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wooden and canvas bird with biwings and single propeller. "You like her?" the
older man asked, before going into a series of hacking coughs. He cleared his
throat and hawked up a mouthful of blood and phlegm, spitting it off to one
side.
"No way. Get up in that thing, hit a hell-wind and it'll dump you out on your
ass,"
J.B. replied, walking away. "Thanks for the present."
"Good day for flying," Trader called back to J.B. "Not a cloud in the sky."
He was right. The sky was as open as a traveling gaudy's front door and in
J.B.'s mind, about as uninviting.
"Step in, we'll go for a spin," Trader said, appearing in front of the
Armorer.
"You're no pilot," J.B. said, starting to back away.
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"The hell you say!"
J.B. continued to back up, and pushed against something. He spun and damn if
he wasn't seated in the plane now, the Trader in the second seat behind him
with the controls.
And the sky went from sky blue to electric, crackling with lightning. The
hell-
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Axler,_James_-_Deathlands_43_-_Dark_Emblem winds J.B. had mentioned came
sweeping in, the upper atmosphere of much of the world permanently damaged in
the nuclear battle between the superpowers.
"Guess we'd better bail," Trader said mildly, standing in his seat and giving
J.B. a two-fingered salute.
"Bail?"
The Trader pointed to his back. "Parachute. Insurance policy. That's predark
slang for covering your ass."
The big man leaped out, clearing the plane. Even as the craft began to shudder
in the bucking winds, uncontrolled, J.B. peered down and watched the chute
open, jerking the Trader's hanging body in a spastic movement.
The Armorer reached into a pocket and took out a cigar, biting down hard on
the end.
Hell of a way to die.
J.B. fell, plunging to his doom, surrounded by blue.
Chapter Five
Doc Tanner had started the mat-trans jump with a clear mind and a level head.
As far as he could determine, he wasn't dreaming. If he had been awake, he
would undoubtedly have remarked on this as being "most unusual." Traditionally
during a mat-trans jaunt, Doc was cursed with Stygian nightmares of such dire
calamities he could hardly withstand the mental assault. When he eventually
returned to consciousness, his entire body always ached from thrashing on the
floor of the chamber in semiremembered agony.
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This time was different.
This time, he was happy to note, he slumbered peacefully.
Doc lay in a feather bed with a sweet-smelling pillow stuffed with fresh straw
under his head and a second one gripped in his hands. A smiling crescent moon
shone down on him through an open bedroom window, and a gentle summer breeze
wafted over his slumbering form, cooling him as he slept.
Then he heard a voice. A woman's voice.
"Emily?" he asked.
"No, Krysty," came the reply.
For brief seconds, Doc was confused was he in bed with another woman?
"Howling calamities!" he said in disbelief, fearing for his marriage.
"Right, Doc," Krysty replied, but he couldn't hear the words.
"You must speak up," he said impatiently. "I cannot hear you."
"Where's Lori?" the Titian-haired beauty yelled in reply, but again, even with
raising her voice and calling out as loudly as possible, Doc could barely hear
her voice. The words were faint, as if she were standing far, far away on a
distant mountain peak and calling into a valley.
"What?" Doc answered, in a sane, calm, rational speaking voice. "What did you
say?"
"Lori! Where is she?" Krysty was closer now. Doc could see her flushed face,
smell her sweat. She had been running, or involved in some sort of physical
activity. A guilty flash of lust crept through his loins, for after all, he
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was in his bedchamber and dressed only in a nightshirt, and one of the most
ravishing and
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Axler,_James_-_Deathlands_43_-_Dark_Emblem sexy women he'd ever laid eyes on
was standing right next to his bed, wearing a skintight shirt and breathing
heavily.
"Snap out of it, Doc. Your mind's wandering again."
"Um, my apologies."
"Where's Lori?" she asked again.
"I& I do not know, my dear," he replied lamely, feeling ashamed of himself for
looking at Krysty in an unpure manner and eager to shift blame for his own
feelings of guilt. "We we got separated."
"Well, she's a big girl now. Hope she can look after herself!" Krysty cried,
punching Doc easily in the shoulder with a left jab, and then she turned, her
long hair fanning out behind as she ran away from the coming storm flashing
softly on the horizon.
The bedroom was gone. No walls, no windows. No smiling cartoon moon looking
down.
Doc was alone once more.
Doc was dreaming.
Yes, a dream. Despite his earlier beliefs to the contrary, that was the only
answer.
Yes. Logic dictated his conscious mind was sleeping while his unconscious
plundered his brain, skirting the damaged areas marked Do Not Enter and
Condemned and Warning! DANGER! for a change, and, instead, pulling out pieces
of memory long in storage, kept there if needed, locked away if not.
Lori, young Lori. Despite the dream Krysty's assurances, Doc knew Lori wasn't
a big girl. In fact, despite the strip-queen body and the mounds of antagonism
she routinely spouted, she was even more immature than young Dean.
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