by neetha Napew
“What about some info?” Ryan said, laying his hand on the table and pushing forward another 9 mm round.
Dolly licked her lips while eying his hand. “What do you want to know? If it’s jolt you’re looking for, we don’t got none. Baron forbids all drugs. Says it slows us down building greenhouses.”
“Fifty strokes?” he asked.
She blanched. “You get caught with jolt, you go to the Machine.”
There was that phrase again. It had to be some sort of torture device. Probably the rack. “What does he care if we have fun?”
“He’s got the blasters,” the woman said. “Besides, he’s the best baron we’ve ever had. And I’ve lived through four of them.” She grabbed her breasts and jiggled them. “Tits like these keep you alive, as long as they plump. The last one tried to make rules about everything, including fucking. His own sec men turned on him and made their leader baron.”
Dolly jerked a thumb. “Put up the gaudy house right off. No more rape in the back streets at night. Guards go for free, but everybody else pays. Fair, I guess. Them’s the ones fighting those winged devils. Baron Strichland is tough, ten lashes for lying to a sec man. Twenty for stealing, fifty for rape or stealing food. And it’s the Machine if you damage a greenhouse.”
Ryan merely grunted and waited for her to continue. Most folks talked to a serving girl, not with them. Shut up and listen, and they were always a mine of data. She bent over the table, her breasts almost spilling out, so he patted her ass and stroked her partially exposed leg.
“You sure about the back room?” Dolly asked, sounding wistful. She liked this one; he was cleaner than most, and darkly handsome in a frightening way. The eye patch didn’t bother her; she bet the other guy had come out a lot worse in that fight.
“Would if I could.” He smiled politely. “Tomorrow, for sure.”
A pro, Dolly accepted the rebuff. “So what do you want to know?”
“I’m looking for somebody,” Ryan said, tucking the live bullet into her apron. “A woman called Patrica.”
“Fat Pat? Sure. What you want with her?”
Ryan stared at the woman.
Her smile faded like ice in the sun. “Right. Not my business. She’s the madam of the gaudy house down the street. Anything else?”
“Stew,” he said, adjusting his hood to hide his features once more.
She shrugged, checked her pocket and walked away, hips expertly swinging to avoid bumping the tables.
Watching the crowds stream by in an endless procession, Ryan started to feel better about the task at hand. They were in the ville, and he knew who had the med kit. Now all he had to do was get hold of this Patrica, get an audience with the baron and find the vault. The rest would be simple stealing. What could he offer to sell? Mebbe where the muties nested? That might work.
The food arrived in a not overly clean bowl with a big chip in the side and a plastic spoon that had seen better days. But the stew was hot, and Ryan wolfed it down as if it were his last meal. He was nearly done when a gong began to sound, slow and steady. The man lowered his spoon. Another mutie attack? Couldn’t be; this was daytime. But everybody in sight stopped whatever they were doing and started to walk down the main street of the ville, heading in the same direction. Dolly and the sec men included.
Leaving his food, Ryan mingled with the crowds, keeping an eye out for Krysty. Usually, her fiery red hair would be an easy find amid the collection of brunettes and blondes, but this day she was wearing a hood.
A fortified building of some sort stood at the head of a large courtyard, and the crowd was forming a half circle in front of the structure. On a wooden platform stood a redheaded man in embroidered military fatigues, and a few more folks less ornately dressed. Could be the baron and his flunkies, Ryan realized. Better and better. There were sec men on the ground behind a sandbag wall, holding very clean blasters, but they had a relaxed appearance, as if this were nothing unusual.
Then the man on stage lifted the med kit into view, and Ryan had to stop himself from rushing the guards.
There it was, only a hundred yards way. Ryan grimly swore it wasn’t going to leave his sight again.
“Will you look at that, a predark medical bag. Bastard thing must be worth a ville itself,” muttered a dirty-faced bald man dressed in tattered clothing.
“More,” a tiny woman agreed, her cascade of golden hair reaching to her knees. The luxurious tresses were braided into a thick ponytail. “Wonder what’s going on?”
“Good morning, citizens of Alphaville,” the baron boomed, the med kit dangling by a strap in his hand. “First off, I want to tell you that the traitor who broke the windows of greenhouse fourteen has been caught and dealt with.”
A murmur swept through the crowd.
“I prayed the poor bastard would escape,” said a giant in a leather apron. He was holding a massive hammer and reeked of sweat and hot iron.
“Nobody escapes Alphaville,” said a tiny rat-faced man wearily.
When the noises died, Baron Strichland continued, “The plants have been saved, the soil replenished and there will still be enough food to last us through the long dark winter.”
Applause broke out from the attendees.
“That’s something,” a dour old woman snorted, her hands as gnarled as tree roots. She stank of lye and soap, and a hand-carved clothespin jutted from a skirt pocket.
“And on a more positive note, we have a new addition to our ville, Brian and Tasha.” The baron gestured to the couple and they dutifully stepped forward. Ryan recognized them as the folks chased by the wolves the previous day. The man seemed thinner, more haggard, his face a stone mask. The woman was red eyed and sniffling, the baby cradled in her arms. Their daughter wasn’t in sight.
“Unfortunately, their daughter Lucia was killed by the muties last night,” the baron said sadly. “So this is a time of joy and sadness. Joy, that we have two more citizens, and sadness at their terrible loss.”
“Must have been a redhead,” the rat-faced man muttered, and many others growled agreement.
“It’s awful,” Ryan said, hoping to prompt more information.
The blacksmith nodded glumly. “If my wife gave birth to a redhead, I’d do the babe a favor and drown her on the spot.”
The words were said so casually, but with such vehemence, Ryan didn’t doubt the man for a moment. What the hell was the redheaded baron doing with the girls? It wasn’t really Ryan’s problem, until he realized Krysty’s situation. If her hood slipped, the woman might be taken captive and find out what was happening to the females of the ville.
Quickly easing his way deeper into the attentive throng, Ryan reached the edge and frantically searched for the woman.
“We are also here to punish a traitor!” the baron boomed, raising the med kit high. “This woman is Patrica, the madam of our gaudy house. Favored with easy work, she has grown fat, but her work is important and we did nothing. So some of this is our fault for allowing her to think she was above the law.”
“None are above the law!” shouted a teenager near the huge baron.
“None,” the redheaded man agreed, and the crowd roared its agreement.
Elbowing his way through the throng, Ryan heard the words, but was concentrating on every hooded person in the crowd. He found Krysty amid some bare-chested men holding shovels, and grabbed her shoulder.
“Don’t show yourself,” he whispered.
“Why?” the old woman demanded, sliding back the hood to expose a wealth of gray hair. “What do you want? Who are you?”
“Sorry, wrong person,” Ryan apologized and moved on quickly.
On the platform, a gang of sec men pushed a fat woman into view, coils of rope binding her. A cloth gag filled her mouth, and even from this distance, Ryan could see the blind panic in her face.
“This is our enemy, and all that is to transpire will take place here in the justice square,” the baron said formally. “I hide nothing in the darkness of
basements or hidden rooms.”
The guards lashed the fat woman to a wooden stake, binding her at the neck and waist. The prisoner struggled frantically and achieved nothing. A sec man removed her gag, and she spit out another wad of cloth.
“It was a mistake!” the woman screamed in desperation. “I hadn’t gotten to the baron yet when they caught me. I have done nothing wrong!”
“Lies!” the redheaded teenager spit. “When we went to pay her the reward for finding the doctor bag, the sec men found a cache of blasters in her room. Not one, or two, but many!”
The crowd voiced its shock and disapproval.
“Even one blaster is punishable by the Machine,” the baron intoned, spreading his arms. “But why so many? Who needs more than one?”
He advanced upon the bound woman, shouting at every step, “Why were you building an armory? Are you working with outsiders to overthrow the ville? Confess, traitor, and die a clean death!”
“Liar,” a man whispered to the person next to him. “Big words, and a knife in the back is all you get here.”
“Just like they did my cousin who found the searchlights,” the other man agreed, hands stuffed deep into his pockets.
“No, it serves her right,” a young blonde in a colorful dress said with a sneer, hands on her hips. “That bitch Patrica was the meanest madam a slut ever worked for.”
Ryan stopped at those words and stared at the struggling prisoner on the platform. She was his key to the baron? Oh hell. Good thing he already knew where the med kit was.
“Mercy!” the madam shrieked. Blood trickled down her forearms as she tried to escape from the ropes.
Clearly, the baron wasn’t moved by the outburst, almost as if he had heard it all far too many times before. “Strip her.”
Leonard approached with a knife and cut away her clothing, until the woman was nude to the waist, her giant breasts squeezing out either side of the wooden post.
“Start with the whips,” the baron said calmly, crossing his arms.
In the anxious throng, a young woman started to guide her children off the square.
“You, there!” Leonard shouted. “Stay, mother, and let them watch. This traitor to our ville dies so they may live in safety. That is the gift-knowing is the price!”
Going pale, the teenager curtsied and hugged the trembling children close, their eyes wide with fear.
A sec man on the platform removed his shirt, displaying a Herculean torso of rippling muscles. Expertly, he uncoiled a long whip, the knotted leather moving across the cracked concrete like a writhing snake.
“Wait!” Leonard ordered, holding up a hand.
Everybody watched in silence as the youth stepped forward. Even the baron seemed caught by surprise with this unexpected move. Hope blossomed in the madam’s face, and the executioner turned toward the teenager. “Yes, Lieutenant Strichland?”
“Do not kill her quickly,” the boy said fiercely, shaking with barely controlled rage. “Make this filthy traitor feel the terrible guilt of her crimes!”
Bursting into tears, Patrica soiled herself and started to choke.
“I shall obey, my liege,” the executioner said with a bow, and the whip cracked forward, blood spraying into the air.
The fat woman screamed with a wild animal sound, every inch of her soft body jiggling.
Nauseated by the obvious pleasure Strichland was getting from the torture, Ryan forced himself to watch for a while to appear normal. Hopefully, Krysty was doing the same, blending in and staying low. Then he noticed a commotion among the crowd on the other side of the courtyard.
“Wait!” the baron shouted, staring into the crowd. “What’s going on there?”
A cloak went flying, a man bent over double clutching his gut, a woman screamed and Krysty burst from the bystanders running across the open courtyard. Her hood and cape were gone, her long fiery hair billowing behind her. Instantly, sec men charged from behind the sandbags.
“An outsider!” Leonard shouted, pointing with the knife. “Guards, capture her!”
As if poleaxed, Baron Strichland openly stared at the woman as if unable to believe what was happening. His hair fanned out around him in a wild corona of astonishment.
Deciding to risk a shot, Ryan drew the silenced SIG-Sauer but balked at the sight. The man’s hair was the same as Krysty’s. Exactly the same! Suddenly, Ryan knew what the baron was doing with all the redheaded girls who came to the ville. He was searching for another of his kind, searching for a mate. And now he had found one.
As the crowd linked arms to form a wall blocking her escape, the troops converged from every side. As Krysty raised her blaster, the men in the sandbag machine-gun nest fired a short burst. The rounds struck the ground at her feet, rising a line of dust clouds.
“Halt or die!” the baron commanded, the wanton lust and need on his face brutally on display.
Forgotten at the post, Patrica savored the scant few seconds without pain, knowing this was no release from her death sentence, but merely a brief delay.
Surrounded on every side, Krysty turned wildly, as if searching the crowd. Then she found Ryan. They exchanged glances. He nodded, and she stopped running, dropping her blaster and raising both hands.
“Alive!” the baron roared, climbing down from the platform. “Take her alive at all costs!” The sec men swarmed over Krysty.
Returning the blaster to its holster, Ryan merged with the excited crowd and disappeared from sight.
Chapter Fifteen
The ramshackle old pickup truck rattled noisily down the sandy street, resembling the loser in a car crash. Its tires were bald, the muffler was held on by wire hangers, and the doors were composed almost entirely of duct tape.
But deadly serious armed sec men were in the cab and sitting in the open back. They had been boastful and confident in the ville, but now amid the ghostly ruins of the city, their conversations were brief and to the point. Death lurked everywhere among the crumbling structures: falling masonry, poisonous spiders and lethal plants. Hell-flowers, they were called. Beautiful plants, with gorgeous flowers. But take a sniff and you stopped moving until a buddy dragged your sleeping body away. Something to do with spoors, or such. But if you were alone, the victim would stand there locked in a perfumed dream until he toppled over dead from starvation. Then the plants would feed on the rotting carcass. Before the fuel started running low, the sec men used to firebomb the plants on sight. They hated the filthy things. It was no way for a man to die, stupefied like a drunk in a gaudy.
Worse, outsiders come to loot the ruins-once cannibals, another time a predark war machine. And then there were the human muties who wandered in from the glowing red pits beyond the mountains, plus the local winged muties. Sometimes, even their own wolves turned against them for unknown reasons.
“Hold it!” Sergeant Benson cried, leaning out the passenger-side door. “Right here.”
The driver applied the brakes, and the truck slowed, squealing every foot of the way.
“Henders, check out that body!” the sergeant directed, pointing to a vacant lot. A sprawled form lay amid the wolfweed and wreckage. Lizards were chewing on his flesh, and what seemed like a perfectly good longblaster was in the bones of his hands. The triple-damn reptiles always seemed to eat the hands of the dead first.
“Sure, Sarge,” the private replied, puffing away on his pipe.
Strolling over, Henders used his bolt-action rifle to chase away the lizards, then pinched his nose shut against the stink of the decomposing flesh as he inspected the corpse.
“Nobody I know,” he reported, choking a bit. “Dead for a day, mebbe more.”
“Get the blaster!”
“Sure.” Bending over, the private picked up the rifle and felt the slightest tug from a string attached to the stock. His face registered curiosity, then horror for a full second before the lot was filled with an expanding fireball that vaporized the man, corpse and a hundred lizards, before reaching the sidewalk an
d dissipating.
Shrapnel peppered the truck, sounding like hard rain, and a man in the back toppled over with a cry, falling out of the vehicle.
“Skydark!” Benson roared, holding on to the sagging door of the battered truck and painfully lifting himself off the ground.
There was no need to recce the blast zone. Smoking shoes and a burning skull told the story. Henders was gone. The ground was a charred pit with flaming wreckage scattered for dozens of yards. Shaking his head to ease the ringing in his ears, the sergeant watched as the mushroom cloud of the blast rose into the cloudy sky. Damn explosion resembled a plas-ex blast, but nobody had any of that anymore. Not even the baron. Stuff crumbled over the passage of time, became unstable, then dried into a hard, useless brick.
“Hey, Sarge!” a private called, stepping into view from behind the truck. His empty hands were dripping blood. “Pete is dead. Got a chunk of rifle barrel right through the belly.”
In wordless fury, Benson glanced around the intersection at the movie theater, garage, pawnshop and office buildings. Nothing stirred-not a soul was in sight. But he knew the hunchback was somewhere near.
“Okay, Harold!” he yelled. “You got two of us with the trap! Well, enjoy the victory, ‘cause you ain’t getting any more!”
Silence answered the comments, and drawing a knife from his belt, Benson stabbed it into the street. “You see that?” he asked, pointing at the knife. “There’s where I’m going to stake you out like a dog! Baron says we got to bring you in alive.”
The sergeant took in a deep breath, then bellowed, “But alive doesn’t mean with eyes! Or fingers!”
“Get moving!” Benson barked at the squad. “I want a five-block perimeter sweep of the whole damn area. Smash open every ground-level door that looks suspicious.”
Clutching their longblasters, the sec men rushed to comply, fueled by their own anger and hatred.
“No prisoners,” Benson growled, cracking open the top of his .44 Webley revolver and loading every chamber. The hell with rationing. “Shoot first, and we’ll loot the bodies afterward.”
