James Axler – Deathlands 35 – Skydark

Kaa rose and went over to examine the four stickies. They had finally quieted down. They might have been sleeping, except for the thin trickle of blood that leaked

from the noseless nostrils, the twin holes in the centers of their faces. “They were too close to me when I showed the death card to Rogero,” he said ruefully. “I didn’t intend to chill them, only him. Brave ones lost, for nothing.”

When Kaa turned back, he caught Krysty staring at the M-60. She hadn’t formed the thought of trying to grab it and use it on him until the instant their eyes met. Then it was there, as big as life. Grab the blaster and use it. And she knew that he knew what was in her mind. It was the kind of shameful idea-the opposite of the heart, the spirit-that pops up without warning sometimes, perhaps to chasten people for presuming to think they know precisely who and what they are. And what they are capable of.

Kaa picked up the autoblaster and leaned it against the wall beside her, along with yards of belted ammo, thereby demonstrating that he trusted her, even though he knew what was on her mind.

“I call it Joyeuse,” he said, stroking the front sight. “It means ‘joy’ in a predark language. It was the name a predark baron gave to his weapon. That baron used Joyeuse to beat back a plague of darkness and evil and rebuild his land.”

Outside, the sounds of battle raged on.

“Continue the packing,” Kaa told the freed muties. He observed them as they took the stacks of documents from the floor and from the open safety-deposit boxes and piled them in plastic trash bags. “Don’t fill the bags too full,” he said. “We have to be able to carry

them. And I don’t want them to break. Double-bag them until the supply of bags runs low.”

Kaa then moved closer to Krysty and, while she worked, he spoke to her in a low, confidential voice. “This predark baron,” he said, “this hero I mentioned, he established law, order and peace in his land during his lifetime. But after his death, the countryside and the people he had freed descended back into the pit. The power that he alone possessed had held together the wild and disobedient paladins, the competing interests of corrupt administrators and traders.

“I learned much from my study of this man’s story. I learned enough to see my life reflected in his tale. I know that when I die, if my power dies with me, whatever I have buitt will fall apart That even if we rid Death lands of the norms who have enslaved and butchered us, the new people will have no future. That is why you are so important”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will, Angelica. You will.”

HOWLING, THE STICKERS ripped and clawed at the few remaining sec men who stood between them and the twenty-fourth floor landing. Murchisson thrust his Uzi over the shoulder of a man in front of him and fired full-auto into the seething mass of muties, stitching a line of 9 mm lead across their heads. Even as he fired, the dead-eyed bastards yanked down a sec man and started to pull his face off. They were damn hard to

chill. Even a head shot, unless it was a brain-corer, didn’t stop them.

All the way up the stairs, he and his men had battled the army of stickies. The more they chilled, the more they faced-a seemingly endless supply of needle teeth and suckered hands. Murchisson didn’t know how many men he’d lost, at least half of his force, maybe more.

The stairwell was full of stickies now, and they were all climbing, pushing up to the top floors. The baron’s security force had reached the end of the line. The stairs didn’t access the penthouse; the twenty-fourth floor was as far up as they went.

“Inside!” he shouted to his men. “Get inside the door.”

When the last man stepped back over the threshold, the sec men behind him slammed the fire door closed. Or tried.

A cluster of stickie hands and arms blocked the door from shutting.