Child of Slaughter

by James Axler

  He didn’t look like much, but Jak had learned long ago just how deceiving looks could be. This middle-aged whitecoat could be full of unsupported bluster or the deadliest foe that Jak and the others had ever encountered.

  “I can toss you back out into the Slaughterhouse just like that.” The doctor snapped his fingers.

  “Like see try.”

  The doctor frowned at Ryan. “What’s with the way this guy talks?” He pointed the syringe at Jak. “Is he simple or something?”

  Jak laughed. “Heard about actions, Doc?”

  The doctor’s frown deepened. “What in the hell are you talking about, Casper?”

  “Actions.” Jak let a sadistic grin spread over his features. He drew one of his leaf-bladed throwing knives and spun it around his finger. “Louder than words. And not Casper.”

  At that moment, Ryan caught Jak’s gaze. “Dial it back.” His one-eyed stare was dead serious. “Let the man work.”

  “Yeah, Casper.” The doctor sneered and stuck up both middle fingers in a double salute intended for Jak.

  Before Jak could respond, Ryan stepped closer to the table and snapped out a question. “What’s her condition?”

  Instantly, the doctor switched to professional mode. “I have her stabilized for now. Lucky for you, I keep plenty of epinephrine on hand. Never know when you’re gonna need it with those fish-wasps around.”

  “Wait.” Mildred, who’d been observing but hanging back on the doctor’s side of the table, pushed forward. “What else did you give her? I saw you administer the epi, but what was the other injection?”

  “Antivenom.” The doctor grinned and waggled his busy black caterpillar eyebrows. “My own special recipe.” He leaned closer to Mildred. “You’d be surprised at what I can cook up, honeybunch.”

  Mildred didn’t flinch. “Know what I think is adorable?”

  The doctor’s grin widened. “What’s that?”

  “A man who doesn’t realize he’s about to get his ass kicked.” Mildred nodded emphatically and elbowed him aside.

  “I love a woman who plays hard to get!” The doctor rubbed his hands together briskly. His laugh was a stuttering, wheezing snicker from deep in his throat. “Though, y’know, if you wanted to throw yourself at me in gratitude for pulling your ass out of the fire, that’d be okay, too.” He gave her a broad wink as he scuttled away from the exam table. “Let’s just say I’ve been alone in the Devil’s Shit-House for a long time, sweet-knees.”

  “How did you end up out here in the first place?” Ricky asked.

  “I might ask the same of you, rug rat,” the doctor said, “if I were a nosy person. Just like I told tall, dark and one-eyed when he dragged his girlfriend in here—it’s for me to know and for you to find out.”

  As the doctor wobbled toward a counter across the lab, Jak turned to Ryan. “This guy nasty,” he said under his breath. “Not trust him.”

  “Mebbe.” Ryan nodded, also speaking softly. “But he could’ve left us out there to die. He didn’t have to open the hatch and invite us in.”

  Jak narrowed his ruby eyes and snorted. Ryan had a point, but he didn’t have to like it, and it wouldn’t keep him from disliking his so-called host.

  Fortunately, a welcome distraction took his mind off the doctor just then. The rhythmic tremors that had been rattling the place since his arrival were fading.

  “Buffalo herd finally past,” he said. “All clear out there.”

  “Clear is a relative term,” the doctor said as he retrieved a red coffee can from the counter and peeled off the black plastic lid. “Clear in the Devil’s Shit-House and clear in the rest of the world are two very different things.” Plunging his pudgy hand into the can, he pulled out a small plastic bag full of dried green buds and a packet of rolling papers. “But if you want to channel your inner morons and go out for an afternoon stroll, don’t let me stop you.”

  “Say, Doc,” J.B. said, “you don’t have a lot of friends, do you?”

  The doctor held a rolling paper between thumb and forefinger and sprinkled crushed bits of green bud into it. “I’m not really what you’d call a people person.”

  “Then, why the hell did you invite us in here?” J.B. asked.

  “You really don’t know?” The doctor put down the plastic bag, then rolled the paper and crushed buds into a skinny cigarette. With practiced ease, he swiftly licked the gummed edge of the paper, sealing the joint. “It’s all because of that one.” He said it matter-of-factly and pointed the end of the joint in the general direction of the group.

  “That one who?” Jak asked.

  “The Iron Maiden, of course.” The doctor pulled a predark butane lighter from a pocket of his lab coat, then used it to ignite the tip of the joint while inhaling deeply. He held the smoke in his lungs for a moment before letting it out with a cough. “We have a history together.”

  As one, the teammates all turned and stared at Union, who was standing stiffly near the hatch. She stared back at them with icy detachment.

  “I guess she hasn’t told you about the skeletons in her closet yet.” The doctor snickered. “I’m sure she was getting around to it, though. Right, metal britches?”

  “It’s true,” Union said without changing her expression in the slightest. “We do share a history.”

  Again, the doctor snickered. “You gotta love this chick, am I right?” Then he lifted the joint for another puff. “Don’t expect to get too much out of her, though. She’s a woman of few words.”

  “Actually—” Union slowly turned her head and focused her glacial gaze on him “—you might be interested to know that he’s the architect of the Shift. This place exists because of his reckless experimentation.”

  The doctor choked on his latest lungful. “Well, I’ll be damned! I didn’t see that coming!”

  “And his name,” said Union, “is Dr. William Hammersmith.”

  “Well, shit.” Hammersmith giggled and shrugged. “I guess the jig is up.”

  “And,” Union said, “he’s supposed to be dead.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Dr. Hammersmith!” Exo shouted. “Provide the benediction for these brave men and women as they depart on their holy mission!”

  Doc Tanner, who stood beside Exo on the makeshift reviewing stand in the middle of the town of Struggle, cleared his throat. Gazing at the army of shifters arrayed in the street before him, he found it hard to think of a blessing he wanted to give them.

  After all, they were setting out to kill Doc’s only true friends in the world. And they were legion; he counted hundreds in their ranks. He hadn’t imagined there were so many people in the little wrecked town, nor that so many of them were soldiers.

  As formidable as Ryan and the others were, could even they withstand such numbers? Could they survive the big artillery cannon parked at the edge of town, which the shifters would take with them into the fight? And once the terrain started shifting—as it seemed it inevitably would—how could normal humans hope to triumph over muties who could read and ride the transformations?

  “Go ahead, William.” Exo reached over and pinched Doc’s leg so hard, he almost cried out. “They await your inspirational message.”

  “Yes, yes.” Doc cleared his throat again and smiled. “My friends!” He raised his voice and spread his arms. “May the blessings of your creator keep you safe on your journey!”

  The crowd cheered, but their hearts weren’t really in it.

  Exo kept grinning around his latest peppermint stick as he pinched Doc’s leg even harder. “Step it up!” he whispered. “You can do better than that!”

  Doc winced from the pain of the pinch, then spoke to the crowd again. “May you comport yourselves well on the field of battle, meeting all challengers with staunch reserve and unyielding…”

  This time, Exo jabbed him in the kidney with the head of his own swordstick. Doc actually jerked forward and let out a gasp against the pain.

  “Kill them all!” Doc sh
outed. “Murder the bums!”

  And that, finally, was what the crowd—and Exo—wanted to hear. Everyone howled and hooted with savage delight, rhythmically pumping their longblasters and swords in the air as if in a choreographed production number.

  “Yeah!” Exo wailed. “Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!”

  The army sang along and stomped its feet. Watching them, Doc felt sick to his stomach. Hundreds of shifters were getting ready to hunt down and slaughter his friends, and he had helped them get in the spirit.

  “Go get ’em!” Exo swung the swordstick overhead with joyous abandon. “Bring back buckets of their blood for your children to bathe in!”

  The crowd cheered louder than ever, chanting, “Blood! Blood! Blood! Blood! Blood!”

  “Now go!” Exo shrieked, pointing the swordstick at the far edge of town. “Carry out your sacred mission and make us all proud!”

  Still chanting, the army marched off down the street, their heavy footsteps carrying them into the hilly wasteland beyond.

  Meanwhile, behind them, their children watched from ruined hovels, quake-damaged shanties that looked ready to collapse at any moment.

  “What about the children?” Doc asked as the troops flowed off into the distance.

  Exo shrugged. “Not my kids.” With that, he turned and jogged down the reviewing stand steps—a precarious stack of mismatched wooden crates. “Now pack up your shit! We leave in one hour!”

  Doc sighed. He had no shit to pack up, not these days, and he wasn’t looking forward to another forced march through the Sandhills.

  But then, as he considered the best way down those rickety crates, his mood improved considerably. Looking in all directions, he realized something had changed…changed for the better.

  For the first time since his abduction, the first time in days, he was on his own. No one was watching him.

  * * *

  HEART POUNDING, DOC crouched in the shadow of a toppled building. He knew it wouldn’t be long until one of the shifters came looking for him. What could he possibly accomplish in that limited amount of time?

  Escape was impossible. No matter which way he went, there was nothing outside the ville but open ground and low, sandy hills.

  Hiding in the ruins of the ville wouldn’t make any sense, either. The shifters seemed to know the place inside out, even after the earthquake had shaken it to pieces.

  That left him with very few options to take advantage of a rapidly closing window of time.

  What would Ryan Cawdor do? As soon as the question fluttered into his mind, he shooed it out again. What Ryan would do involved the methodical murder of shifters, the seizure of their weapons and a blazing shootout that ended with every last one of the enemy bleeding to death on the sand.

  Asking himself what his other companions would do produced similar results. Yet again, he wished he were more adept at lethal action, better suited to survival in the perpetual blood-soaked melee of the Deathlands.

  Kicking at scattered debris, he cast about for something that could aid his quest for freedom. The whole time, his heart hammered with increasing speed; he knew his time alone was running out. He could practically sense Ankh sniffing the air, picking up his scent.

  Suddenly, something in the rubble caught Doc’s eye. Bending, he fished it from the dirt and held it up for closer inspection.

  It was thin and rectangular, a metal strip about an inch long by a half inch wide, with a slit down the middle. When he wiped off the dust on the sleeve of his coat, he could see polished sharp edges on the long sides of the strip.

  A razor blade.

  Doc frowned. He had no doubt that Ryan or Jak could have used it to kill their way out of captivity, but to him, it wasn’t much. Though he acquitted himself well with his sword or revolver in hand, he lacked his comrades’ stealth and skill in close-quarters combat. He couldn’t imagine the razor blade would be much good to him.

  Still, it was better than nothing. He slipped it into a hidden pouch in the lining of his coat, already thinking of how he might put it to use.

  No sooner had he done that than Ankh came around the corner. “There you are!”

  Doc had his back to him, and an idea presented itself. He pretended to fumble with the buttons of his trousers, then slowly turned. “My apologies,” Doc said. “I needed a moment of privacy.”

  Ankh chuckled. “Not the preferred protocol for relieving oneself in the ville, but no one seems to have witnessed your breach.”

  “Thank you.” Doc nodded. “I will endeavor to be more discreet in future.”

  “It’s just as well you got it over with.” Ankh started walking and waved for him to follow. “We’re getting ready to leave now.”

  “Heading for the core again?” Doc asked as he fell in step behind Ankh.

  “That’s where it’s all going down. That’s where you’re going to work your magic.” He swirled his hands in the air with a flourish.

  “Then, by all means, let us away,” Doc said. “I, for one, cannot wait to see how exactly I am going to work that magic.”

  “You’ll find out.” Ankh laughed. “But not until we get there.”

  “Surely a little clue would not be out of order at this juncture. I think I’ve more than proved my loyalty and trustworthiness by now.”

  “Relax.” Ankh reached back and patted Doc’s arm. “You’ll thank me when this is all over. Trust me.”

  “Oh, of course.” Doc smiled and patted his coat over the hidden pouch where he’d stowed the razor blade. “That goes without saying.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “As much as I love you guys,” Dr. Hammersmith said, waving around the butt of the joint he’d just smoked, “please do me a huge favor and go.”

  Ryan was having a hard time being patient with the difficult doctor, who was being both evasive and rude. “I just asked why Union thought you were dead.”

  “Everyone,” Union stated. “Everyone thinks he is dead.”

  “Exactly.” Ryan nodded. “Why is that?”

  “Because!” Hammersmith rolled his eyes with exasperation. “I made them think that!”

  “Impossible.” Union scowled. “People saw it happen. They saw you die in that explosion.”

  Hammersmith sucked on the roach, making its tip flare red. He inhaled deeply, held the smoke for a moment, then laughed it out with his snicker-wheeze. “If that’s what they saw, then I guess I must be dead right now. In which case, this is one shitty afterlife.”

  “If you’re already dead, then I guess it won’t matter if I use this on you.” Union pointed the Heckler & Koch at him. “Bullets ought to go right through a ghost like you.”

  “That’s right.” Hammersmith nodded and laughed some more. The marijuana seemed to be kicking in, from what Ryan could see. “Go ahead and fire a few rounds through my ectoplasm for shits and giggles.”

  Ryan looked at Union, proving he could deliver as icy a stare as she could any day of the week. The message got through to her; her expression was one of disgust, but she lowered the H&K as he’d intended.

  “Listen.” Ryan leaned on the edge of the table where Krysty still lay unconscious. Whatever Hammersmith had given her, it seemed to be working; she was breathing evenly, and her pulse was getting stronger, which was more than enough reason to be patient with the difficult man. “We just want to understand the situation. You trusted us enough to let us in here, so why not fill us in?”

  “I would.” Hammersmith cupped his hands around his mouth and whispered conspiratorially, “But then I’d have to kill you.”

  As the doctor cracked up at his joke, Ryan shook his head and folded his arms across his chest. Maybe he would have to wait until the weed ran its course for Hammersmith to give him a serious answer.

  Or maybe someone else would have more luck. “Enough of this horseshit.” Mildred stomped over and stood before Hammersmith with her fists planted firmly on her hips. “Did you fake your damn death or what, dipshit?”

 
Hammersmith snicker-wheezed harder than ever for a moment, then shifted gears. Gaping up at her with his puffy, bloodshot eyes, he stopped laughing and reached out with a thick-fingered hand toward her face. “I love it when you call me that, honey—”

  Before he could finish the sentence, she swatted his hand away. “Answer the question!” she snapped.

  On the other side of the room, J.B. took a subtle step forward, ready in case she needed backup. As for Ryan, he was thinking about intervening, but then Hammersmith did the unexpected.

  He answered the question. “Yes, I did fake my death.” He shrugged. “It was the only way to stop those assholes from using me.”

  “Using you to do what?” Mildred asked.

  “Make the Shift even worse than it already is.” Hammersmith relit the roach and had another toke, then put it out in an ashtray on the counter. “Which is really saying something, right?”

  “But the Shift is your handiwork!” said Union, who sounded more like high-strung Carrie than icy Taryn at the moment. “You created it!”

  Hammersmith looked at her as if she was a complete moron. “You think I wanted it to come out this way?” He let out a laugh that was more of a seal-bark than a snicker-wheeze. “I thought I was making a paradise. Instead, I ended up with a king-size shithole.”

  Union’s eyes got huge, and she stammered, “But I…But you…”

  “And you wanna know what the worst part of it is?” Hammersmith opened a cupboard under the counter, pulled out a bottle of predark vodka and unscrewed the cap. “Those shifters just love it!” He threw back a swig and wiped his mouth on his dirty lab coat sleeve. “Hell on Earth is their idea of heaven.” Another swig from the bottle. “And they want to make it even more of a nightmare. In fact, they want to weaponize it.”

  Ryan’s eyebrows went up at that one. “Weaponize?”

  “And the shittiest part of it all?” Hammersmith drank from the bottle again—a big gulp instead of a swig. “They’re halfway there, thanks to me.”

  “Halfway there?” Ryan repeated.