Deathlands 117: Desolation Angels by James Axler Page A
Authors: James Axler
Tags: Science-Fiction
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guys. Anyway—” he grinned “—anybody who can make the Angels that mad, and kick their teeth in that hard, could be a useful asset. I’m not making any promises here. Because, don’t get me wrong, I can’t. But if you’re looking for work, it just may be that the Angels’ paranoid notion of you being mercies working for us might turn out to be prophetic after all.”
“I don’t like it, Lieutenant,” Kurtiz said.
“You never do, Sergeant.”
“My job.”
A breeze was rising. It shifted to blow from east to west. Mahome suddenly frowned.
“What the nuke?” he demanded, sniffing hard, then making an awful face. He stared at the captives. “Did you—did you all wade in sewage?”
“Well, yes, Lieutenant, sir,” Mildred said. “But it was an accident.”
Farting and snorting like a rhinoceros who’d eaten more fiber than it was used to, the armored car pulled around the rubble mound to park closer to the building so the cops would be able to load the equipment recovered from the restaurant more easily. Sure enough, it was a V-100, night-black with a disk-headed battering ram sticking out from its sharply angled snout. And sure enough, it sported a mounted 7.62 mm M240 machine gun in its turret.
“Cool!” Ricky exclaimed. “Can we ride in it?”
Mahome sniffed again.
“No.”
Chapter Eleven
“A remarkable story, gentlemen...ladies,” His Honor Claude Michaud, mayor of Detroit, said, nodding. His hair was gleaming white, and even the retreat it was beating from his high black dome of his skull was dignified. “Don’t you think so, Chief Bone?”
The tall man looming at the mayor’s side at the front of the big room looked doubtful and disapproving. He was well equipped to do that, Krysty thought, and just as well named. He wore a black police uniform closely tailored to a frame that was gaunt almost to the point of skeletal. And the long, clean-shaven face looked like a bleached skull above the midnight outfit, with its flaring cheekbones, hollow cheeks and dark eyes sunk into sepulchral pits. His head was shaved up to a patch of short, ice-white hair standing up from the top.
Krysty and her companions sat in the front row of heavy pews in what had once been a chapel. Like the building itself, it was still in good shape, all golden tan and dark brown, with its round-vaulted ceiling and arched arcades down either side. It even sported second-story boxes down both sides like some kind of theater, the dark hardwood gleaming from recent oiling.
The lingering scents of mold and unwashed bodies and an indefinable smell of rot undermined the overall impressive effect of the place. She was able to notice that because Lieutenant Mahome had allowed them to change into different clothes from their packs before locking up their gear in a separate closet and sending what they had been wearing off with a distinctly unhappy-looking patrol officer to be washed. He’d been quite insistent on the point.
“If they’re telling the truth, Your Honor,” the sec boss said. “It’s a far-fetched story, if you ask me.”
“You’re too cynical by far, Chief,” Hizzoner said. “Your young Lieutenant Mahome vouches for the veracity of their account. Or at least its gory aftermath. And you assure me he’s a reliable officer, do you not?”
The skull visage nodded. “He is. But naive.”
Michaud chuckled indulgently. “He’ll learn.”
“I guarantee it.”
* * *
M AYOR M ICHAUD’S CITY HALL may have been provisional, but it was certainly impressive, even though Krysty had so far seen no sign it was anything but the headquarters for the self-proclaimed Detroit Police Department.
It lay a surprisingly, and blessedly, short walk from the gutted restaurant where they’d made their final stand against the Angels. Krysty judged it to be no more than a half mile, if that.
Mahome had had the column assemble on the street that ran past the derelict restaurant to the east. Ryan had pointed up to the
“I don’t like it, Lieutenant,” Kurtiz said.
“You never do, Sergeant.”
“My job.”
A breeze was rising. It shifted to blow from east to west. Mahome suddenly frowned.
“What the nuke?” he demanded, sniffing hard, then making an awful face. He stared at the captives. “Did you—did you all wade in sewage?”
“Well, yes, Lieutenant, sir,” Mildred said. “But it was an accident.”
Farting and snorting like a rhinoceros who’d eaten more fiber than it was used to, the armored car pulled around the rubble mound to park closer to the building so the cops would be able to load the equipment recovered from the restaurant more easily. Sure enough, it was a V-100, night-black with a disk-headed battering ram sticking out from its sharply angled snout. And sure enough, it sported a mounted 7.62 mm M240 machine gun in its turret.
“Cool!” Ricky exclaimed. “Can we ride in it?”
Mahome sniffed again.
“No.”
Chapter Eleven
“A remarkable story, gentlemen...ladies,” His Honor Claude Michaud, mayor of Detroit, said, nodding. His hair was gleaming white, and even the retreat it was beating from his high black dome of his skull was dignified. “Don’t you think so, Chief Bone?”
The tall man looming at the mayor’s side at the front of the big room looked doubtful and disapproving. He was well equipped to do that, Krysty thought, and just as well named. He wore a black police uniform closely tailored to a frame that was gaunt almost to the point of skeletal. And the long, clean-shaven face looked like a bleached skull above the midnight outfit, with its flaring cheekbones, hollow cheeks and dark eyes sunk into sepulchral pits. His head was shaved up to a patch of short, ice-white hair standing up from the top.
Krysty and her companions sat in the front row of heavy pews in what had once been a chapel. Like the building itself, it was still in good shape, all golden tan and dark brown, with its round-vaulted ceiling and arched arcades down either side. It even sported second-story boxes down both sides like some kind of theater, the dark hardwood gleaming from recent oiling.
The lingering scents of mold and unwashed bodies and an indefinable smell of rot undermined the overall impressive effect of the place. She was able to notice that because Lieutenant Mahome had allowed them to change into different clothes from their packs before locking up their gear in a separate closet and sending what they had been wearing off with a distinctly unhappy-looking patrol officer to be washed. He’d been quite insistent on the point.
“If they’re telling the truth, Your Honor,” the sec boss said. “It’s a far-fetched story, if you ask me.”
“You’re too cynical by far, Chief,” Hizzoner said. “Your young Lieutenant Mahome vouches for the veracity of their account. Or at least its gory aftermath. And you assure me he’s a reliable officer, do you not?”
The skull visage nodded. “He is. But naive.”
Michaud chuckled indulgently. “He’ll learn.”
“I guarantee it.”
* * *
M AYOR M ICHAUD’S CITY HALL may have been provisional, but it was certainly impressive, even though Krysty had so far seen no sign it was anything but the headquarters for the self-proclaimed Detroit Police Department.
It lay a surprisingly, and blessedly, short walk from the gutted restaurant where they’d made their final stand against the Angels. Krysty judged it to be no more than a half mile, if that.
Mahome had had the column assemble on the street that ran past the derelict restaurant to the east. Ryan had pointed up to the
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