James Axler – Gaia’s Demise

Spotting a van in decent condition, J.B. used a knife blade to flip the grille lock, lift the hood and check inside. The battery was gone like the rest, a corroded mess eaten away by its own internal acids.

“Here,” Jak announced, lugging a battery into view. The lead terminals on top were covered with flaky white material, but the casing seemed intact.

Removing the plastic caps with one hand, J.B. kept his mouth covered as he walked the heavy battery to the plant and awkwardly poured out the concentrated sulfuric acid onto the base of the stalk. Instantly, the plant seemed to lose color and the aroma in the air took on a sour smell.

Splashing on more witch hazel, Jak brought over another battery and did the same thing to the flower. Now the leaves began to wilt, the blossom closing its petals protectively. Dropping the dead battery, Jak flexed his hand and a knife slid into his palm. Slashing at the fibrous petals, he hacked open a hole, and J.B. poured the contents of another old battery directly inside. Now visibly wilting, the flower withered and began to turn brown.

Closely watching the roots they were standing on, the men nervously waited a few minutes to make sure the acid had worked. Acid rain in the Deathlands could strip the flesh off a man’s bones it was so strong. But out here on the East Coast, the rain wasn’t that strong, and was coming with less frequency. That was why Virginia and Georgia had living green trees, and not just endless sterile sand.

Experimentally, J.B. lowered his cloth and inhaled. “Dark night, what a smell!” He coughed, waving a hand at the air. “It’s like burning tires mixed with shit and rotten eggs.”

“Feel okay?” Jak mumbled behind his wad of cloth.

“I feel like vomiting!” the man replied, holding his nose shut and gasping for air through his mouth. “Shit! I can taste it!”

Hesitantly, Jak lowered his mask and risked a sniff. “Smelled worse,” he said, while pocketing the damp rag. “Not by much, though.”

“Come on, let’s find a wag we can use.”

RYAN AWOKE to the sound of an engine. Groggily, the man grabbed for his blaster and tried to sit up. “Not taking me anywhere!” he snarled, fumbling at the gun belt.

“Hey!” a familiar voice shouted.

Dizzy, Ryan tried to focus his vision and realized he was fully dressed and sitting on the sidewalk resting against the facade of the arena. Mildred was beside him, her fingers on his wrist checking his pulse. Doc and Dean stood a few yards away with blasters held at the ready, obviously on guard duty.

“What happened?” he asked around a mouthful of hairy cotton. His head was throbbing, and every muscle was sore.

Mildred released his wrist and offered a canteen, which was gratefully accepted. “Jak chilled some greenies trying to drag you and Krysty back inside the arena.”

“Fucking plant!” Ryan snarled, forcing himself to stand. “Don’t go inside! The perfume is a drag!”

She nodded and took back the canteen. “Yeah, we figured that out pretty quick. Put some witch hazel on rags, and J.B. and Jak aced the flower and got us a wag.”

Grunting in reply, Ryan drew the SIG-Sauer and checked the clip. It was empty, and he seemed to have no more loaded magazines. Fireblast, how many rounds had he fired to get them out of the building? Loose rounds were sewn into his jacket, a few more in the pocket, and Ryan started thumbing bullets into an exhausted clip.

“Glad to hear it’s chilled,” he stated grimly. “Where’s Krysty? How is she?”

“Fine, lover,” the woman answered from the darkness. She was sitting nearby on a piece of rubble, massaging her temples. The woman’s wild abundance of red hair was hanging limp. He had never seen her so tired before. “Just don’t expect much loving soon. Feel like I just lost my cherry during a fistfight.”

“Had to,” Ryan stated, slamming in the slip and jacking the slide, but clicking on the safety.

She hushed him with a finger on the lips. “I know. You saved us both,” Krysty said. “Thank you. I have a nukestorm of a headache, but that’s better than the alternative.”