James Axler – Zero City

“Too many,” J.B. answered, prepping a gren. The awesome power of the LAW slung across his back was useless for this kind of combat. The antitank weapon took thirty seconds to prep, even if the creatures should offer a nice grouped target. Hardly likely. “Hate to say this, but I think we found their bastard nest.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

Easing back the hammer on his blaster, Doc glanced over the side of the building, looking at the distant streets and the tiny Hummer, no more than a dark jot in the tan sand. There was no convenient fire escape or any other way down. Even if they were over water and jumped, a fall from that height would kill them.

“Could we reach the stairs?” the old man asked out of the side of his mouth.

“Not a chance. Ready?”

“So it would seem I must be. On your mark, my friend.”

“Go.” J.B. turned and threw the gren, while Doc spun and fired the LeMat in a single smooth motion.

The blast of the HE blocked their view of the floor and threatened to throw them off the building, but as the smoke cleared, both men started to fire at the crowd of muties crawling around the elevator bank and coming straight for them.

SWADDLED IN DIRTY CLOAKS, two people walked through the bustling market square of Alphaville. The tall one carried a rolled-up blanket on his back; the other was shorter and most definitely a woman despite attempts to hide the fact.

On this side of the river, the ruins of the predark city had been extensively rebuilt, and while the new mortar between the recovered bricks didn’t precisely match the colored bands of the ancient concrete still supporting pieces of walls, the homemade concrete did seem to be holding the patchwork of bricks and cinder blocks together, which was all that really mattered.

A former gas station was serving as a stable for a few skinny horses, and a tavern was open for business on the corner across from a pottery shop, a dozen people inside spinning clay by hand on rotating tables. A tailor was cutting garments for an impatient child, while the mother was giving unneeded directions. A bookstore was a burned-out shell, with workmen digging through the wreckage to haul away the trash. A cooper was frowning in frustration, a water barrel before him leaking water from every seam. A cobbler, a baker, a barber, a school for small children, a gallows, a defense nest of sandbags and sec men. And everywhere were the greenhouses, the glass glistening clean, folks inside doing things with the rows upon rows of lush green plants while grim-faced sec men stood guard at the doors, muzzle-loading rifles at the ready.

Shuffling along, talking to nobody, the pair reached the main market square and stopped. Here hundreds of people were exchanging items, buying vegetables or haggling over the cost of rat poison. Set between a greenhouse and a barracks, across from a dentist, was a gaudy house. Topless women leaned out the second-floor balcony, dangling the goods for sale.

The ville was thriving with activity. Tables galore in the market square were piled with salvaged tools, scrap wire, mismatched shoes and even a few books. A plump woman with a babe in tow haggled prices with a merchant and came away with a mason jar to be used for canning food. She paid for it with a small loaf of fresh bread from the basket on her arm.

“But no weapons,” Ryan said, adjusting his scarf to hide his eye patch. “Not even knives.” More than a few folks had similar wrappings, and once again Ryan wondered where they were.

“No butchers, either. Baron keeps a taut ship,” Krysty said quietly. A hood covered her head to hide her unusual hair. There was a faint reddish streak across her cheek where the bullet had grazed her face the previous night, but it was already fading. She always healed fast.

The crowd surged from an influx of people coming out of a steaming laundry, and Ryan got bumped hard from behind. Instantly, his hands flew to check his weapons, and stopped.