James Axler – Deathlands 35 – Skydark

His companions stared at him, waiting for a translation of the archaic syntax and references.

“Though I am loath to admit it,” Doc said, “during our recent journey I dreamed I was one of those unspeakable creatures.”

“That’s very odd,” Mildred said as she completed testing the light response of Krysty’s pupils, “because the same thing happened to me. And it was the most

awful jump nightmare I’ve ever had. Makes my skin crawl to remember it.”

When the doctor looked at Jak, the rubyTeyed teenager scowled back unpleasantly but said nothing. J.B. was more forthcoming about his experience.

“I had a dream like that, too. And my dream stunk almost as bad as what’s in there.” He jerked a thumb at the pale corpses heaped inside the mat-trans chamber,

“Can fix,” Jak said. As quick as a cat, he moved to close the door.

“Fireblast!” Ryan swore. “You know better, Jak! If you close the door, more of the earless bastards can come through the gateway!”

The truth of his words hung in the air, as cold and certain as death.

As far as the six travelers knew, the race of homicidal mutants known as stickies had never used a gateway before. Now that the stickies had apparently taken their first mat-trans leap, and arrived as Ryan and company lay on the floor recovering, they had to face the possibility that they had done it on purpose; if indeed that was the case, the dead-eyed whirlwinds of slaughter and destruction could pop up anywhere, anytime.

“Mebbe they just stumbled in,” J.B. suggested, trying hard to offer another explanation for the muties* presence in the gateway chamber. “Wandered in like stupes and accidently tripped the unit. Or mebbe they didn’t jump at all. Mebbe they found the entrance to

this redoubt open and were poking around inside the chamber when we arrived.”

“No,” Jak said with conviction. “More come through here.” He pointed at the floor, which gleamed under banks of fluorescent lights. Tracks in the yellow vomit on the light gray linoleum led away from the mat-trans chamber in uncountable numbers, growing fainter as they crossed the broad, window less room. Jak crouched and touched a footprint with his index finger, then rubbed it with his thumb, “Still wet,*’ he said.

For a second, above the riot of nauseating odors in the room, Ryan could smell them.

Not their puke, Them.

In his life the one-eyed warrior had killed many stickies hand-to-hand, face-to-face, but never before had he noticed that particular smell. Then he remembered the source of the olfactory cue: it had come from the nightmare. Trapped in a mutant dream-body, he had recognized his fellow stickies by the distinctive scent they left behind. Now that he was wide-awake and fully rematerialized, the telltale stench shouted at him tike a pile of fish guts left three days in the sun.

Not possible, Ryan told himself. Dreams, mat-trans or otherwise, weren’t real. He shook his head to clear it of still-lingering jump ghosts.

“Stickies are rad-blasted triple stupe,” J.B. protested, firmly seating his fedora back on his head. “No way could they have jumped on purpose. Dark night, most of the time they can’t even find their own pricks!”

“J.B.’s right,” Mildred agreed. “None of the stickies

we’ve ever crossed paths with has shown much in the way of practical intelligence. Nine times out of ten they don’t even use simple weapons, like clubs and rocks, for their killing. I find it hard to believe that a bunch of gibbering idiots could organize themselves to do anything like this. Think about it. How could they possibly understand the process of matter transfer well enough to use it?”

“Mebbe they’re getting smarter,” Ryan replied.

“Morituri le salutamus,” Doc muttered to himself, but loud enough for all to hear and be chilled by any lingering stickies.

“Can it, you old fool!” Mildred barked.

Ryan shot the physician a warning glance. Now wasn’t the time to reopen a personal squabble. He looked past Mildred, to the desktop where Krysty lay. Her breathing had deepened and slowed. Her prehensile hair no longer dangled limp and lank over her shoulders-it twitched and coiled around her face like a nest of irritated red snakes. “How’s she doing?” he asked.