The Afterblight Chronicles: Death Got No Mercy

by Al Ewing

  Woody had been laughing and playing with the dead shot glasses, making cracks about old brat pack stars he'd have liked to take to bed, but with that question he suddenly sat up straight, all the good humour draining out of him like someone had pulled a plug at the bottom of his soul. Woody'd looked at Cade, pale and drawn, and downed his next whisky in one gulp. "Good times ain't coming, Cade."

  Cade blinked. Woody swallowed, trying to clarify. "I mean they ain't organising, Cade. Folks are broadcasting, but... they, they ain't organising." His eyes were suddenly wet. "And they ain't reading no great literature out either, or any Harlequin Romance books or Parker novels or anything else. Trust me on that, Cade. They ain't."

  Cade had shrugged and let it go. He'd had a pretty good idea of what Woody had been hearing when he'd tuned away from that calm voice of Germany, and he figured it wasn't anything he needed to trouble himself too much about, and especially not something he needed to burden Woody any further with.

  Anyway, he'd know for sure now, or soon enough at any rate.

  Cade left the radio off, and the only sound was the dull growl of the truck's engine and the occasional rustle from the trees as a bird took off and flew. Cade kept alert - in these woods, it wasn't uncommon for a deer to head onto the road, and if he wrecked the truck it was going to be a long walk. Not to mention the possibility of dying from being crushed to death by a dead deer.

  Cade wasn't a man afraid of dying, but that'd be a pretty damn foolish way for a man to go.

  In the event, he didn't see any deer. What he did see in the road was a man. Or a boy. Young adult probably fit him best, Cade figured.

  The young adult in question was all of eighteen years old, certainly not much older than that. He was dressed in old, grubby jeans, boots, a t-shirt with a confederate flag on it and a lumberjack shirt. He had sandy hair, close-cropped, and a pronounced overbite. And he was laying in the road, looking like he was injured. But there wasn't any blood.

  Cade thought about Duke's story - that time Duke nearly shot the drunk because of what had happened to the fella from Russian River.

  Guess things did come in threes at that. Funny how it works out.

  The young fella had his hands on his belly and his face suggested real pain. His posture as he lay suggested maybe a couple of cracked ribs, like he'd been beaten and left there to die, although there weren't any marks on his face beyond dirt.

  He was laying right in the path of the truck. He didn't look to the layman's eye like he could move himself. If Cade didn't want to roll right over that boy and splatter him on the trail, he was going to have to slam on the brakes. Then he was probably going to have to get out of the car, keeping one of his knives ready at hand, and check to see if the boy was all right or if he was faking. And he wasn't exactly trained as a doctor.

  Hell with it, thought Cade.

  Then he slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

  The boy's eyes went wide in shock and he had just about enough time to let out a squealing cry, like a pig in an abattoir, before the front left tyre hit his head and burst it open like a melon, spraying blood, brain and skull fragments across the dirt roadway. The truck skidded slightly, the front wheel churning in the boy's face as Cade gripped the wheel, fighting the swerve - then the neck cracked as the head went under the wheel. There was a jolt as the limp body thudded under the back wheels and was left behind.

  Cade had figured the truck's shocks could take the collision, and he was happy to see he wasn't wrong. He probably couldn't have hit a deer head-on that way, but then again, a deer was a sizeable animal. A kid wasn't going to do as much damage, especially when he'd been laying down.

  It wouldn't have troubled Cade much if the young fella had been what he appeared to be. Things like guilt or remorse weren't especially in Cade's nature, although there were nights he had bad dreams, especially on the subject of Fuel-Air and Sergeant A.

  But all the same, there was a certain satisfaction when it came to being proven right about something.

  So when the two men charged out from behind the tree with the shotgun, Cade felt a little better. He could keep his foot on the accelerator, keep going, but there was a good chance they were going to blast away with that shotgun, maybe take out one of the back tyres. Then he'd have to abandon the truck. That'd be a real shame. Not to mention the fact that if he drove off now, they'd be waiting for him on the return leg.

  And he'd gotten a little rusty. It'd do him some good to get back in practice on these folks.

  Hell with it. If he was going to go to the trouble of justifying it to himself, he might as well just do it. At least driving over the kid had thinned them out some.

  Cade put his foot on the brake and the truck came to a screeching halt. And then he stepped out of the truck and raised his hands.

  The man with the shotgun had sandy hair in the same shade as the young feller's, grown down into a mullet, along with the same pronounced overbite and the addition of a ratty moustache. The other man had the same. There were some physical differences - mullet a little longer in front on one, belly a little pronounced on the other - but the only real difference was in their t-shirts. The one without the gun had a stained BURN THIS FLAG tee, the other was wearing one advertising the Scorpions on their last tour. Scorpions' face was red and there were tears running down his cheeks, so Cade figured he was related to the boy somehow, but it was pretty obvious both these men were kin of some kind. Brothers maybe.

  The man with the shotgun opened his mouth and screamed.

  "Y'all killed my boy! Y'all drove over him like he was nothing!"

  It was like an animal howling. The barrel of the shotgun was pointed right at Cade's chest. This was the moment. If Cade ran, or flinched, or looked like he was going to do something, Scorpions was going to pull the trigger. Cade just stared.

  He figured Scorpions had a bit more to say on the subject.

  "We was just going to rob you, you know that? We was just gonna take your fancy truck and your stuff, and then you killed my boy! My youngest! I dunno how I'm gonna tell Maw her youngest boy's dead..."

  Cade wondered if Maw was a term of endearment or if Scorpions had gotten his mother pregnant. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility. Scorpions had the barrel pointed at Cade's face now, and he was moving closer.

  Not quite close enough, though. Cade waited.

  He could be patient when he had a mind to be.

  "...but I reckon the tellin's gonna be a mite easier if'n I blow your head off and take her your goddamn brains in my hand, you son of a bitch! Look at me! Look at me when I'm talking to you! Look at me!"

  Cade wasn't looking at Scorpions. He was looking over at Burn This Flag, sizing him up. Burn This Flag was looking back, a little wary. His mouth was half-open, like he was trying to work out what was going on.

  Cade figured Burn This Flag wasn't the smartest in the family.

  "Look at me! I wanna see your eyes! Look at me!"

  The barrel of the shotgun was nudging Cade's chin.

  "Look at me! Look at me, goddamn you..."

  Cade made his move.

  His right arm moved suddenly, almost a blur, grabbing the end of the barrel and twisting it to the left, while his left hand grabbed it further down, twisting it right. The gun went off, discharging close to his left ear, leaving nothing in it but a ringing noise. Cade hoped that wasn't permanent. He hadn't figured on the gun going off.

  Rusty.

  The shotgun landed on the ground between them as Scorpions clutched at his hand. His trigger finger was bent upwards, at a right angle. He stumbled back, looking at Cade with wide eyes, his mouth open in shock.

  His face stayed that way while Cade took the combat knife out of his belt and cut his throat with it.

  Cade sidestepped most of the blood, but still felt a wet gush of it hit his side. He'd probably need a change of shirt later. Burn This Flag was still looking at him, blinking, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. His legs were shaki
ng a little. He wanted to run, Cade could tell. But he just couldn't make his legs do it.

  Cade had seen that happen to people he'd killed before.

  As he walked up to Burn This Flag, the redneck let his bladder and bowels go, soaking the front of his jeans with a growing dark stain as the back sagged under the weight of his mess. His eyes were still staring ahead and his mouth was still opening and closing, trying to form even one word, when Cade drove the point of the combat knife through his forehead and into his brain.

  Burn This Flag took one step backwards and crashed down, convulsing on the floor. Cade figured he'd let the man thrash a little and then get his knife back. Then he'd carry on the way he'd been going, past what was left of Sausalito and into San Francisco. Not much point hanging around.

  He didn't hear the growl.

  His left ear was still ringing, and they came on his left. It was the big shape in his peripheral vision that warned him, but he wasn't expecting what he saw.

  An old woman of about eighty or ninety, with wispy grey hair and that same damn overbite, standing in a worn polka-dot dress. That wasn't so surprising to Cade. He figured there'd be more from the family around these woods. What was surprising was what she had with her.

  On the end of a chain leash, there was a brown bear - a grizzly. Up on its hind legs, teeth bared, eyes red. A grizzly bear in a killing mood, and this old girl had domesticated the damn thing somehow.

  Cade was rarely surprised by anything. But this was one of those times.

  After all, bears weren't common to the Muir Woods.

  Cade scratched the back of his neck. The combat knife was stuck in Burn This Flag's skull, and he'd need a second to pull it out. He figured he most likely didn't have a second.

  He looked at the bear.

  The bear looked back at Cade.

  The old lady looked around at the three bodies. Then she let go of the leash. Her voice was high, reedy and a little raspy. Cade figured this was Maw.

  "Sic 'im, Yogi."

  And Yogi did just that.

  Chapter Four

  The Bear

  Now, your standard grizzly bear stands about eight feet tall and weighs about eight hundred, maybe eight hundred and fifty pounds.

  Which is a hell of a lot of bear.

  Yogi was a little taller. Cade figured that one good swipe from Yogi's claws was probably going to take his face off - just unzip the flesh from off his head and tear it loose like peel off an orange.

  Hell of a thought. One swipe, knocking your head to the side, maybe cracking your neck, so's the one eye you got left gets to see something wet and red flying off to the side like a pink deflated balloon. Something with a nose and a mouth, wrapping around a tree, while your grinning skull waits there for the jaws to crack down on it and burst it just like an egg in a grown man's fist. Thought like that'll keep a man up nights.

  It didn't trouble Cade overmuch, mind, but Cade had a habit of not troubling himself with the details. The important thing at this particular moment was to pick a weapon and stick with it.

  He had maybe less than a second. Not much time at all - not near enough to go for the switchblade, or pop one of the lengths of chain on his arms. He'd have to take the bear on with just his hands, which was going to be a problem. That said, Cade didn't worry too much.

  He had the knuckledusters on, and Cade was a man used to making do.

  He snapped his right arm forward, slamming his fist into the bear's stomach, then did the same with his left, then his right again. The three punches took less than a second to throw, and he felt one of the bear's ribs go with the last one - on account of the lead weight sitting on the end of each fist, turning every punch into something like being hit by a sledgehammer.

  Cade wasn't under any illusions. The bear wasn't about to get any easier to fight. Fact was, now he'd wounded it, it was going to be pretty damn mad - killing mad - and eight hundred and fifty pounds of killing mad bear could probably tear a man right open without even letting the thought cross its mind.

  He'd just have to kill it before it did that.

  The knuckledusters were simple but effective - studded lead weights that fitted his fingers neatly. They were a good pair of tools, and Cade had gotten a fair amount of use out of them in his time. Cade wasn't generally known as a man who got into bar fights - not as a rule - but once upon a time, he'd been ambushed in an alley on the way back from a long session at Muldoon's. Sore loser who didn't like having his money taken away from him by a straight flush and figured he could take it right back. Cade wasn't of the same opinion.

  Cade had never learned the man's name. They'd found him in the alley the next morning and identified him using dental records, from the bits of jawbone laying a few feet away from what was left of his face. Cade never heard anything more about it, so he assumed the detective in charge of the case hadn't had much luck. Too bad.

  The knuckledusters were useful, all right. But that was then and this was now, and there was a hell of a difference between a drunk with a blackjack and eight feet of pissed-off woodland killer.

  Cade had his work cut out for him, in other words.

  One of the razor-sharp claws came for his face, ruffling his hair as he ducked under it. The damn bear was howling up a storm now - Cade could see that in just about a half second the animal was going to spring forward and slam all that weight down on him. And while Cade was pretty capable of lifting a thing when he had a mind to lift it, he wasn't about to lift eight hundred and fifty pounds of bear, most especially angry bear. Not if that bear decided to grab his head in its jaws and crush it like a damn eggshell and then pull what was left off of his neck like a chicken drumstick.

  Yogi roared at the top of his lungs, showering Cade in bear spit. Another swipe from those claws... Cade veered back, getting far enough out of the way not to lose any more than a button off of his shirt, then stepped back inside the bear's reach and swung his left. Cade had a pretty fearsome left hook and with the knuckleduster on, it could kill a man without trouble. But a bear's not a man.

  The lead weight slammed against the side of Yogi's head, caving in half of the beast's teeth and most likely fracturing the jaw into the bargain - at least if that hard, flat crack, like a rock breaking underneath a chain gang hammer, was anything to go by.

  It was a hell of a punch, no doubt about that. But it was a lucky punch, and Cade wasn't going to stay that lucky for long.

  Next thing he knew, he was flying across the dirt road with a warm gash opening up in his side. In the half-second he'd taken to register his own hit, the damn bear had backhanded him. On account of not having hearing on his left side, maybe. He slammed into the dirt, the impact knocking most of the wind out of him and sending a wave of fire through the fresh wound on his side.

  Yogi was already lumbering towards him as he rolled back onto his feet. At least he could get on his feet and still keep his guts inside him. Cade figured that meant he hadn't been tagged that bad - maybe a deep cut, but nothing a few stitches wouldn't cure, if the bear didn't decide to stick that smashed muzzle in it and root around for whatever it could get.

  He braced himself as the bear charged.

  Cade lashed out again, aiming for the head - a solid right, impacting above the eye with an unholy crunch, leaving a dent. The bear's momentum kept it moving, those eight hundred and fifty pounds slamming into him like a freight train, knocking him off his feet and damn near crushing the breath out of him. Cade aimed another punch up, into the jaw, a left hook that landed with the power of a drop hammer. Then a right, into the throat, crushing the windpipe. He felt it go - felt his hand sink into the flesh, rupture the organs the animal needed to breathe - and then he was buried in fur with eight hundred and fifty pounds crushing down on him, breathing bear. This was it. If the damn thing wasn't dead by now, it was going to rear up and those jaws were going to rip him into bloody pieces before it even thought about breathing. The pain from the broken jaw would just make it bite harder while
it could.

  The bear didn't bite. The jaws lolled, drooling spit and blood. The body shook, convulsing, as Cade managed to work himself out from underneath the dead weight of it, careful of the still-twitching claws.

  The damned thing was dead, all right. So much cooling meat. Cade had killed it when he'd cracked the skull, probably put a few pieces of bone right into the animal's brain.

  Lucky punch.

  Cade stood, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly as his fingers moved over the gash in his side. Not even deep, just plenty bloody. Ten or twelve stitches would see to it.

  Just as soon as he'd done something about the old woman.

  She was standing, looking at him, a cold stare that didn't blink once. There was a lot of hurt in those eyes. Hurt and hate and frustration, because the fight was over and she'd thrown her best at him and she didn't have much of anything else to throw.

  And he was still standing.

  "You killed Yogi."

  Cade nodded. It was a fact.

  "You killed Yogi and you killed my boys." She swallowed, shaking her head slowly. "They was just going to rob you some. You didn't have no reason to kill 'em for it."

  Cade nodded again. He didn't feel the need to say anything. She was right. He hadn't needed to kill 'em. But Cade only fought one way, and people didn't get up again after it. That was just the way the man was.

  Nobody said anything else for a good minute. Cade looked at the dead bear, and the old woman looked at Cade until he turned those grey eyes of his in her direction again.

  She shook her head. "It ain't right, that's all I'm saying. Ain't meant to happen this way, not to the family. We had the good blood - we could all of us live through the sickness. Good blood, kept in the family, that's what pappy said. Allus had it. We all kept our bloodline pure."

  Cade looked into her eyes, old and confused. Crazy as it was, there was a hell of a lot of logic to it. There was that one blood type that the plague didn't hit, Cade knew that from the news reports and presumably these people did too, before the news reports quit on them. Inbreeding might keep that special strain of blood flowing.