Death Draws Five

by George R. R. Martin

  Yeoman leaned over, breathing heavily. Ray had broken a sweat, but his breath was still normal. “Stick to the road,” Yeoman told him. “You’ll move faster on it than cross country. This is Lower Road—”

  “I know,” Ray said. “The compound?”

  “Left. Uphill all the way. You’ll see a gated dirt road with a sign. You can’t miss it. I’ll follow as quickly as I can.”

  “Do that,” Ray said.

  He started down the road at an easy lope. Yeoman kept pace for the first ten or fifteen yards, then Ray started to pull away. He ran like an animal, just for the sheer physical enjoyment of feeling his muscles work like parts of a well-designed machine, without thought of what he would find when he came to the end of his run. Like always when fighting or exercising or screwing, Ray lived in the moment, concentrating on the play of muscle and tendon, of flesh and bone fighting against gravity, of mind and will battling the inevitable depletion of the energy that ran the machine of his body.

  The road went uphill at a steady grade. Within moments he was breathing hard, gasping for oxygen that he needed to fuel his system, but Yeoman was a hundred yards back, moving okay for a nat, but beaten badly, Ray thought, just the same. Beaten badly. He looked at the slope looming before him and sucked in a long shuddering breath between clenched teeth. This hill wouldn’t beat him, either.

  He leaned into it, pumping his arms harder as he lengthened his stride. The captives might be undergoing unspeakable tortures now at the hands of the kidnapper gang, but that was only part of what drove Ray. Not even the major part of it.

  It was the hill under his feet that pushed him on, harder and harder, his breath whistling now like a dying bird as it escaped his throat. The damned hill was trying to slow him down. Trying to beat him. Trying to clip the wings off of his feet. But he wouldn’t let it.

  He was in a full sprint when he saw the turnoff, and had to slow down so he wouldn’t get tangled up while he turned onto the dirt path leading into the woods. It went uphill, again. The grade was steep, right up the face of the hill, not rising gently along its edge.

  He ran on the left shoulder as the path twisted and banked through the trees. It seemed like a long time before he saw the parking area, but it was probably only a few minutes. The lot was still a hundred yards distant as the meandering path leveled out. Between the intervening trees and the surrounding cars he couldn’t quite make out what was happening. A couple of big, dark sedans were parked in haphazard angles in the open space before some run-down wooden buildings. Barns or something. At least half a dozen men were standing around, watching something that was out of his range of vision.

  His head started to swim, so he slowed down a little, realizing that he was on the verge of total system collapse as his muscles burned the last of the energy available to them. Fortunately, he would arrive on the scene in seconds and speed was no longer of the essence. Now silence was.

  He took long, deep breaths. He tried to make his steps lighter, as if he were gliding over the ground. As he approached he got a better view of what was happening. He didn’t like what he saw.

  He counted fourteen men in the parking lot. He figured this Mushroom Daddy was the hippie-looking guy being held with his arms pinned behind his back by one of the thugs. Two others held Creighton, Ackroyd’s partner, while a third systematically beat him with a truncheon. Eight others stood around watching. Ray grinned. Those were odds that he could enjoy.

  No one had seen or heard him yet as he came closer and closer. No one... no one... no one...

  Someone finally spotted him and opened his mouth to yell as Ray launched himself into the air. He landed on the hood of a car, catapulted off, bounced back to the ground, and hit the Allumbrado as he went by. He pulled his punch, but only a little.

  Seven left.

  Two were standing next to each other. Ray went down, his leg shot out in a sweeping arc, and cut them to the ground. Ray rolled forward, once, and was on them. He grabbed one by his jacket collar and head-butted him into unconsciousness. The other tried to crawl away. Ray grabbed his belt and dragged him back, kicking and screaming. He wrapped a hand in his greasy hair, made a disgusted face, and slammed his head, face first, into the packed dirt of the parking lot, smashing his nose flat and stunning him like a steer in a slaughter house hit between the eyes with an ax. Ray left him choking on his own blood.

  Five left.

  Ray scrambled to his feet and saw that he had run out of luck. The man standing six feet from him had drawn a pistol. Well out of Ray’s reach, he smiled and aimed carefully as Ray launched himself. The gunman squeezed off two shots then lost his smile as he realized that actually he wasn’t well out of Ray’s reach. Ray’s grin turned savage as one of the shots ripped past his ear and the other tore through meat and muscle high on his right shoulder, punching a hole clean through from chest to back. Ray didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. He hit the man around the waist, like back in the days before his ace turned and he was playing six-man football in high school in Montana, only now his ace had turned. He was hurt and jazzed with adrenaline and pain and less conscious of his own strength. He felt the man’s ribs crack as he slammed him hard against a car fender and the shooter screamed as internal organs pulped.

  Four left.

  Two stood side by side, their automatics out. For the first time Ray remembered Yeoman and he wondered how long it would take the bowman to reach the battleground. The two thugs squeezed off shots that whined off the car’s fender, ricocheting into the night. Ray knew he wasn’t strong enough to throw a car at the shooters, so he threw the only thing he had, the body he still held. They ducked, splitting apart, and Ray went in on the heels of the dead man. More shots rang out and he felt the pain of a fiery poker drilling though his left thigh and upper right chest. He drew a deep breath, his smile a death’s mask, relieved when he realized that the bullet had missed his lung. That would have been trouble. Then he was on them. He grabbed a wrist and waltzed one around so that he blocked the other’s shot. He snapped his captive’s forearm and the injured man dropped his gun, screaming. The other, his eyes wide with fear, tried to blast through his comrade. Ray, wearing his captive like a bulletproof vest, rushed the shooter, who fired and back-pedaled as fast as he could. He clicked empty and Ray hadn’t felt any more impacts. Either he was beyond feeling, or his impromptu shield had absorbed all the shots. He tossed the body away and fell on the shooter, who screamed and threw his pistol. The automatic hit Ray in the cheek, the sight slicing it and pissing Ray off even more. Ray’s hand closed on the thug’s flailing arm and he pulled him close and wrenched his shoulder out of its socket. The man screamed. For good measure Ray grabbed his other arm and pulled that one out of its socket as well. The Allumbrado fell to the ground still screaming, and Ray turned.

  Two left.

  They were standing next to each other, ten feet from Ray. The others, who were holding the hippie and Ackroyd’s partner, had not moved. Two left, and one was unarmed. Ray recognized him. It was the blonde asshole who had abused Angel in Vegas. Ray smiled.

  But the other was holding an automatic rifle and pointing it right at Ray’s chest. He realized there was no chance of dodging automatic rifle fire from the distance of ten feet. Fired from that close it could dish out more pain and destruction than he could deal with. It would certainly incapacitate him, and then it would be simple to deliver the coup de grace. Ray had never had to regenerate from a bullet between the eyes, and he didn’t want to try it for the first time so late in his career. He knew his only hope was to keep them talking as long as he could. He leaned over, put his hands on his knees, and took deep breaths.

  “Witness,” he said, brushing futilely at the seeping bloodstains that had utterly ruined his suit, “what brings you to these parts?”

  The blonde man frowned. “You recognize me?”

  “Sure.” Ray took a deep breath to slow down his hammering heart. “I saw you in Vegas, picking on girls.”

&n
bsp; Witness laughed. It was not a jolly sound. “Yes. I remember you now. Someone told me your name. Billy Ray, isn’t it?”

  Ray nodded.

  “So,” Witness said thoughtfully, “the federal government is involved. We weren’t sure, but we thought it might be when your partner made off with the boy.”

  “My partner?” Ray asked. Then it struck him. “Oh, Angel.”

  “Is that her name?” Witness said. “She’s quite striking. I’ll enjoy it when we meet again. Well.” He thought for a moment, then he glanced at the man who’d kept Ray covered the whole time. “I don’t think he can tell us anything more. Kill him.”

  Ray tensed, ready for a desperate jump, knowing it would be useless.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  New Hampton: Snake-Handlers’ Commune

  Jerry felt as if he’d gone a couple of rounds with Marciano in his prime or maybe Jake LaMotta, like in Raging Bull. He grimly held on to his consciousness and just as grimly tried not to puke on his shoes as Witness’s man worked him over with a sap loaded with lead pellets, stopping every now and then to ask questions about John Fortune that he couldn’t answer.

  The sudden appearance of Billy Ray was like the arrival of an angel on Earth. His captors stopped beating him. Ray was a blur of motion as he charged heedlessly into a fight against impossible odds, but after a moment or two Jerry had the sudden hope that perhaps the odds weren’t all that impossible as Ray cut through his foes like, appropriately enough, an ace through nats.

  His hope, however, was short-lived as Witness and the last of his otherwise unoccupied henchmen got the drop on Ray. Everyone was watching the drama, Jerry realized, even the thug who’d been holding him while his pal sapped him down. He went limp, sagging forward with all his weight, and his right arm broke free of his captor’s grip.

  “Hey!” the man exclaimed, yanking on Jerry’s left arm and turning him half around.

  Jerry concentrated and held his right hand out, rigid as a knife. The additional pain barely registered on his consciousness as the bones of his middle three fingers lengthened and tore through the flesh of his fingertips. He didn’t have time to get fancy. He just punched out with a knife-hand and caught the man in the throat. His fingers penetrated flesh and the man gurgled, released Jerry, and grabbed his throat.

  Jerry fell. His fingers slipped out of the man’s throat, and blood spurted from the wound, big time. It looked as if he’d hit the carotid artery. His tormentor collapsed, gagging and choking into the bloodstained dust at his feet. Jerry fought down a wave of nausea as arcing gobbets of blood splattered his shoes. He’d seen death close up before, but it was never easy to take. Death entailed real pain and suffering and even though these guys were assholes who hadn’t thought twice about beating him to a pulp, Jerry wouldn’t, couldn’t, descend to their level. He still felt bad about having to kill.

  But only for a moment. He had other things to worry about.

  The other thug lifted his sap and took a step toward Jerry. He froze suddenly when an arrow came out of nowhere and bulls-eyed the gunman holding down on Ray. The thug with the sap looked around frantically, but there was no sign of the archer.

  I owe him again, Jerry thought, and he kicked the thug in the knee. There was a satisfyingly loud crack, and he went down screaming. Jerry turned towards Mushroom Daddy with the thought of freeing him, as there was a mad scramble for the fallen rifle. Witness grabbed it.

  “Hold it,” he screamed, waving it from Ray to Jerry to Mushroom Daddy and the man restraining him. “Come out of the woods, you murdering bastard! Come out or they all get it! Now!”

  “You even look like you’re going to start shooting,” a calm voice said from the forest, “and I’ll put you down like a mad dog.”

  “I’m an ace!” Witness screamed. “A frigging ace! A fucking arrow can’t take me out! I’ll hang on long enough to hose down all your friends. Depend on it!”

  Yeoman came into the clearing without making a sound, an arrow strung to his bow, the string pulled back to his cheek.

  Witness laughed. “What we have here is the classic Mexican stand-off.”

  “We can take him, Yeoman,” Ray panted, bleeding from at least four wounds that Jerry could see.

  The man holding Daddy’s arms looked worried. He let the hippie go, and started to move backward. Witness glanced at him. Jerry could see that his eyes were crazed with fear.

  “Don’t move! Any of you!”

  “I’m on your side,” the man said.

  “I SAID NOBODY MOVE!” Witness screamed.

  Mushroom Daddy looked at his captor. “That’s what happens when you side with fascists. Bummer for you, man.”

  “Shut up,” Witness shouted. “Let me think.”

  “Why don’t you just back up, get in one of those cars, and get out of here,” Jerry suggested.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Witness sneered. “Then your pal could shoot me in the back.”

  “Why don’t we put all the weapons down,” Ray offered, “and go hand to hand? Me and you. Mano a mano.”

  “You think I’m stupid?” Witness asked. “You think I don’t know that you’d all jump on me? You think—“

  Spittle flew from Witness’s mouth as he raged on, and Jerry was about to shout “Look out!” when there was a strange popping noise in the air, near Witness. Jerry heard a familiar voice mutter, “Shit!”

  Ackroyd was at the edge of the parking lot, carrying Kitty Cat piggyback, the joker’s tiny arms entwined around his neck. Ackroyd was heaving great shuddering breaths, like he’d just run a marathon, which was close enough to the truth. His right hand was pointing towards Witness, but it was shaking with Ackroyd’s effort to control his fatigue. Suddenly, simultaneously, Witness vanished as in-rushing air made another “POP!” as he disappeared, and another, louder noise exploded as one of the thugs nailed Ackroyd with a slug from his automatic.

  Ackroyd whirled, spilling Kitty Cat, and fell heavily over a log marking the parking lot’s boundary. Jerry spied the shooter, who was kneeling and still aiming at Ackroyd. No one was near him. Jerry shouted “NO!” as the thug started to squeeze off another shot at his helpless target, but the gun went off harmlessly into the air as Yeoman’s arrow hit him squarely in the chest and knocked him right on his ass. Jerry ran toward Ackroyd. Ray reached his side first and kneeled down by him.

  “Ah, Jesus,” Ackroyd panted. “M-missed the bastard,” he paused to take a deep breath. “Missed him with my first try.”

  “You okay?” Jerry asked anxiously.

  “Bullet wound doesn’t look too bad,” Ray said. “Just a flesh wound to the thigh.”

  “Yeah,” Ackroyd said, “but I think I broke my ankle when I fell over that damn log.”

  Jerry looked at Ackroyd’s leg, and nodded. It was an easy diagnosis to confirm. A jagged splinter of bone was sticking out through Ackroyd’s sock.

  Ray nodded. “It’s broke all right. Though,” he added as Yeoman joined them, “could have been worse. The shooter was about to pump another slug into you before our pal here bullseyed him.”

  “Thanks,” Ackroyd said through clenched teeth.

  Yeoman smiled thinly. “You’re welcome. I appreciate the effort that took.”

  Ackroyd grunted. “I’m out of my head with pain.”

  “Where’d you send Witness?” Jerry asked him.

  “Top of the Statue of Liberty,” Ackroyd said.

  Jerry frowned. “That’s closed for repairs, isn’t it?”

  Ackroyd nodded. “It’s the only place I could think to send him where he couldn’t shoot any innocent bystanders.”

  “Hope he falls down the stairs and breaks his frigging neck,” Ray said.

  Jerry looked up and glanced around the parking lot. It resembled a bloody war zone with wounded men lying all around. Back up the hill, a semi-circle of stunned snake-handlers looked on. A couple of the thugs had gotten back on their feet and were edging off into the woods.

 
; “Freeze, you dirty rats,” Jerry said in his best Cagney imitation.

  And they did.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  New Hampton: Snake Handlers’ Commune

  Ray slumped wearily on the ground, momentarily breathing deeply of the gathering dusk, and wondered if he could stand again without collapsing. Better try it now, he told himself. It’s not going to get any easier. Somehow he pushed himself to his feet, swaying a bit until his head stopped swimming.

  “You look like Hell, Ray,” Jerry said.

  “Thanks.” He took a deep breath and almost toppled over. “I’ll be fine after I pass out for awhile.”

  “Save the repartee,” Yeoman said. “You need medical attention, along with Ackroyd.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “Only if we get the bleeding stopped,” Yeoman said. “You can’t have much left running though your veins.”

  “Hey, guys,” Mushroom Daddy said, “I’ll go get one of the first aid kits from the snake handlers. They’ve got some really fine ones in case of accidents while playing their rattlers and shit.”

  Yeoman looked around at the body-littered ground. “Some of these guys could use attention, too. I’ve seen fewer bodies on battlefields.”

  So have I, Ray thought. Maybe too many battlefields. God, I’m tired. To Hell with standing up. He stretched out on the ground, and was asleep before Mushroom Daddy returned with the first aid kit.

  ♥ ♦ ♣ ♠

  Pennsylvania: Somewhere on the road

  After a couple of hours the Angel figure it was time to pull over at a gas station to hit the bathroom, take on supplies, and make some phone calls. They stopped in a God-forsaken coal-mining town in Pennsylvania where the slag piles glowed redly like the pits of Hell and the stench of brimstone, or something very like it, smothered the air they were trying to breath.

  The gas station, pumps, and even the parking lot was covered by a powdery gray dust that clung to everything like iron filings to a magnet. The Angel swiped her fingers across the gas pump, and they came away greasy with a fine-particled ash that was invisible in the air, but so pervasive that it had settled seemingly everywhere. She could imagine what the locals’ lungs looked like, and decided that the sooner they left this area, the better.