by neetha Napew
“THEY’RE NOT TRYING for a capture anymore,” Ryan snarled, coughing from the thick clouds of smoke blowing in over the barricade. It reeked of the drain cleaner, and he tried his best not to breathe any of the bluish smoke directly. Who knew what it would do to his lungs.
Fanning himself with the fedora, J.B. said, “How about we make a run for it? Try and lure them to the library and set the muties free?”
“Too far,” Jak said, slapping shut the cylinder of his reloaded blaster.
The temperature was rising fast from the two fires. Ryan wiped the sweat off his brow with a sleeve and glanced around the building, counting their options. They were low on ammo, with no more bombs, missiles or grenades. The building was on fire, and surrounded by the enemy who wouldn’t consider a surrender. The stairs were clear. They could reach the roof easily and jump to the pawnshop, but then what? There was no way across that street without the sec men seeing them, and night was hours away.
“Can’t sit here,” Jak drawled, brushing an ember off his sleeve. The crackling of the fire was getting louder, as the flames found new fuel in the floor tiles and wall paneling.
“What do you want to do, charge them?” Jak hawked and spit to clear his throat. “Element surprise.”
“Sure as shit would surprise me,” J.B. agreed angrily.
“J.B., what did you mean nothing was ready?” Ryan asked brusquely.
The Armorer took a moment to mentally shift gears. “You mean the stuff downstairs? Well, I have some poison-gas bombs cooking, but they’re still green. Wouldn’t make a kitten ill. Tomorrow, they will be lethal as a nuke.”
“Tomorrow isn’t today. Would they smoke much?”
“You mean now? Sure. But it’s just smoke.” Jak barked a laugh. “Once burned, twice shy.” Sidestepping some embers, J.B. grinned. “They’ll think it’s another sandstorm gag, us attacking under cover of the smoke.”
“Work?” Jak asked pointedly.
“Better,” Ryan said, starting for the stairs.
MINUTES PASSED as Leonard watched the fire spread throughout the building, a thick plume of smoke rising into the sky. Then he gasped as a barrage of glass bottles came hurtling from the roof to loudly crash on the street. He flinched, expecting gouts of flame from Molotovs to erupt at each impact. But instead, volumes of grayish-green smoke flowed from the puddles. Billowing clouds of smoke filled the street, flooding into the alleyway and stores. Suddenly, a volley of blasterfire erupted from the defenders. In horror, the young baron realized it was a deadly repeat of the fight at the bank. Visibility dropped to zero, and the sec men started to pull back, unwilling to chance contact with the dense smoke.
“Attack!” Leonard shouted, pounding on the garbage bin. “Attack now, you stinking cowards!”
The desert breeze was already starting to thin the chem fog, and so the sec men slowly began to advance into the dark clouds, disappearing from view. Drawing his own blaster, the baron waited impatiently for the sounds of combat to renew when somebody coughed a few more times in the alleyway behind him.
“Shut up, fools,” he snapped irritably. “It’s only smoke.” But then something hot and hard pressed painfully against the back of his head.
“Freeze,” Ryan ordered, grabbing a fistful of hair to hold the youth motionless. “Tell your men to stop attacking and start shoveling sand.”
“What?”
“Put out the fire!”
Breathing hard, Leonard glanced down and through the thinning clouds of smoke. He could see the still forms of his bodyguards lying on the ground, most of their heads missing.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked through clenched teeth.
Ryan shook the teenager hard. “Doesn’t matter. Give the order to your men, or I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”
“I don’t think so,” Leonard said smoothly, sensing a weakness to exploit. “You need my men, so I stay alive. What with the fire, your bitch is trapped in there?”
Ryan wasted a live round jacking the slide so the noise would startle the man. “Last chance.”
“And then I die anyway,” the teenager retorted, shaking with restrained fury. “Fuck you. Go ahead, chill me!”
A thunderous report shook the alleyway, and Leonard jerked free of Ryan’s startled grip. Stumbling off his box, the teenager staggered against the garbage bin, and from out of the smoke strode Jarmal, the blaster in his hand bucking and jumping as he emptied it.
“That’s for my daughter,” Jarmal said, reloading as he strode forward. “Your father took her when she was twelve. Twelve years old!”
“My sympathies,” Ryan snapped. “Order the men to put out the fire.”
The big man swung about, the pitted maws of their deadly weapons now aimed at each other. Time passed in tense silence. The thinning smoke exposed the group of sec men on the sidewalk, and the burning building across the street. Grips on weapons were shifted as the men waited for a sign of what was happening.
“Ryan,” Jarmal said on impulse.
The one-eyed man narrowed his gaze. “You know me?”
“No. Heard of you in a tale around a campfire.”
“And who are you?”
“Uther Jarmal.”
“The new baron,” Ryan said.
He almost smiled. “Looks like.”
“Give the order. Fast.”
“Why? Let it burn, you’re safe out here.”
“My business.”
The former sergeant locked gazes with the Deathlands warrior. “You have a man trapped.” It wasn’t a question.
Ryan debated on responses and chose the truth. “Yeah.”
“Everything is for sale,” the man prompted.
“Blasters,” Ryan spit.
“Got lots. And more food than you’ll ever see.”
“The Hummer.”
“Your wag? No thanks.”
Watching the growing conflagration, Ryan racked his brain for a bargaining tool. “I know the secret location of the last six live muties,” he said in desperation.
Jarmal narrowed his eyes. “Bull.”
Knowing it was time to go for broke, Ryan lowered his pistol. The sec men seemed stunned.
“This is how much I want the fire out and my son saved,” Ryan stated, holstering the piece. “How bad you want those things dead?”
“Your son?”
“One of my girls had red hair,” a sec man said, hatefully gazing at Leonard. “I joined the guards to try to get close enough to his father to ace the freak.”
“Me, too,” said another.
Ten long seconds ticked by before the new baron slowly lowered his blaster and tucked it in his belt. “Bucket brigade!” he shouted. “You, you and you! Get some metal pails from the paint store. The rest of you gleebs form a line from the street and start throwing like you mean it!”
“Hey!”
Everybody turned. The rest of the companions stumbled out of the pawnshop, Dean wrapped in a blanket and tenderly cradled in Mildred’s arms.
“Hot pipe, what’s going on?” Dean asked weakly, blinking at the dim daylight.
Epilogue
A week later, dust devils danced along the sandy street in front of the pawnshop as the companions loaded Dean into the rear cargo area of the Hummer. The desert winds were starting to increase once more, and they wanted to leave before the next storm arrived. Next door, the government building was gone, just another blackened hole in the ground like the skyscraper.
“You okay?” Mildred asked, tucking the blankets tighter around the boy.
“Headache,” he whispered. “Did I really fall through the skylight? Don’t remember.”
Sliding behind the steering wheel, Ryan glanced at the physician in concern.
“A common reaction to head traumas,” Mildred said soothingly. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Damn straight you did,” the elder Cawdor replied. “Fell four stories. Good thing you landed on your head.”
Dean chuckled, then ab
ruptly stopped. “What’s that smell?”
“Food,” Jak said, munching on an apple. “Bushels of food. Corn, tomatoes, beans, lots of taters.”
“The word is potato,” Doc corrected, wiggling into the back seat, a canvas sack on his lap.
“You peel, you name.”
A smile. “I see your point, Young Jak. Taters it is.”
The albino teen grunted in victory.
Curiously, Dean reached out to touch one of the baskets stacked nearby. It was made of reed and seemed to be filled with live lizards. “Meat, too,” he said, astonished. “But where did it come from?”
“We caught the lizards,” J.B. said, snuggling next to Mildred. “It’s easy once you know how.”
“And we traded with the local baron for the vegetables,” Krysty said, climbing into the passenger seat.
“Oh, yeah. The blasters.”
“Actually, no,” Ryan stated, starting the engine. “He had lots of those. We traded with something he didn’t have, and wanted very much. J.B.’s formula for smoke bombs.”
“Knowledge is power,” the wiry man beamed, adjusting his glasses.
“So we staying here for a while?” Dean asked.
Ryan eased off the brake and slipped the wag into gear. “Can’t. There was some trouble. We’re not on a chill list, but we aren’t welcome any longer, either.”
“Oh.” The boy thought about that. “So what about the mutie? Is it dead? Who runs that ville? Did we... could-“
“Enough. Sleep,” Mildred ordered, pressing a finger to his lips. “We’re going to the redoubt for a while, let you rest and get your strength back. Tell you all about it there.”
“Still have no idea where we are,” Krysty complained, staring at the cloudy sky.
“A bastardization of the military term ‘ground zero,’ I would assume,” Doc rumbled, wincing as his shoulder wound throbbed.
“Mebbe after a couple of years, when things calm down,” Ryan stated, putting the Hummer in gear and pulling away from the curb, “we’ll come back and ask them.”
LYING ATOP an old horse blanket spread on the white sand beach before the azure ocean, Harold felt himself rising again from the electric touch of Laura’s naked breast on his chest. But his wife was asleep, and the man forced his passion to cool. There had been a lot of sec men in the gaudy house that night, but oddly nobody attacked when he appeared with his blasters. They simply watched as he took the young woman from her bed and departed. So much preparation for nothing. Carrying her in his arms, he had raced through the sewers and taken a boat he had built himself down the dirty river to the sea. There he rowed for hours until finally reaching a small island where nobody else lived. Deep in the lush greenery was a hut built by the old baron, the cellar full of food, ammo and tools. His secret escape place was now their honeymoon oasis. That night under the stars, they kissed like adults and did many other wonderful things.
As he gazed at the sleeping woman, Harold’s heart swelled with love for his tiny bride. The naked goliath gently stroked her long flowing hair, so soft to the touch of his massive scarred hands. He didn’t care about her many scars. She was his angel, and nobody would ever harm her again.
Shifting position in her sleep, Laura pressed warmly against the man and reached out to stroke his misshapen face with fingers as gentle as a prayer in church. A single heartfelt tear flowed down his ravaged cheek, and the deformed man closed his eyes in complete contentment.
“Good doggie,” the woman murmured softly. “Good boy.”
Lost in reverie, Harold never heard the words and he fell asleep with a smile, happily dreaming about how fine and strong their many children would be.
