Atomic Underworld: Part One (7 page)

The
mutants wheeled. The fish-scaled leader’s eyes grew round, and he reached for a
gun on the floor of the boat. He rose clutching a bulbous submachine gun.
Others reached for their own weapons.

Tavlin
had snatched up his gun as soon as the tall man turned. He fired at the
fish-scaled leader, missed, fired again, hitting the leader square in the
chest. The man pitched backward, knocking into two others. Another loosed a
burst at Tavlin, but the shooter had been bumped aside and the bullets
skittered off the wall not far from Tavlin’s boat. Shards of stone flew out.
Something nicked his ear.

Tavlin
aimed at a black mass next to the mutants’ boat. Holding his breath, he fired.

A
strange shriek filled the air. Black gas jetted from an orifice in the mound’s
side. The dark cloud engulfed the boat and its occupants, and mutants screamed
in horror. Out of control, the boat plowed forward, striking another slugmine,
and another. More smoke billowed up.

Tavlin,
far away enough to escape the direct blast of the poison, still tasted the
bitterness on the air, and something felt like it was biting his tongue, his
nostrils, the insides of his mouth. His eyes watered.

All
the while, he fired his gun into the black cloud, unable to see the mutants and
their passenger but hoping to get lucky. When his gun clicked empty, he
reloaded with bullets he had bought that afternoon, fired again until he was
out, then once more. By then the cloud was dispersing, and the boat had come to
rest against the canal wall.

Warily,
Tavlin rowed forward. His heart thumped. Sweat stung his eyes. Blackness,
though thinner, still hid much of the boat. He held his breath as he drew
close, then let the boat drift forward while he reached for his gun.

His
vessel struck the hull of the other. Rocked.

A
shape lurched out of the darkness. It spilled over the gunwale into his boat. A
long, glistening insectile form reached for him. A knife glittered in one fist.
The blade flashed at Tavlin’s gut.

Tavlin
fired into the Octunggen man’s outstretched hand, then shoulder, then twice
through the chest.

Gasping,
bleeding—he had already been shot, Tavlin saw—the man collapsed against the
gunwale, still shuddering. Tavlin wrenched the knife away, shoved it in a
pocket, then ripped off the man’s gas mask and strapped it about his own head.
He sucked in a deep inhalation, frustrated at how the filter slowed his breaths
when his lungs were demanding rapid action to remove the spots from his vision.

Chest
heaving, he clambered over the side into the other boat and rooted around
amongst the bodies, some of which still moved.

There!
He beat away grasping hands, heaved a body aside, kicked the face of a certain
moribund mutant reaching for a gun, then grabbed the briefcase by its handle
and returned to his boat, where the tall man had crawled to the engine and was
trying to rev it, to strand Tavlin there.

Tavlin
struck him over the head and pulled him away.

“No,”
the man said, “no ...”

“What’s
in this?” Tavlin asked, indicating the briefcase. “Money?” Even as he said it,
he knew that was wrong.

“
Du
,” the man said, an Octunggen word,
Tavlin thought. Probably
No
, maybe
Idiot
. “They will come for you. They
were ... to meet us ... close by ...”

“Who?”
Tavlin shook him. “Who’s coming for me?”

The
man glared up at him, an arrogant expression stamped on his pale, weary
features. Then the light faded from his eyes, and he sagged. Tavlin watched him
for a long moment, then studied the boat laden with mutants that he himself had
killed. Abruptly he felt nauseous. He’d never killed anyone before, not in his
entire life. He’d been around violence, yes, he’d seen people die, he’d even
helped Boss Vassas fight off attackers before. And of course, there were
gamblers who had lost everything and resented him that would take a swing at
him or worse, and there were people he’d had to stick in duels, people who had
lived, but nothing like this ...

I was gone
, he thought.
I was out. Now I’m back a day and I’ve
committed mass murder, plus prompted the death of a Suulmite. Damn you, Vassas
...

Tavlin
wanted to throw up but didn’t dare in his mask, and he didn’t trust that the
air had cleared enough to remove it. He held the sick in.

With
shocking speed, the air changed. Lights filled it. Tavlin’s eardrums shook.
Light strobed the walls, making the water seem to dance. Energy flickered out,
arcs of blue-white fire from wall to wall, from water to ceiling, like a great
electric spider web. The buzzing sound increased, and Tavlin felt the shaking
in his bones. What the hell was going on?

That
was when it happened.

She
appeared. The girl in white.

She
popped up out of nowhere. One moment there was nothing, then he blinked, and
when he opened his eyes she was right there, coming straight at him, that
otherworldly ghost-witch or whatever she was, beautiful, ethereal, all of white
save for shifting gray shadows, her eyes lances of illumination out of the most
perfect face he had ever seen, her lips full and parted, her body ripe and
slender.

She
flew toward him shrieking,
“You took it!
You bastard, why did you take it!”

He
leapt to the outboard, fired up the motor with trembling fingers and shot off
down the corridor. He rammed against one slugmine, then another, and black
poison squirted into the air behind him, but, gas-mask firmly in place, he
didn’t care. He rocketed off into the sewers, hairs lifted in the base of his
neck, too frightened even to look back.

*

Tavlin
began to hear sounds. He had been wandering around the sewer system for some
time, long enough to have admitted to himself that he was lost. Still shaking,
he rowed and rowed, sometimes using his motor, sometimes not. He didn’t think
he had much gasoline left. He had long ago torn off the gas mask, and he took
great gulping breaths of air. It was metallic and rancid, but delicious. He was
alive. The woman-thing did not seem to be chasing him, but he could still hear
the echo of her scream in his mind. What
was
she?

It
was in one of the periods of rowing, when the motor was silent, that he heard
them.

At
first it was just a dull, muted throbbing, but then it grew louder—and louder.
He realized with a sense of alarm that it was the sound of engines. Boats were
out. He wondered if he was close to Muscud or some other Under-town but knew
that even if he were it was still too early for there to be much traffic about.
Even mutants needed sleep.

They will be coming for you.
Shivering, Tavlin fired up his
engine. It might alert the boats to his presence, but he had to risk it. He aimed
his outboard in the direction he had been headed—he could only hope it was the
right one—and motored off.

The
engines throbbed louder behind him.

“Shit.”

If
he could still hear them over his own, that meant their engines were the more
powerful. They might not be able to hear him, but if they found him they could
catch him, kill him and take back whatever was in the briefcase. He itched to
open it, but that would have to wait.

The
tunnel opened up ahead. He found himself in a large corridor, traveling toward
a likewise large opening. And beyond the opening ... far beyond ... lights.
They were few and far, concealed in mist and darkness that seemed almost
opaque, as if the air was as grimy as the walls, but there were lights. He
couldn’t tell if it was Muscud, but it seemed to be another massive cistern
chamber, and in it there was definitely civilization or some likeness thereof.
Heart soaring, he raced toward it.

Gunshots
snapped behind him.

He
jerked his head back to see a boat zooming around a corner. A lumpy figure
stood on the bow, arm raised, something metallic clutched in its fist. Fire
flashed from the muzzle, and a hole punched through Tavlin’s hull right near
the motor. Splinters flew.

The
gun flashed again, its roar hardly noticeable above the sounds of the engines.

Tavlin
hunkered down before his motor, using it as a shield. He glanced back to the
front.
Off course.
His hull scraped
against the wall of the tunnel. The boat shook. He felt the rattling in his
bones. Cursing, he aimed for the lights.

When
he looked back, he saw that the boat in pursuit had closed half the gap between
them.
Shitshitshit
.

Tavlin
wanted to reach for his gun, but it was empty.
I should’ve looted the dead for their weapons, damnit. The old Tavlin
wouldn’t have hesitated.

The
opening grew large ahead. Another gunshot snapped, then another. The bullets
whizzed overhead.

Tavlin
breasted the tunnel mouth and ventured out onto the open water, speeding toward
the illumination. It spread before him, a few pinpricks of radiance here and
there, as if he headed into an underdeveloped galaxy. Mist oozed up from the
waters, thick and foul. He plowed into the fog, hoping it would hide him from
his pursuers. Another gunshot rang out, but he didn’t know where the round
went. The sound of the other boat’s engine grew even louder, a beehive
screaming in his ears.

Through
the fog a cluster of lights materialized. He aimed for it.

The
lights drew closer, closer ...

A
dark shape ahead. He saw a boat, figures hunched over the gunwales, lines
leading into the water. Early risers. Fishermen eager for a nighttime haul,
when the big fish were about. Such creatures were dangerous, but lucrative.
Even as Tavlin watched, one of the mutants cried out, his line jerked, and the
two others in the boat leapt to assist him before his catch could drag him
overboard.

Despite
the severity of their situation, they glanced up in
startlement
as Tavlin roared in out of the fog, and he could only imagine the taut
expression on his face.

Another
gunshot cracked behind him. Fire lanced up his left arm, and he thought he
cried out but wasn’t sure. Ignoring the pain, he steered around the fishermen
who were directly in his path.

Still
watching him, they clung onto the hooked line, but at the sound of another
gunshot one of them dove down and came up with a shotgun, probably used as a
last resort to subdue any catch that threatened to eat them or capsize them.
Tavlin ducked even further down, but the fisherman didn’t aim at him but at the
boat that must be behind him, just an approaching shadow in the fog.

Tavlin
raced toward the docks, which he could see now, a line of shabby wooden peers
and juts, boats bobbing in the vague swells, mist coiling between them.
Alchemical lamps of glowing red helped drive back the stink of the sewers. A
few guards strolled along the docks, paid by the city to prevent boat-theft.
Something about the city beyond told Tavlin this wasn’t Muscud. Its towers were
too tall, too thick. Lights strung from them stretched all the way up to the
cistern ceiling, nestled between stalactites limned in red light.

Tavlin
reached the docks just as the shotgun roared behind him. More gunshots split
the silence. The shotgun boomed again. He heard cursing, a grunt, a splash,
more shots, then silence save for the motor of the boat growing louder.
Damn
.

He
clambered onto the docks, blood cascading down his arm. Rotten wood groaned
under his heel. One of the guards rushed over clutching at his sidearm. He was
a stocky, thick-
chested
fellow with a crest on his
head and gills on his neck.

“Hold
there!
Hold
!”

Tavlin
ignored him and bent over the boat to retrieve the suitcase. When he came up,
the guard was pointing a gun at his chest, perhaps fearing he’d gone for a
weapon.

“Stop
right there!”

Tavlin
stabbed a finger toward the open water with the hand not holding the briefcase.
At the motion, the guard flinched, and Tavlin half-thought he would shoot him,
but the blast didn’t come.

“Hear
that?” Tavlin said, meaning the sound of the approaching boat.

The
guard cocked an ear. The other three guards were rushing over, too. Likely they
had all heard the gunshots.

“They’re
armed,” Tavlin said. “They tried to mug me in the passages. I came here from
Muscud.”

The
guard glanced him over, suddenly realizing he wasn’t a mutant. “You live
Muscud-way?”

Time
to use his ace in the hole. “I work for Boss Vassas. He’ll vouch for me.
Listen, there’s no time. Those bastards just killed three of your fishermen,
and they’re coming for me next.”

But,
as soon as he said it, he realized it wasn’t true. The sound of the engine was
fading now, not growing.

“They
must have seen you,” he said, to the congregation of guards. The first guard
exchanged glances with the others.

“Boss
Vassas, huh?” said one.