by James Axler
Looking shocked, Dorothy sighed and pivoted around to glumly return to the kitchen.
“We have lots of brass,” Ryan said, feeling the deal evaporate into thin air.
“Got enough brass,” Rushmore said, jerking a thumb toward the front door. “Now get out, before my people throw you out.”
At that, all of the sec men drew weapons. But the companions already had their blasters out and ready.
“Okay, we’ll go, but you walk along with us,” Ryan said, pulling a gren into view.
Everybody in the tavern went silent as he pulled the arming ring and tossed it away. It landed on the wooden floor with a musical tingling that seemed louder than thunder.
“If we get aced...” J.B. said, working the arming bolt on the Uzi rapid-fire.
“You get chilled,” Krysty continued, leveling her M-16 longblaster.
“Everybody gets chilled,” Doc added, pulling out another gren and yanking the ring.
Chewing the cigar to the other side of his mouth, Baron Rushmore clearly bridled at the open threat, then relented. “Fair enough,” he growled. “But you leave, and right fragging now.”
* * ** * *
KEEPING THEIR WEAPONS aimed at the baron, the companions didn’t relax their vigilance until reaching the basalt bridge. Releasing the man, they watched as the baron and his sec men raced back into the ville.
Silently, Ryan held out his hand and J.B. slapped a spare ring into his palm. It took a few minutes for the man to defuse the gren, then he wrapped a piece of tape around the lever and tucked it away once more.
“Well, that was fun,” Mildred said, holstering her blaster. “Think they’ll come after us?”
“That’s not how I read the man,” Ryan said, shaking the reins on his horse. The stallion nickered unhappily as it started across the bridge of black glass, waves of intense heat coming over the edges from the bubbling lava below.
“Forced,” Jak said as they reached dirt once more.
“Indeed, my young friend,” Doc said, patting his mare on the neck to help soothe her down. “The baron was quite friendly until receiving that message.”
“The question is, who did it come from,” J.B. said, taking out the cigar and putting it into his mouth. “The real baron? His wife? Or—”
“Angstrom,” Ryan stated as if there was no other possibility. Kicking his horse into a gentle gallop, the man started back toward the flowery meadow.
“What now?” Krysty asked, scowling at the snow visible in the distance. “Do we go hunting?”
“Not with Angstrom’s widow on our ass,” J.B. stated with a frown. “She and her sec could arrive any moment.”
“Wait nightfall,” Jak suggested. “Hide where go from Rushmore.”
“Sounds good,” Mildred added. “Then we head northwest again, toward the redoubt?”
“Agreed,” Ryan affirmed, slowing his horse to pulling out the Steyr once more. “Northwest to the redoubt. Right after we get those bastard supplies.”
Chapter Ten
As evening fell, a warm breeze wafted over Little Eden carrying the familiar reek of lava from the two fiery rivers of stone. Bright moonlight illuminated the landscape in a cool silvery glow, counterpointed by the dull reddish corona of the trundling lava streams. The odd color combination looking almost as if the world had been painted with blood.
Standing on top of the wall, a sec man rested a heavy crossbow on his shoulder. “I wonder when the bitch is gonna arrive,” he growled, anxiously fingering the row of notches on the stock. Each notch represented a norm killed, or ten mutants.
“Don’t know, don’t care,” the other sec man replied gruffly, loosening his collar.
The fur was smooth, and the toggles were hand-carved moose bone in the shape of tiny revolvers. It was a highly prized gift from the baron for acing a stickie that had somehow made it over the Black Rock Bridge.
“Thought we weren’t supposed to call her that on the wall anymore,” the sergeant muttered. “Especially not with the king aced, and she’s top dog.”
“The woman is a bitch, and triple crazy, too,” the corporal snarled. “Gods of the Atom, I’d love to put some lead in her head!”
“Same here, brother.” The sergeant sighed. “Chilling a baron would be two notches for me!”
He scowled. “You still doing that nonsense?”
“Man needs a hobby.”
“Try humping gaudy sluts instead.”
“Can’t.” He grinned. “Your sister retired.”
Just then a cloud drifted past the moon.
As the patch of shadows swept across the killing field, Ryan sprinted out of the wheat field carrying a bamboo pole. Close behind came J.B. carrying the silenced DeLisle carbine. All of their clothing had been darkened with volcanic ash. Streaks of charcoal across their faces reduced the shine.
Following the cloud, the two men hopped over tripwires and went around blast craters at breakneck speed. They only got halfway to the wall before the moon reappeared. Instantly they dropped and rolled into a blast crater. They landed on a pile of old bones that loudly shattered at their arrival.
“What the frag was that?” the sergeant demanded, swinging around the crossbow. The barbed tip of the arrow gleamed razor-sharp in the weird reddish-blue light.
The corporal shrugged in dismissal. “Just the wind,” he said, pulling out a homemade cigarette. “Got a light?”
Still wary, the sergeant paused for a few moments before finally relaxing. “A light? Yeah, sure,” he muttered, pulling out a butane lighter. “Mind if we share?”
“Okay by me,” the corporal said, dragging in the dark smoke and letting it trickle out of his nose.
Passing the home-rolled cigarette back and forth, the sec men continued their patrol along the wall, chatting about how much they hated Angstrom, and lying about how many muties they’d aced over the years of service.
As the sec men disappeared into the distance, Ryan and J.B. scrambled out of the blast crater. Running full-tilt, they covered the last few yards and hit the base of the lumpy wall. Going motionless, they covered their panting mouths with a sleeved arm to muffle the noise as there came the sound of boots from overhead. With weapons in hand, the two men waited until the wall guards were past.
Staying safely hidden in the shadows, Ryan and J.B. timed the passage of the two groups of sec men several times until they knew the pattern.
When the first pair of guards strolled by again, the long piece of bamboo was gently placed against the wall, and J.B. braced it with both hands while Ryan quickly climbed the notched length to the top.
With his SIG-Sauer sweeping for targets, Ryan scrutinized the sleeping ville and noted the positions of the sec men patrolling the top of the wall. Two ahead, two aft. Perfect. He didn’t want to ace anybody on this nightcreep, but would if necessary. Thieves might be forgiven in the light of day, but blood had to be answered with blood. That was just ville justice, the only real law in the savage Deathlands.
Shaking the bamboo pole, Ryan waited, and J.B. joined him on the wall. Adjusting his glasses, J.B. tilted his head in a question and Ryan jerked a thumb in both directions. Nodding, the Armorer pulled up the pole, and they raced along the wall to lower it again behind a reeking outhouse. Sliding to the ground, the companions laid the pole along the base of the wall just as the second pair of sec men walked by, smoking cigarettes and chatting about women.
There were very few lights on in the ville, a couple of oil lanterns bobbling along the streets by sec men, and thin streams of yellowish light coming from the closed shutters of some tents and log cabins. It was a warm night and smoke only rose from one chimney. J.B. caught the wonderful aroma of baking bread.
“Just like the Trader taught,” he said, the DeLisle tight in both hands. “A baker has
got to start work around midnight, or else there wouldn’t be anything to sell at dawn.”
“Just hope he’s making enough for us, too,” Ryan said.
Both men knew that there would be plenty of food stored in the barracks, but that would be surrounded by dozens of sleeping sec men. The gaudy house would also have lots of food to jack, but music was still coming from the piano. In spite of the late hour, the gaudy house on the second floor was in full swing.
“People must have extra jack,” J.B. said, adjusting his glasses. “Just bad luck.”
“Good luck, you mean,” Ryan said, tracking the passage of a sec man with the barrel of the SIG-Sauer. The 9 mm handblaster followed the guard across the ville square until he disappeared around a corner.
J.B. grinned. “Gotcha. Lots of drunks and all that music will help mask our presence.”
“And a couple of drunks won’t attract much notice.”
“Just as long as we stay in the shadows,” J.B. countered, touching his blackened cheeks.
When the street was clear, the men broke cover and casually strolled into the dark alley alongside the bakery. As J.B. picked the lock on the side door, both of their stomachs rumbled loudly at the wonderful smells.
Easing inside, they found a large kitchen full of hot ovens and wicker baskets piled with steaming loaves of bread. As J.B. started stuffing a backpack full, Ryan checked the next room to find an elderly man kneading a huge bowl of dough.
As the fellow looked up, Ryan clubbed him across the forehead with the barrel of the SIG-Sauer. With a sigh, the baker crumpled to the floor, throwing up a large cloud of pale yellow acorn flour.
“Dad?” a woman called, coming into the kitchen while wiping her hands on an apron.
At the sight of the armed companion she froze in terror, and Ryan slapped a hand across her mouth.
“Don’t talk, and don’t move,” he ordered. “Your father’s not aced, but he will be, unless you cooperate. Got it?”
With raw terror filling her eyes, the woman nodded in agreement.
Pulling her across the kitchen, Ryan shoved the woman into a chair just as J.B. arrived. At the sight, he pulled out pieces of precut rope from his pockets and started lashing her tightly to the chair.
“Please, don’t hurt me,” she whispered, tears flowing down her cheeks. “I recently gave birth, and a ride will ace me for sure!”
“We’re not going to rape you,” Ryan stated softly. “We’re just here for the food.”
Breathing heavily, she licked dry lips, obviously hesitant to believe the outrageous statement.
While J.B. stood guard, Ryan went to the shelves and started filling his backpack with stale bread and cheese. Discovering a stash of smoked fish, he snatched a bite, and hastily chewed while packing a second backpack.
“Any good?” J.B. asked.
Ryan tossed him a fish, and J.B. took a long smell before stuffing the entire thing into his mouth.
Going down into the cellar, Ryan found the larder for the baker, and took everything he could fit into the remaining backpacks: jerked meat, dried apples, coffee-sub, sugar, bacon, beans, butter and lard.
Coming back up, Ryan could barely fit through the narrow doorway.
“Looks like you found the mother lode,” J.B. whispered from the shadows, only the barrel of the DeLisle visible in the flickering light of the ovens.
“Everything we wanted, and more,” Ryan replied, setting the backpacks on the floor.
“Excellent!”
“Now, as for you,” Ryan said, advancing closer and reaching into a pocket of his pants.
Expecting the worst, the bound woman obediently opened her mouth. Then she blinked in surprise as Ryan stuffed a handful of live rounds into the pocket of her blouse.
“You...you’re leaving brass?” she whispered in total confusion.
“We’re not thieves, just hungry,” Ryan said, wadding a cloth into a ball. “Open wide.”
“I won’t scream,” she promised.
“Sorry, we can’t risk it,” he said, easing the wad into her mouth, then tying a second cloth around her head to keep the gag in place. Starting to leave, he paused and pulled out two more rounds. “These are for you to tell the others we went to the north. The north, understand?”
Nodding, the woman watched fascinated as Ryan opened a big stone jar and dropped the brass into the flour. “No need to tell the baron, eh?”
She nodded agreement.
“Where did we go?” J.B. asked.
She titled her head to the right.
Ryan smiled, putting the heavy stone cover back into place.
“None of this would have been necessary if your baron had simply cut a deal,” J.B. added, slinging two of the backpacks across his shoulder. “Any idea why he turned sour on us?”
Both eyes still wide with fright, the woman shook her head, then added an apologetic shrug.
Accepting that, Ryan and J.B. slipped back into the dark alley and vanished in the night.
* * ** * *
DAWN WAS JUST starting to lighten the eastern sky when Baron Rushmore stumbled out of his bedroom and started down the long flight of stairs to the dining room.
“Morning all,” he said, yawning at the pair of old cooks standing alongside the kitchen pass-through.
“Good morning, my lord,” the fat cook said, giving a little curtsy.
“Sleep well, sire?” the skinny one asked.
“No, I kept dreaming about Angstrom and her wretched war wag.” Rushmore growled, sitting at the dining table. Tying a napkin around his neck, he looked over the plates of steaming eggs, smoked fish, salted butter and sliced apples. “No bread today?” he asked, stroking his pointy beard.
“Not a slice,” the fat cook replied. “But we do have sugared nut cake.”
“For breakfast?”
Quickly the skinny cook added, “We have some stale cornbread rolls from yesterday, and I could steam them for you over the kettle—”
“Fresh bread, every day, delivered to my kitchen,” Rushmore interrupted rudely. “That was the deal to keep the man’s idiot daughter in the ville and not set her on the long-road. Now go find out what happened!”
“Yes sir, of course,” the skinny cook babbled, and turned to leave just as there sounded a loud clanging from outside.
Scowling darkly, Rushmore pushed away from the table and strode across the house. Throwing open the front door, he saw sec men scurrying along the top of the wall, one of them wildly beating an iron welkin with a thick stick. The fellow was shouting something at the top of his lungs, but the clanging of the alarm was effectively masking the words.
“Nuking feeb,” Rushmore muttered, grabbing his cane and gunbelt from a peg on the wall. Leaving the house, he limped along while buckling on his weapons.
All across the ville, windows were being thrown open and people peered out with crossbows, or blasters, in their hands.
“Is it Angstrom, my lord?” a old woman asked as she slid a .22 bullet into the end of a homemade zipgun.
The weapon was merely a piece of car antenna lashed to a wooden block with strips of leather. The firing pin was a nail and rubber band. But there were six notches on the side boasting of her kills, and she held the crude blaster in the sure grip of an expert sharpshooter.
“Unknown,” Rushmore growled, checking the magazines in his H&K handblasters.
“Bet it’s those damn flapjacks again!” a fat man offered, turning to point his crossbow at the roof of the nearby building.
“Stay inside and lock your doors!” Rushmore bellowed, turning a corner. “I’ll tell you when it’s safe to come out!”
Reaching the village square, Rushmore forced his way through the growing crowd of civilians and grabbed the wooden stick out of the han
d of the sec man.
“Milton, shut the fuck up, and tell me what’s going on!” the baron shouted, brandishing the club.
“Coldhearts done raped Kitty, and stole a load of food!” Milton replied excitedly. “Tied her up, right there in the kitchen!”
He tossed away the stick. “She aced?”
“No, they...sort of forgot that,” Milton finished lamely.
“Well, well, so he wasn’t a spy for Linderholm, and really did just want the food,” the baron muttered thoughtfully, stroking his beard. “The bitch lied to me.”
“Sire?”
“Never mind!” Rushmore snapped. “Did anybody see in what direction they left?”
“I did!” somebody shouted.
The baron turned to see a group of armed sec men escorting Kitty through the crowd.
“Did you, now?” the baron said as a question. “Even though you were tied up inside a house?”
“Well, they said north,” Kitty muttered, rubbing her chaffed wrists. “But they said it a lot, and kept looking at each other. You know, like they were telling a joke, or something?”
“That must mean they’ve gone south,” a sec man growled, breaking out a shotgun to shove 12-gauge shells into the breech.
“Toward the hellflower vines?” another sec man asked, his voice going up a notch. “Not a chance...unless they’re dumber than Norad!”
“West is a good smooth road, perfect for wags, but they’re on horses, so...” a gaudy slut offered hesitantly, glancing in that direction. The skinny woman wore only a long T-shirt, but there was a .22 zipgun clenched in each hand.
Another sec man brandished an ax. “Then we’ll catch them easy!”
“Too easy,” the baron snorted. “Only a feeb would use the western road, and that Ryan was no jellybrain.”
“You think they actually went north?” a sec man asked in disbelief. “Like they told Kitty?”
“Of course,” Rushmore stated. “It doesn’t take a doomie to see Kitty’s no whitecoat.”
Confused by all of the commotion, Kitty sat on the grass, pulled a piece of corn bread from a pocket and started nibbling.
