Authors: James Axler
Dr. James Nudelman tossed another double handful of chopped cabbage into the huge pot and watched the mush of overcooked green contents quickly return to a rolling boil. He wasn't home sick as he'd told his colleagues; he was home experimenting. On the other side of the spacious, spot-lit, marble-counter-topped kitchen and across the sunken living room, floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a panorama of twinkling lights above the tops of Central Park's dark trees. The greatest city in the world absolutely throbbed with power.
Polluting, expensive, nonrenewable power.
All that was about to change.
The world was about to change, thanks to him.
Over the course of two years, the physicist PhD had turned the pricey, five-room, eighteenth-floor apartment he'd inherited from Granny Nudelman into his own private laboratory, stripped off the wall-to-wall Berber carpeting, cleared all but one of the rooms of furniture and redecorated it after the style of a chemical plant. Chest-high rows of twelve-by-eight-by-eight black plastic boxes divided more than half the interior space. The battery terminals on the ends of the cases were linked by heavy electric cable; inside each was thousands of neat stacks of a specially laminated paper that had been presoaked in copper chloride. Suspended by heavy chain from the ceiling, at intervals above the rows were twenty-gallon translucent plastic tanks filled with a lemon-orange-tinted fluid. Spiderwebs of clear tubing containing this liquid ran from the bottoms of the tanks to the tops of the rows of boxes.
The whole system was drip fed. Tubing at the bottoms of the stacks was clustered and duct-taped in bundles to the floor, leading off to the bathroom. Gravity pressure forced the waste products of the chemical process straight into his spare-room's toilet. With this prototype design and a DC-to-AC inverter, he had successfully powered a toaster, blender, fan and clock radio. And now, the thousand-watt benchmark: a burner on his electric stove.
If Granny Nudelman's apartment smelled like a public urinal, there was good reason.
The impossible dream of a reusable, pee-powered battery had become a reality.
Standing in the rising, cabbage-reeking steam, staring out at the twinkling lights, he saw a brave new world. Urine would never again be flushed away. It would become a precious commodity, something to be saved, gathered, trucked to pollution-free power plants. He envisioned Manhattan's 8.3 million sets of kidneys, 8.3 million bladders working in unison around the clock, seven days a week to produce enough clean energy to light the largest city in the United States.
Thomas Alva Edison might have given the world light, but James MacArthur Nudelman would supply it with endless, renewable power.
Yellow is the new green, he thought
Of course there were still a number of critical questions left to answer. Was the technology really scalable? What were the limits of the current system design? How far could the life span of laminated paper cells be extended? He had to wait until his contract with the university expired before taking his ground-breaking discovery to the next level, otherwise he would have to share the patents and royalties with the institutionâsomething he had no intention of doing. Ensuing steps were going to require serious venture capital, but he was confident he would find it with very little difficulty.
Although secrecy was vital, he had been forced to involve select members of the hospital cleaning staff in his experiments. He had had no choice. By himself he couldn't supply sufficient quantities of urine to fuel the electrochemical process. For many months he had been paying cash under the table for topped-off catheter bags. These were hush-hush transactions conducted in the facility's parking garage. He lugged the bags home in an ice chest in the trunk of his car.
Behind his back he knew his black-market suppliers referred to him as “the pee-o-holic.”
Let them scoff, he told himself. In the future, every time someone stands or sits to relieve himself they will think of me and be eternally grateful. Instead of “taking a piss,” they will call it “taking a Nudelman.”
With the cabbage hard on the boil and banks of scented candles burning on every horizontal surface, he removed a can of spring-bouquet air freshener from an open case at his feet and sprayed liberally between living room and the entry foyer. The other people on his floor had been complaining bitterly that the hallway outside his apartment smelled like a zoo. The boiling cabbage, the vanilla candles and the aerosol helped to mask the odor of his clandestine operation.
Waving the container back and forth, like a beauty queen on a parade float, he retraced his steps. Halfway to the kitchen, from behind, there came a terrible crash. As he instinctively hunched at the sound, the solid wood front door of his apartment splintered from the hinges and triple dead-bolt locks, cartwheeled past him and landed on the steps of the sunken living room.
He jerked his head around, thumb frozen, still pressing the can's spray button.
Huge figures in purple and black poured through the ruin of his entryway. The faces under the hoods looked dark and warty, eyes as yellow as the fluid in the suspended tanks.
The container in his hand hissed, sputtered, then ran out of propellant.
One of the intruders stepped from between the others. Across its arms, it carried a smaller individual who was dressed in the same style.
Nudelman backpedaled from this advancing apparition until his spine hit the edge of the marble countertop. In the U-shaped kitchen there was nowhere to run. The intruder held the small person cradled not three feet away. The face was mostly hidden by the hood's overhang and the intense backlight of the ceiling spots. He stared dumbfounded at the bare foot that dangled before him.
The pale toes, arch and instep were flesh and blood and distinctly human, but the rest of the appendage was steel. A set of overlapping plates appeared to supply articulation at the ankle joint, with some kind of connected, through-and-through axle. Everywhere it abutted metal, the flesh looked angry and inflamed, and there was green pus.
In short, it was a prosthesis from hell.
“Dr. Nudelman,” a rasping voice said, “gather up whatever material you will need to continue your work. You are coming with me now.”
How many times in the dead of night had he replayed a variation on this dark fantasy? That the Chinese or Russians would break in and steal him and his discovery, that he'd be locked away in a concrete prison of a top-secret research center and never seen or heard from again. But they didn't look Chinese or Russian. Nor a goon squad hired by one of the big oil and power octopi. Their strange, dark and bumpy skin, the cruel amber talons on their thumbs, the width of their bodies and the blocky shape of their headsâthey all looked alike, and they didn't look human.
The pack of huge bodies shifted slightly, and he saw they had already taken a human captiveâa slender man dressed in a black limo-driver's uniform, complete with shiny cap. One of the creatures at the rear had him by the back of neck and lifted up on tiptoe.
“Who are you?” Nudelman asked, trying desperately to stall for enough time to think through his options.
“I am your master,” the little person told him, “from now until you draw your last breath.” Then it reached up with a steel claw and tossed back the purple hood.
As Nudelman recoiled, he felt his bladder sphincter release, but there was no flood of hot wetness down the front of his pants.
The littlest monster had scared him pissless.
Mildred glanced up at the big analog clock on the wall of Vee's office and couldn't help but do the math, adding the hours left in this day to the countdown to noon of the next. In the hellscape, time wasn't measured in seconds, minutes and hours. Few people had a watch that worked. No one asked what time it was. The sun rose and fell. Night, with its attendant terrors, dragged on and on until dawn. In Deathlands the experience of time passing was unique to each individual, norm or mutie, not some kind of by-mutual-agreement shared reality.
In this remote past that she so well remembered, seconds were seen as hard currency. Spectator sports counted down to zero before they were won and lost. Fortunes made or disappeared to the ticking of global clocks. Lives lived, ordered by an artificial heartbeat, a punctuation mark that divided present from past. What was unreal in the Deathlands was real here, as real as the constantly moving second hand.
Time was slipping away, and the punctuation mark to end allâthe ungodly fires of hellâloomed certain.
“There's only one Magus as far as we know,” Mildred told the editor.
“Why aren't the police saying what was taken in these attacks?” Krysty asked.
“Actually they are saying,” Vee said. “And it isn't âwhat,' it's âwho.' Police radio code for a kidnapping is 207. That code has been repeated over and over from different locations. It means there have been multiple, almost simultaneous kidnappings at various Manhattan hospitals.”
“What's 187?” Jak asked.
“Homicide,” Vee said.
The albino gave her a pained look.
“Chilling,” Mildred translated for him. Scattered among the 207s there had been a lot of 187s. The enforcers were doing plenty of what they did best.
“Although the police aren't saying who was kidnapped,” Vee went on. “From what you've told me about this cyborg creature, I think we can assume the targets are medical specialists who can help repair its physical and mechanical systems.”
“I think you're right,” Mildred said. “Hospital departments and staffing in major cities are pretty much the same across the board, from institution to institution. If just any neurosurgeon, ortho doc or transplant doc were needed, it would be one-stop shopping. Magus must be kidnapping
particular
specialists, otherwise there'd be no reason to strike so many locations.”
“Do you think the repairs will be made here, in this time?” Vee asked.
“Not with Armageddon less than a day away,” Ryan said. “Magus has to be taking them back through the time hole to Deathlands.”
“Are there medical facilities there?” Vee asked.
“Only the crudest imaginable,” Mildred said. “Think of the Wild West in the 1880s. But Magus has made many trips here for looting. The hellscape is vast. Who knows what's been hidden away. And where.” She was thinking of the vast redoubt system.
“My dear Vee,” Doc said, “the only thing certain is that Magus is a tactician of the first order. He always seems to be a few steps ahead of pursuit and always has an escape route or two. The ultimate purpose of unfolding events remains a mystery to everyone but our steel-eyed foe.”
“Even if, as you say, there's only one Magus,” Vee said, “there has to be a lot of those enforcers here. So far there have been more than a dozen attacks by eight or ten of them.”
“Maybe they're already here,” Ricky suggested.
“Entirely possible,” Ryan said. “We don't know how many enforcers went through the time hole ahead of Magus, or when. They could have already been stationed close to their targets, waiting for the signal to attack.”
“This is all very interesting,” J.B. said with a frown, “but how are we going to find the bucket of bolts?”
“There's only one way out of here that we know of,” Ryan said. “And right now it's surrounded and blocked off by armed sec men. Magus has to be stashing his victims someplace fairly close to the time hole, waiting for a chance to jump back to Deathlands.”
“The victims could be stashed, but maybe the looting campaign isn't over,” Mildred stated. “Magus has more than a day before the hellstorm to collect whatever else is on the to-steal list.”
“Every bad guy leaves a trail of bread crumbs,” Vee assured them.
“Speaking of which, we need more food,” Krysty said. “And we need it now.”
“We might not have the chance to eat again soon,” Ryan agreed.
“I can phone in a to-go order and have it delivered to the security desk downstairs,” Vee said. “What would you like?”
“I don't care, as long as it's not that plastic-wrapped shit,” Krysty said.
Vee seemed at a loss. “Pizza? Burgers? Thai? Mexican? Sushi?”
“Just get whatever will be delivered the quickest,” Mildred said.
Vee got up from her chair and left the room.
When the editor returned she said, “The food will be here in ten minutes. I need someone to go down to the ground floor with me and help carry it back.”
Doc and Ricky rose from their chairs at the same instant.
“I'll go,” Ricky said, beaming.
“Perhaps the lovely lady should do the choosing,” Doc countered.
Glaring at each other across the table, they looked as if they wanted to start throwing punches. Mildred realized at once what was going on, and it was hard to keep from laughing. The world was about to end, and the geezer and the kid were squabbling over a woman neither of them had a chance in hell with.
Vee had it figured out, too. Smiling sweetly she said, “Mildred can help me with the food. She knows how to fit in here if we get questioned. And her appearance will draw less attention from security. If they ask, I can always say she's one of our writers.”
Mildred wasn't sure that was a compliment.
“The conference room will be a more comfortable place to eat,” Vee said. “We need to keep monitoring the police calls. And keep a record of any new attack locations as they come up. Write down the time, as well, so we can figure out a direction of travel.” She shut off and unplugged the scanner, and she carried it with her as they headed back to the long table.
After the unit was back online and crackling with frantic chatter, Vee unstrapped her Desert Eagle and set it down beside the scanner and a legal pad and pen she had picked up along the way. “If we take firearms into the lobby, Mildred, it will bring a visit from the police,” she said.
Though it made her uneasy, Mildred left her Czech-made ZKR .38 revolver and holster on the conference table.
On their way down the hall, Vee stopped at the vending machines. She picked up the fire ax and gave both machines several whacks, breaking loose their pot-metal cash boxes.
“Just like an ATM,” she said as she gathered up handfuls of one-dollar bills and stacked them into two fat bundles.
After the elevator doors closed and the car began to descend, Vee looked at her and said, “Do you have living relatives in this time?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Do you want to contact them? You can use the office phone when we get back.”
“You mean, do I want to say goodbye?”
“Well, yes...”
“They think I'm frozen in a tank in some cryrofacility, Vee,” Mildred said. “They said goodbye a long time ago.
“If I can't protect the people I love from what's coming tomorrow, scaring them in their final hours seems just pointless and cruel.”
When they reached the ground floor, the delivery man was waiting at the security desk, which was manned by a pair of seated, uniformed guards. Six big white paper bags sat on the counter in front of them.
“I don't know those security men,” Vee said softly. “Let me do the talking.”
As they neared the counter, the aroma of hamburger and fries made Mildred's mouth water. How long had it been? A hundred years? It seemed longer.
Vee counted out sufficient singles to cover the cost of the food, then handed the rest to the delivery man.
His eyes widened as he accepted the wad of cash. “Ma'am,” he said, “there must be fifty bucks here.”
“Do me one favor,” she said.
“Sure, what?”
“Spend it all tonight.”
“Deal!” he said, turning quickly for the exit.
As they gathered up the six bags, Mildred noticed that both guards were armed with 9 mm Glocks and wore body armor under their uniform shirts. That stuck in her mind because she didn't remember building security ever carrying guns or wearing armor, except in banks or big city hospitals of course.
One of the guards said, “Whoa, that's a lot of food, ladies. Got a party going up there on twenty-two?”
“No, we're stocking up for an all-nighter,” Vee said. “Final tweaking of a book. Got to get it ready for the printer.”
“Good luck with that.”
Mildred smiled and nodded and followed Vee back to the elevator.
When the car doors closed behind them, the aroma of charcoal-cooked meat and deep-fried potatoes became overwhelming. Her stomach began to growl ominously as she held the hot bags to her chest.
“Do you miss the food?” Vee asked as the elevator climbed.
“Not until now. I'd forgotten.”
“What do you eat in the future?”
“Trust me, you don't want to know. It will put you off eating for a week.”
They trooped into the conference room, set the bags on the table and started passing out paper-wrapped, double bacon cheeseburgers and grease-stained bags of French fries.
Mildred watched Jak sniff carefully at the sandwich he held in both hands. Then he took a huge bite of what had to be his first bacon cheeseburger. He groaned as he chewed, then gulped it down.
“Don't eat the paper,” Vee told him as his mouth gaped to take bite number two.
“Or your fingers,” Mildred added.
The others were already hard at it, cheeks stuffed like chipmunks, jaws grinding away vigorously.
As Mildred raised her own sandwich to wet lips and parted teeth, then crunched through the toasted, seeded bun, the copious mayo, ketchup, lettuce, pickle, red onion, sliced tomato, crisp bacon, melted cheddar and two juicy, charbroiled meat patties, she saw a pair of tiny red dots, like dancing insects, on the other side of the plate-glass window.
They weren't insects.
And they weren't dancing.
She spewed her mouthful of burger across the table and into the lap of an astonished J.B.