Perdition Valley

With the butt of the Steyr resting on an outthrust hip, Ryan stood guard while the companions watered their tired horses. Rummaging in a pocket, J.B. pulled out his recently acquired compass and waited for the needle to settle down. But it kept spinning about madly, occasionally pausing to then start rotating in the reverse direction.

“Aw, to hell with it,” J.B. said in frustration, tucking the device away. “There’s just too much crap in the air from the clouds to get a clean mag reading.”

Spooning some spaghetti from a MRE pack, Mildred caught the motion, but said nothing. J.B. had been able to trade one off a baron’s brother in exchange for a gren. At the time, it seemed like a bargain, but now she could see in the Armorer’s face how much he wanted that gren back.

“Those really work?” Jak asked.

“Absolutely,” Mildred said, shoveling in another mouthful of pasta and sauce. “Oh, a Boy Scout compass, or something from the military would be a lot better,” she admitted, “but then, half the world was explored with a magnetic needle resting on a piece of cork that floated in a bowl of water.”

Rubbing the muscular neck of his beast, the teen made a face of total disbelief.

“It is true, Jak,” Doc added, lowering his canteen and wiping his mouth clean with a linen handkerchief that had seen better days. “In the Hung Dynasty of ancient China, a magnetic needle was worth the owner’s weight in gold. That would roughly translated today into, say, twice your bodyweight of live brass.”

“That much?” Krysty asked, watching something flying through the distant clouds to the west. Mother Gaia, that looked like a flock of screamwings! Thankfully, the deadly winged muties were heading in another direction. Had to be a fresh chill because they were moving even faster than usual.

“Trader always said that the only thing constant was change,” Ryan said, biting off a chunk of jerky from their Two-Son ville supplies. “Nowadays, a hammer is more valuable than one of those microscopes I read about.”

Noticing Krysty’s posture, J.B. pulled out his longeye. He had found the old Navy telescope in a pawn shop in the place they called Zero City, and it was in perfect condition. About the size of your fist, it extended to over a full yard in length, and was much better than even binocs. Pushing back his fedora, J.B. began to sweep the horizon, but all he could see was blackness. Wait a sec, what the frag was that? he thought.

“The center is chaos, the circle cannot hold,” Doc spoke softly in an odd singsong manner that meant he was quoting something. Using both hands, the time traveler unwrapped a package of cheese and crackers from the open MRE in the pocket of his frock coat. The cheese was a dull gray in color, but since that was its natural color he paid it no special attention. The predark military machine wanted the food for its troops to be nourishing, and long-lasting, but apparently nobody gave a damn if it was appetizing.

“Stop misquoting William Blake,” Mildred retorted, licking the spoon clean and then stuffing it into the empty pouch. “Besides, we have miles to go before we sleep.”

“And who is quoting whom now, madam?”

“Stuff it, ya old coot.”

“Heads up,” J.B. announced, collapsing the antique telescope down to its compact size. “We’re not alone. There’s a ville to the northwest of here, about forty miles away.”

Ripping off one last chew, Ryan stuffed the rest of the jerky into a shirt pocket. “Let’s go see if we can barter for a night under a roof. We have enough black powder to trade.”

Moving off the hillock, the companions started for the distant town, staying in a loose formation so that anything that attacked they would be able to strike all together.

THE CLOUDS WERE THINNING and the moon was starting to dip behind the curve of the world by the time the companions galloped over a swell in the ground and got a direct bead of the ville. It was a big place, with a yellowish glow of torches coming from behind a high wall built of huge rectangular blocks. The gate was small, but several guard towers were spaced evenly along the perimeter.

Easing on the reins, Ryan scowled. They had to have a lot of enemies to erect such a strong defense. Or else mebbe there were drinkers in the area. Either way, not very good news.

As the companions got closer, they found signs of crude farming in the surrounding land. But the crops were stunted and scraggly, clearly showing there was something wrong with the soil in spite of the lush grass spreading out in every direction.

“Lots of plants grow in places where food can’t,” Krysty said, riding with one hand on the reins. The other hand rested on the rapidfire lying across her lap. “Could be a mutie form of grass.”

“Also means this part of the Zone is a prime location for drinkers to hide under,” J.B. added, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. “Stay razor for any large clumps of grass.”

“And if we encounter the infamous subterranean mutie?” Doc asked. “Or another of those triple cursed jellies?”

With a rude snort, Ryan answered. “Start throwing grens,” he said, “and run for your bastard life.”

As the companions approached the ville, they could see that cutting through the fields was the remains of a predark road that led directly to the front gate. The surface was cracked in spots, with a lot of potholes filled with loose stones as a makeshift repair. However, it was serviceable, and easy walking for the horses.

Staying alert, the companions kept off the road and rode their beasts along the berm. The uneven ground slowed them considerably, but bitter experience had taught them that anything that seemed too good to be true usually was. A repaired road often meant boobies hidden under the predark asphalt, dead falls, landmines or worse.

Reaching blaster range, the companions broke the canter of their horses into a trot, then proceeded along in a slow walk. But they always kept moving. A sitting target was just as bad as rushing headlong into the unknown.

Craning his neck, Ryan could see that the wall around the ville wasn’t made of stone blocks, but was a line of predark trucks. Or rather, just the trailers. The cabs that pulled the trailers were gone, but the huge metal boxes sat end-to-end to form an angular barrier. The metal sides were streaked with layers of old rust, the open area under the trailers packed solid with predark debris, broken sidewalk slabs, bricks, wag engines and similar trash. It was an imposing tonnage of debris that would be impossible to move without some major explos charges and an army of men with shovels.

As the companions got closer, there were unmistakable signs of old battles on the trailers: blaster holes, scorch marks from Molotovs, gray streaks from ricochets and such. Loose sand was trickling from a few of the small cracks in the trailers, while the larger rents had been patched with sheets of old iron.

Ryan and J.B. glanced at each other and nodded in appreciation. It was triple-smart for the locals to pack the trailers with sand from the nearby desert. The stuff was easy to obtain, there was a limitless supply, and the more the trailers weighed, the harder it would be for an invader to get through them.

“Good design,” Jak said in grudging admiration.

Checking the draw on his SIG-Sauer, Ryan was forced to agree. This wasn’t a ville, it was a fort, as big and well-protected as Front Royal, his home back in the east. Then the startling similarities of the towers behind the wall hit him hard. Fireblast, he thought, they were positioned in almost exactly the same formation as those back in Front Royal. How could that be?

“Ah, lover…?” Krysty said softly, putting a wealth of questions into the single word.

“Yeah, I noticed,” Ryan replied. “Might just be a coincidence. Most people made crossbows after skydark for the same reasons—they were easy to build, and you can use the arrows over and over again.”

“Great minds think alike, and all that,” J.B. added in agreement.

“Make that great mind, singular,” Doc rumbled in a somber tone.

For once, Mildred agreed with the old man. In her travels with the others, she had witnessed far too many examples of Carl Jung’s theory of the “group subconscious mind of humanity” for there to be any other explanation, in her opinion. All living things were bound together. It was only people who refused to accept the idea that life shared its dreams. Either that, or there was an unknown force in the world guiding everything and everybody along secret paths. Which was clearly ridiculous.

Easing their mounts to a stop just outside of arrow range, the companions let the animals catch their breaths for a few minutes. This also gave the sec men a chance to see them first, and spread the word. There was no reason to startle the guards and start a fight. Spilling blood wasn’t a good way to start negotiations with the local baron.

Walking their mounts closer, the companions studied the gate. It was very impressive. The broad gap between two of the trailers had been bridged by a concrete lintel to form an arch. Set below that was a formidable gate made of the doors taken off wags and welded together into a single homogenous slab. It was as lumpy as oatmeal, and looked as impregnable as a redoubt blast door.

“A door of doors,” Mildred muttered. “I wonder if their baron is a poet?”

Just then, a bright blue light of an alcohol lantern appeared, moving across the top of the wall and starting to come their way. To the east, dawn was rising. But the shadows were still thick across the world, and the bobbing lantern moved along like a lost star.

“We’ll soon find out,” Ryan replied, walking his horse a little bit closer.

Footsteps were heard, and a man carrying the lantern appeared at the edge of the metal wall. Wearing loose clothing and a leather vest, the sec man had a tremendous beard, pleated into two strands. As well as the lantern, he was also carrying a bolt-action longblaster, with a hand on the trigger.

Tromping over to the last trailer, the sec man stopped near a crude set of tremendous hinges that supported the colossal gate.

“Advance and give the password!” the sec man shouted down into the darkness.

“Sorry, don’t know it,” Ryan answered as his horse shifted its hooves on the ground. “We’re strangers, rists, looking for a place to stay tonight.”

“Yeah? What kind of jack ya got?”

“Brass, four rounds!”

“Packed with dirt, probably.” The guard sneered in disdain. “Useless as tits on a turd.”

In a smooth move, Ryan pulled the SIG-Sauer. “Be glad to show you,” he offered in a voice of stone.