The Damn Disciples (21 page)

Stone fell back and released the wood as the pierced Transformer staggered backward, his whole insides, heart, throat, completely
obliterated. He was dead already; he just didn’t know it. But as he stumbled backward his feet caught on a carpet and the
High Priest of the Perfect Aura toppled over onto his back, where the arms snapped around like snakes with jolts of electricity
being fed into their tails. Stone picked up one of the fallen blades and prepared to slam it into the Transformer’s brain
if necessary. But he was dead. As dead as a man could get with a wooden chair leg going nearly three feet through him.

And Stone saw as well, as the hood flew off the leather head, that it was a mask, hanging from the face. The Transformer was
no supernatural being. His red eyes were bulbs, the corpselike features all latex. And beneath it Al, just one ugly-looking
mug who looked like he could have been Al Capon’s brother, but sure as hell wasn’t a demon from the netherworlds.

Not that his identity mattered. Stone rose to both legs, his hands hanging at his side while they dripped little rivulets
of blood down onto the carpet. He stumbled to the window—and saw them. The Dwarf and April being loaded into the back of a
big diesel truck. And even as he watched, the back of the thing was closed up. With a big puff of smoke from the diesel stack
on the front cabin, the truck was off. And he knew that in the state he was in, there was no way in hell he was going to catch
it. He could hardly walk, let alone drive. He lifted his hands. They looked like shit, covered with so much red it was hard
to tell just what the damage was.

But the dog had gotten it worse. It wasn’t moving, just lying there with the damn knife coming right out of its chest. Stone
got down on one trembling knee and reached down and pulled the knife free. There was a little whimper, but the canine’s eyes
didn’t even on. He knew the dog was tough. He had never seen it go completely out. Christ, things just got worse and worse.
No matter what, it seemed he couldn’t escape the fires—or those who dared stand with him.

Stone drove the Harley back to the battle scene on the main street. He moved slowly so as not to dislodge the pit bull, which
he had tied down on a blanket behind him. It wasn’t moving. He came to a stop and looked around at the bodies strewn everywhere.
Most of them were robed. Suddenly there was motion from a door, and as Stone reached toward the trigger for the .50-caliber
he saw that it was Smythe. The leader of the Broken Ones walked over to him, letting the pistol in his right hand dangle loosely.

“We done it. We fucking done it,” he said, amazed. “It don’t make me feel too good, though, I’ll tell you. Ain’t seen this
many bodies in my life. A lot of them’s my crew—but it had to be done and we done it. Reclaimed our damn land, our farms and
homes, from these murderers.” Stone looked around. The upper echelon of the cult were either dead or dying. The rest had fled
into the woods. Without the brains of the cult, there was nothing. Already the cultees were starting to walk around the town
with puzzled expressions on their faces. They were all starting to come off the Golden Nectar and couldn’t even walk quite
right, dragging their legs, making moaning and howling sounds from all around the camp. It was a mess, to say the least.

“See the bastards got your dog,” Smythe said, looking down at Excaliber as Stone wearily dismounted. The bandages he had taken
from the med supplies and wrapped around his hands with his teeth were bleeding through again. But the main flow had stopped,
less than a third of what it had been just minutes before. He wasn’t going to die—not from this anyway. Even if he might want
to.

“He’s still alive. But for how long I don’t know,” Stone said so softly he could hardly be heard.

“That’s a shame, a damn shame. I seen that dog fighting right alongside you out there. Damn brave animal.” Suddenly the man
snapped his fingers. “Wait a second—Walt was a doctor. Maybe he could do something. We got access to medical supplies now.
I think he came through it all okay—I seen him just a few minutes ago.” Smythe whistled hard, and after a minute or so, they
got Walt to come round. Stone looked at the fellow, not hoping for much. The fellow was emaciated, his chest sunken in, his
face a mass of sores and oozing stuff. Yet within the eyes Stone saw a spark of real intelligence. Fighting back had brought
them back to themselves. Had at least put them in the right direction.

“What do you think?” Smythe said, pointing at the dog. “Can you do anything?”

“Naw … I ain’t practiced for years.” The man laughed, putting up his hands. But his curiosity got the better of him and he
leaned over the animal, putting his ear to the furred chest, where he listened for a few seconds and then stood up again.
“Well, I don’t know. There’s still a heartbeat. But it’s weak, and he needs to be cut on and given a—a heart operation. Stitched
up and everything—”

“Do it!” Stone said in a pained whisper. “Just do it. If he dies, I won’t blame you. He’s going to die anyway, so …” Stone
and the would-be doctor carried the animal a few blocks to the med building, where some of the cultees were walking around
bumping into walls. They weren’t even threats anymore, more dangers to themselves as they broke their noses and smashed their
teeth out banging into things. The damn mindless wonders didn’t know what the hell they were doing or even that they were
in bodies—flesh and blood that could be hurt.

Inside, the doctor put Excaliber up on a sterile operating table and then gathered various medical supplies—scalpels, alcohol.
Stone could hardly bear to watch as Excaliber’s fur was cut on. But he had to stay—to be there for the animal that had been
there for him. Imagine attacking a fucking elephant. He shook his head from side to side. It only took the doctor about an
hour. He cut right into the chest, poked around, saw that part of the heart itself had been ruptured—and actually sewed it
up again, using self-dissolving gut cord. Then he sutured the hide closed again. Needles were put into arteries of the dog’s
armpits and dripping fluid was fed into them from IV bags that hung suspended on mobile racks on each side of the hardly breathing
animal.

“I’ve given him massive amounts of antibiotics, and also a heart stimulator to make sure he doesn’t conk out. We’ll keep him
in here, I guess, so I can keep feeding the stuff into him intravenously. Now, let me take a look at you,” he said. Before
Stone could protest, he grabbed Stone’s hands and laid them down on the table, swabbing them off with alcohol.

“Ah, not too bad,” he said after examining them for a minute. He bandaged up the stab wound, which had cleanly penetrated
the hand but hadn’t severed any arteries or muscles. The other gash required twenty stitches, then a bandage wrapped Al the
way around the hand a number of times to keep it from getting infected. Stone looked like a caricature of a man who had been
poking his hands into things he shouldn’t—a beehive or something.

“Well, I sure appreciate your efforts,” Stone said as the two of them walked out to the front of the place and stood out on
the sidewalk. Blocks off the drug factory burned, but the wind at least had shifted, so the acrid smoke was blowing off in
the opposite direction. Let it Al burn, Stone thought bitterly as he watched. Let the drugs burn until there isn’t a molecule
of them left. Until they can’t poison one more human brain.

“What do you think, Doc? Tell me the truth?” Stone said after several minutes of silence.

“I really don’t know, mister. I’ll be honest with you,” Walter replied. “I’ve done my best. I think I actually did all the
right things. At least I didn’t kill him. Now it’s up to the dog’s inherent strength—and the ability of the heart to withstand
the shock and not go into cardiac arrest. But I’ll stand by him. I owe you—we all owe you—that much.”

“Well, I’ll keep you company,” Stone said, looking down the street as some of the Broken Ones started spontaneously dancing
as they hooked arms and jumped around. They sure as hell didn’t look broken anymore. “We’ll see how he is tomorrow. And then
if he’s dead, I’ll bury the brave little bastard. And if he’s alive, well, then he’s off for one more fucking descent into
hell. ’Cause that’s where I’m heading. I’ve got a date with a psycho dwarf. And only one of us is coming out alive.”

The wounded were being dragged down the street. Of the twenty-four Broken Ones who had begun the attack, ten had died. Another
six were wounded, some with their guts hanging out, painting a highway line down the middle of the street. They dragged them
right up the three steps that led to where Stone and Doc Walter were standing, and looked at him imploringly.

“But I can’t,” he said, stepping back in horror at the heavy wounds. “I can’t promise that I won’t—won’t kill them.”

“You didn’t do in the dog,” Stone commented dryly as the sun rose like a yellow boil on the face of the world, skulking above
the trees. “Face it man, you’re the new doctor here in this hellhole. And Smythe here is the new mayor.” Both men looked around
in utter terror. It seemed to frighten them a lot more than the actual battle had. “Hey, there’s no choice about it,” Stone
went on as they began dragging the wounded inside. “You’re the builders of this town. The makers. You’re the ones who can
bring it out of the poison and horror that have occurred here, and into something human and decent. Maybe even add a little
light to this barbaric and dying country. It’s
me
—I’m the one who can’t rest, who can’t ever stay in one place. Until I find her, I have no home.”

A THIRD WORLD WAR HAS LEFT AMERICA A LAWLESS AND BATTERED LAND. BUT AMID THE PILLAGE AND HEARTLESS KILLING, ONE BRAVE YOUNG MAN HAS BECOME AMERICA’S LAST HOPE FOR JUSTICE AND FREEDOM...

Weaponless and wounded, Martin Stone has made it back to the Bunker to recuperate. But when he receives a message from his sister's abductors, he has no choice but to rearm—and set off on his one-man war again. Across a landscape of devastation, fighting his way through an earthquake and a tide of killer rats, Stone—and his pitbull Excaliber—move closer and closer to the deadly stronghold where April is being held. Suddenly he has gone too far—into a trap laid by a high priest of madness and his army of drugged-out disciples. Force-fed a deadly drug until he is helpless under its spell, Stone is becoming one more member of the living dead. The cult is about to unleash its power on America. In the depths of his living hell the Last Ranger is struggling to survive—for one last chance to explode into a living firestom, of revenge!

Martin Stone is

THE LAST RANGER

America’s Last Hope in America’s Darkest Age