.

“No, it was before the dam was put in,” she said. “I remember there was a big stink over its getting built. The reservoir flooded a small town on the canyon floor, and Native American prehistoric sites along the cliffs were lost. For the right to build the dam, the federal government paid reparations to the Hopi tribe, and there was a land swap, too.

“Not everyone was happy with the amount of money that changed hands, or with the relocation site. Supposedly because of the number of threats, during construction the area for hundreds of square miles was turned into a top security, no-fly zone. Military ground and air units kept out protesters and potential saboteurs. A lot of questions about the Pueblo Canyon project never got answered, such as, why it was necessary in the first place. And why approval for the funding and land trade was rushed through Congress. Once the dam was completed and the reservoir filled up, the fences came down, the military left and the controversy fell off the media radar.”

“What do you make of this?” J.B. asked. He pointed at another red symbol, though smaller, in the middle of the swathe of blue, a short distance from the dam.

“Could be another redoubt,” Ryan said.

“In the middle of the reservoir?” Krysty said.

“Mebbe an island?” Dix suggested.

“Then it’d have to be man-made,” Mildred said. “The canyon is five hundred feet deep at that point.”

“Whatever it is, it’s got a name,” Dix said, leaning closer to read the scratched lettering. “It looks like ‘M-i-n-o-t-a-u-r.’”

“Does that mean anything to anybody?” Krysty asked the others.

A beaming Doc provided the answer, delighted at the opportunity to put his classical education to use. “The name refers to a mythical monster of ancient Greece,” he said. “According to legend, it was the half-human offspring of a great bull and Pasiphae, wife of Minos, the king of Crete. The bull was a gift to the king from the sea god, Poseidon, who wanted Minos to sacrifice it to him. When the king didn’t kill the animal as directed, Poseidon punished him by making his wife fall in love with it. Minos kept the monstrous product of their union, known as the minotaur, and built a maze to contain it. The king exacted tribute from conquered lands in the form of human victims, which he sacrificed to the minotaur. Ultimately, the murderous beast was defeated by the hero Theseus, with the help of Minos’s daughter, Ariadne.”

“Humans can’t make babies with other kinds of animals,” Krysty said.

“Not in the usual way,” Mildred said. “And not in ancient Crete. But in a test tube, late twentieth century, with gene-splicing techniques…”

With another loud clunk the light banks failed again, and again the companions found themselves surrounded by blackness.

Two minutes passed, then five, while they waited with weapons drawn. This time the lights didn’t come back on.

After igniting the torches they pulled from their packs, the companions followed the predark map, which turned out to be full of blind alleys. Most of the exit stairwells were blocked by floor-to-ceiling avalanches of concrete and steel. From the structural damage to the floors above, it was clear something disastrous had happened. The higher they climbed, the greater the destruction. Though they were only eight levels underground, it took them close to an hour to reach the surface. And in the end, they had to track the looters’ route through the air ducts.

Standing outside in daylight, they could see why they had been beaten to the treasure trove. The redoubt’s secret entrance had been uncovered by a massive landslide, which had tumbled house-sized blocks of sandstone onto the desert valley. There was no way of telling if the earthquake had been natural, or caused by the shock wave of a distant nuclear strike.

Ryan shielded his eye from the sun’s brutal glare, surveying a landscape of pale brown mesa and pancake-flat plain shimmering in 120-degree, midday heat. For as far as he could see in every direction, it was just rocks and sand. Sand and rocks.

“Dear friends, I fear Judgment Day is upon us at last,” Doc remarked. “Our myriad sins have finally landed us in the pit of hell.”

“Or on the moon,” Mildred added.

Krysty knelt in the shade cast by a fallen sandstone block. From a crevice at the base of the rock, she plucked a withered scrap of plant. The delicate white petals broke off in her fingers; the yellow center fell to fine dust on her palm. If Deathlands’s brave little daisy was a testament to adaptability and survival in the most hostile of environments, it was also a canary in a coal mine. “If we stay here long, we’ll die,” Krysty said.

Jak squinted into the glare. “Go that way,” he said, pointing south across the desolation.

“Can’t miss the reservoir if we walk in that direction,” J.B. agreed.

“Too hot to break trail, now,” Ryan said. “We’ll start after sunset. Check your canteens. Whatever water we’ve got, it has to last until we get there.”

Chapter Two

Shielding his nose and mouth with his hand, Ewald Starr held the torch at arm’s length. Firelight danced over the corpse’s blackened rib stubs and caved-in breastbone, over a skull cratered from forehead to lower jaw. One leg was missing all the way to the hip. The body cavity had been plundered of its organs; the bones stripped of flesh and left mired in a sticky-looking, yellowish puddle. The fluid had splattered low across the corridor’s concrete wall.

Whatever the yellow stuff was, it stank, thermonuclear.

A combination of bearpit, toxic chemical spill and rotting meat.

In the close quarters of Pueblo Dam’s service hallway, the rank odor hung like an acid fog.

Ewald listened hard, but all he could hear was the chorus of hissing torches—the greasy black smoke they gave off billowed along the low, pipe-lined ceiling, driven by a steady, gentle breeze.

Three other men stood with their backs against the opposite wall, faces pale and pained, torches clutched in trembling hands. Paralyzed.

Ewald scowled at them.

Fear was the enemy.

The preamble to defeat.

Tall and dark-skinned, he wore his waist-long black hair woven into a thick braid and coiled on top of his head. This rat’s nest was held in place with a pin contraption made of twists of bailing wire. A spiral of decorative branding encircled his chin, creating an angry, welted goatee. The scars of healed blade slashes and bullet wounds on his massive forearms, bare chest, and neck were lost amid larger masses of discoloration, signs of his having survived prolonged torture and punishment by burning and whipping.

Ewald hunkered down next to the body, holding his breath against the caustic fumes. The victim’s clothing was a wadded mass of wet rags at the foot of the wall. Examining the jutting hip bones more carefully, he saw that when the missing right leg had been severed, a corner of the pelvis and the entire hip socket had been cut away. The clean, down-angled slice looked like a sword or ax strike. It took a hell of a sharp blade to do something like that. A hell of a powerful swordsman, too. As to what all the nasty yellow goo was, or where it had come from, he had no clue.

When he straightened, something glinted at him from the tangled rags. A single, spent, centerfire shell casing.

“Here, take this,” Ewald said, passing his torch to the closest man. The whip-lean graybeard named Tolliver accepted the burden, his rheumy gaze never shifting from the mess on the floor.

“Give me your shirt,” Ewald said to the big man standing on Tolliver’s right.