James Axler – Starfall

He glanced back at Krysty, worrying about her. For some unknown reason, she had been hearing the screams inside her mind since early that morning after the mat-trans jump that had brought them into the region, long before the noise had become a physical presence to the rest of the group.

“Lot of bastard pain, Ryan,” she whispered hoarsely, her sentient red hair curled protectively against her nape.

“You,” he asked, “or the other?”

“Gaia, I can’t even tell anymore. Me, the other—it’s all the same now.” She made a gagging noise and tried to cover it with her hand so the sound wouldn’t travel. Her shoulders hunched with dry heaves. “No separation.”

Ryan looked at her, seeing the way her hands shook. He was a big man, tall and broad, carrying a lot of muscle in his back and shoulders. His curly black hair nearly reached his shoulders. His right eye shone cobalt blue and piercing; the place where his left eye should have been was covered by a scuffed black leather patch that kept infectious mate­rial out of the empty socket. A long scar trailed from the corner of his right eye to the corner of his mouth. He reached out and touched her hand. “I’ll be back.”

She looked at him, her eyes not quite focusing. “Sorry, lover. I know it’s all my fault. We shouldn’t be shackled to taking something on like this.”

“No. It’s not your fault. Just how things worked out— that’s all.” Ryan released her hand and scrambled down the side of the rubble. He thought briefly of leaving the Steyr with Krysty since she had the high ground and could cover him. But he also realized that in her present condition he was better off keeping it.

He dropped from the last chunk of concrete to the street level. His boots rang hollowly against the cracked sidewalk for just a moment. With the wind keening through the de­bris around him, he doubted the sound carried very far.

A dozen broken-down wags littered the street in front of him. One of them stuck out from the side of the building where it was partially buried under a pile of shattered ma­sonry. All of the wags had long since been stripped.

Three skeletons sat in the wag jutting out from the build­ing. Tattered bits of clothing remained stuck to the yel­lowed bone. The skeleton behind the wheel had no head, while the one in the passenger’s seat had a mouthful of broken teeth and a collapsed lower face. The third skeleton sat in a child’s safety seat at a crooked angle.

Ryan didn’t let himself dwell on the scene. Too many of them existed across Deathlands. He stared at the building across the street. A sun-faded orange sign sticking up from the debris read Kidwell’s Korner Kafe—Ice, Beer, Maga­zines.

“Jak,” Ryan called softly.

“Yeah.” The voice barely carried across the small dis­tance.

“Let’s go.”

“Sure, Ryan.” Jak Lauren stepped out from hiding, a .357 Magnum Colt Python in his hand. “Krysty?”

“Hurting.” Ryan started forward, aiming in the direction the screams had come from as near as he could judge.

“Find it, chill it Then move on.” Jak moved into po­sition behind Ryan. The teenager had the stark white col­oration of a true albino, and the snow-white hair to match. His eyes gleamed like fiery red rubies in the hollows of his scarred face. Iridescent patches of gray and brown clung to his camou-style clothing, and the sharp bits of metal care­fully sewn into the material didn’t show at all.

SHIFTING SHAPES SKITTERED across and through the debris filling the street. Ryan recognized them as rats, and they were some of the biggest he had ever seen. Nearly eighteen inches tall at the shoulder, they looked like small dogs and hunted in packs like wolves. Coarse brown hair covered their rangy bodies. Their tails trailed behind them, hairless and as thick as Ryan’s first two fingers held together. Their behavior patterns drew his instant attention because they didn’t act afraid of him at all.

When he had been at his vantage point atop the crumbled building, the rats hadn’t warranted much study. Anywhere people still clung to shreds of civilization, rats were a sure bet.