by James Axler
* * *
“I WAS OFF in the thicket a ways,” Ricky said. He wouldn’t meet Ryan’s eye.
“What were you doing out there, boy?” J.B. demanded. “You were told not to do any brush patrolling by yourself.”
“I was taking a leak. I’m sorry. Anyway, I just got done and buttoned back up when I heard something scrape, and then somebody said a bad word under his breath.”
“You have got to be the only person on this entire planet who ever makes a conscious effort to avoid cussing,” said Mildred, who was dressing as fast as she could.
“Cache it,” Ryan ordered as he laced up his boots.
“Then somebody else hissed at him, something like, ‘You feeb, Edwards.’ And I came back as fast as I could and still be quiet.”
“Ace,” Ryan replied.
“I think they’re surrounding the house!” Ricky said.
“No kidding.” Ryan stood up.
“We’re going to break away in the opposite direction from them—west,” he said. “We need to get out and get deep in the thicket ASAP.”
“But that’s right back at the lizard-muties! Or dinosaurs. Whatever they are,” Mildred protested.
“One problem at a time. Plus, I like my odds winning a shootout with them a lot better than with Cutter Dan’s bunch, from what we heard about him. We’ll try not to have to do any of that.”
He knelt, shrugged into his heavy backpack and stood. He hefted the Steyr in his hand.
“Reckon I’ll just hang back here and hold them off while the rest of you get clear,” he said.
“Ryan, you can’t!” Krysty cried forcefully.
““No!” Mildred said at almost the same time. “We can’t afford any self-sacrificing heroics right now.”
“Or ever,” Doc added solemnly.
“Well, I’m not planning on getting chilled—” Ryan began.
“No, you’re not,” J.B. said, “because you’re not staying. I am.”
He held up his Uzi and grinned. “But don’t worry. I’m not planning on dying, either. Not today, anyway. This baby ought to make them stand back.”
“Right,” Ryan said. “Everybody ready? Time to go. We’ll got out through the side door. Ricky, you’ll take point.”
“M-me?”
Ryan grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, kid. I’ll be right behind you.”
* * *
RYAN PRESSED RICKY’S shoulder from behind. “Go,” he said.
Bent way over by the weight of his pack and responsibilities, Ricky set out across the yard at a lumbering run. Outside it was dawn, if not much of one yet. He could see where he was going in the dismal gray light, pretty much.
Ryan jogged right behind. Any closer and he’d have stepped on the kid’s heels. He had his panga in his hand.
The ideal was for them all to get away into the Wild and signal J.B. to follow them without ever being noticed. Let Cutter Dan spring his trap on an empty house. Slightly less unlikely was the prospect that they’d be able to beat the closing jaws of the trap, or at least wedge them open and hold off the sec men moving in from both sides to close the ring until J.B., having slowed up the rest with some full-auto fire, could blast his way out to join them.
Worst possibility was that they were already caught in an unbreakable noose of steel. In that case, all that was left for them to do was get ready to die.
Ricky made it across the brief open ground and into the vine tangle. Thorns plucked at Ryan’s pack as he followed. At least they’d had time to recce quick escape routes away from the house—a first-day priority no matter how tired everybody was. Their hunters would have to pick their way through the maddening labyrinth of strong, intertwined, spiky vines.
He didn’t look back. He just trusted Krysty, Mildred and Doc to be following at a safe distance. They knew what they had to do.
They’d all been together long enough—except maybe Ricky—to function as a well-oiled machine, even if it was missing one of its parts.
Ricky had slowed the moment he got in among the thorn vines. Though speed was vital, going too fast would only make noise. If they attracted attention too soon, that’d all be chilled.
Then he stopped dead.
* * *
SKULKING IN THE derelict farmhouse’s dark easternmost room, a few feet back from the window so he’d be invisible from outside, J.B. watched his would-be chillers creep through the thicket by the faint light of dawn.
They were spaced out wide. At least, the ones J.B. could see rustling the leaves were. He was far too cagey an old tomcat to assume that nobody was there just because he didn’t see anybody.
But it suggested that the attackers had to spread out to surround the place. And that made sense; there were pretty severe limits to how much manpower Second Chance’s sec boss could spare to chase the fugitives. The ville maintained way too many sec men on its roster for a settlement of that size to support, which told Ryan—and J.B. agreed—that they were draining resources from the other villes under their control in order to support the so-called marshals.
And also that they needed that many sec men. Not just to expand their little vest-pocket empire, but to keep the subjects they already had under close control. So, even though they had a power of blasters, they could still only release a few of them to go chasing through the Wild. No matter how badly Judge Santee and his sec boss wanted to see Ryan and his friends swing.
J.B. hoped that meant his friends could make it through the closing circle without detection. He had heard them leave the rubbled west side of the house, headed for shelter in the Wild.
His scalp began to prickle as he began to catch glimpses of actual hunters through the vegetation—a patch of sun-faded jeans, an oval blur of face. They were coming on pretty boldly, plainly to get in fast as much as to get in quiet.
Ryan had left it to J.B.’s judgment when and whether to start the party.
“Showtime, boys,” he said aloud.
He raised the Uzi and raked the thorny tangle with a long, shuddering burst.
* * *
RICKY HAD HUNKERED down behind a turn in the narrow deer path through the dense growth. Right up the winding path, barely twenty-five feet away, a man wearing the armband of one of Santee’s ersatz U.S. Marshals was approaching the house, bent low over a bolt-action rifle, which meant he was heading directly toward Ricky and Ryan.
The teen glanced back. His eyes were as round as saucers. Ryan nodded once, briefly.
Hurry, kid, he thought. This is why I put you on point.
Timid and tentative though he could sometimes be, especially confronted with a member of the opposite sex, Ricky was capable of acting calmly and decisively in combat. Once Ryan had reassured him it was ace to take the shot, there was no more hesitation.
He raised the rifle, which he had held with the steel buttplate poised just below and ahead of his right shoulder, into position and pulled it back snug. From the slight motion of his pack Ryan could tell he was already drawing in a deep breath as he pointed the weapon toward the target.
He got a fast picture over his iron sights. The sec man’s eyes spotted something. Ryan saw them go wide in the piss-poor light. He was that close by.
The fat 230-grain slug, leaving the barrel well below the speed of sound, made little more noise than a spit. The DeLisle kicked up.
The sec man went down with a hole punched directly over his left eye.
Ricky had already jacked the action, chambering another round. Ryan tapped him on the shoulder again, as a sign of a job well done. Then he pointed forward.
Bent low, Ricky slipped around the bulge of thorn vine and walked up the trail. He barely glanced down as he stepped over the corpse of the man he’d just chilled.
Ryan gave him a once-ove
r as he came up on him. He had fallen with his longblaster’s stock beneath him. The one-eyed man paused long enough to stoop and pull it soundlessly out. Then he stood, stepped over him and followed Ricky forward.
The kid didn’t show much taste for looting his chills. Not enough, truth to tell; that was one of the better ways to survive.
In this case, though, the reluctance had served him well enough. Time was the only thing that mattered now, except for stealth. Loot didn’t do a person any good when dirt was hitting him in the eyes. Ryan, more experienced, had been able to snaffle the longblaster while barely breaking stride. If it was the same caliber as his Steyr, he’d empty the magazine for the Scout. If not, he could always shoot it until it was dry and save his own precious ammo. Plus, a working blaster was some of the primest scavvy there was; they could always trade it for a good price down the line.
Or ditch it if they had to lighten up to flee. Whichever. Ryan would do one or the other without a second thought. Even passing up valuable scavvy wasn’t near as stupe as getting chilled for it.
When they’d gone another ten yards along the narrow path past the dead man, Ryan gave a single short, low whistle. Ricky stopped and turned back. He held the blaster ready and his eyes scanned the vines that coiled and twined all around.
Ryan came up and gestured him to shove in among the leaves for concealment.
“Thorns,” Ricky said.
“Won’t chill you,” Ryan replied. Following his own directive, Ryan shifted into cover on the left side of the game trail, looking back toward the house.
It wasn’t visible here, from the turning of the path. But the place where Ricky had taken the shot still was. Ryan reckoned they were outside the closing cordon now. It was time to hold position, get ready to provide cover for Krysty, Mildred and Doc.
And hope like hell J.B. could get clear, as well.
As if summoned by the thought, Krysty came into view, bent over with her short-barreled blaster in her hand. Mildred followed right behind, holding up her ZKR in both hands. Doc brought up the rear, glancing frequently over his shoulder.
Ryan spotted something that turned his blood to ice in his veins.
It was another sec man coming up on them from Ryan’s right—Krysty’s and the others’ left. By a fluke of the Wild, the three companions couldn’t see him. They wouldn’t until he stumbled right on top of them.
Nor could Ricky, the only member of the group who could shoot him without bringing the enemy down on them like yellow jackets from a busted-open nest.
Ryan could only watch in helpless horror as the whole escape rotted into ruin before his eye.
Chapter Fourteen
J.B. gave the bastards a full 30-round magazine. It was a lot to pay, but he had a plan. He reckoned it was worth the price.
He got no indication he’d hit anything other than leaves and thorns and branches. It was light enough in the yard that he could see a few of the lighter blown-apart fragments floating down onto the bare ground. He saw no thrashing and no bodies fall, didn’t hear any screams of agony.
That suited him fine. For a rare once the Armorer had expended ammo, and a power of it, without caring whether he hit anything or not.
From back in the thorns came shouts of confusion and alarm. Off to his left some bold soul fired a shot at the house. A single shot, from a high-powered longblaster by the pitch, and not a 5.52 mm, either.
Another shot came from almost dead ahead, from where he’d spotted a sec man a moment before.
From off to J.B.’s right—the south—somebody else cut loose with a semiauto handblaster. And now other voices joined the blaster chorus.
“Go for it,” he said out loud, as he stuffed the spent magazine into the belt of his cargo pants and slotted a fresh one home. It wasn’t as if anybody could hear him in the sudden ruckus that had wrecked the dawn stillness. Neither was it as if he cared at this point. “Burn up that ammo, shooting spooks. Be less to carry with you when you’re chasing us through these bastard brambles.”
He turned and ran through the living room and out the west door of the farmhouse, following the path his friends had taken.
* * *
FULLAUTO BLASTERFIRE blew apart the early day’s deceptive calm.
Ryan saw the sec men freeze. He was on the other side of a snaking line of head-high thorn vine from Krysty Wroth. Another step, two at the most, and the sec man would have seen the trio.
From the south a voice shouted, “The house! Close up! Don’t let any of the fuckers get away!”
The sec man turned smartly right and began making his way toward the farmhouse, away from Krysty, Doc and Mildred.
More blasterfire erupted from the far side of the house, and there was more to Ryan’s left. He had no idea what those sec men thought they were shooting at. It sure wasn’t coming their way.
Ricky crouched low but kept scanning for targets. The other three, meanwhile, picked up their speed toward where he and Ryan waited.
As they came up close, Ryan whistled. He didn’t want any startled reflexes pulling triggers and causing heartache. Or just holes.
Krysty slowed the pace. In a moment she and Ryan were sharing a brief and passionate hug.
“What about J.B.?” Mildred asked, looking worriedly back along the trail.
“I’ll go help!” Ricky piped up immediately.
“You won’t,” Ryan said decisively. “You’ll stay right here and keep your eyes skinned. Just like the rest of us. If J.B. isn’t with us in two minutes, or if it sounds like he’s run into trouble, I’ll go back and do what I can for him. Alone.”
Ricky opened his mouth to protest. Then he saw the look on Ryan’s face.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
* * *
J.B. RACED ACROSS the clearing as fast as his legs could carry him, clamping his fedora on top of his head with his left hand. His right held the Uzi by the pistol grip.
The backpack jogged on his shoulders and banged his kidneys. He barely even noticed it. It would’ve had to hurt ten times worse to make him think about anything but shaking the dust of the derelict house from his heels as fast as possible.
He couldn’t afford to be cautious. He could hear shouts and random shots closing from the west—the very direction he was headed. All he could do right now was blaze ahead full speed, and trust in his firepower and fast reflexes if he ran into trouble.
He started to relax once he got into the sheltering arms of the Wild. He’d scarcely run a dozen paces, however, following in the steps of his companions, when a sec man in a red bandanna stepped out onto the trail not ten feet ahead of him.
The man’s blue eyes went wide in his black-bearded face. His double-barreled shotgun came up.
J.B.’s Uzi was already leveled. He gave the man two quick bursts, three shots each, the recoil kicking the stubby barrel up and left.
The first burst punched red holes in the left thigh of the sec man’s jeans and a thumb’s width above his steer-horn silver belt buckle.
The second burst planted one an inch above that and blew a chunk of short rib out of the man’s right side, three inches higher.
The sec man’s clutch reflex blasted off both scattergun barrels, but too soon and wide right. J.B. would’ve been lying, though, if he said he didn’t feel the wind of the passing double buckshot charges slap against the left leg of his trousers. Or, at least, he imagined that he did.
He never broke stride, but he took his hand off his hat long enough to swap out the partially depleted mag for a full one.
Fortunately, the fedora stayed put.
Firepower and fast reflexes, he thought in satisfaction as he coaxed a bit more speed out of his legs. Never want to rely on them. But when you need them, there’s just nothing better.
* * *
&nb
sp; “DON’T SHOOT!” RICKY MORALES called excitedly. “It’s J.B.!”
“No shit, kid,” Mildred said. “It’s not like we all can’t see him.”
The Armorer was making no attempt to sneak up toward them, and no wonder. All hell was breaking loose behind him.
“That went better than any of us deserved,” he said, puffing as he jogged up to them and slowed, practically stumbling to a halt. “Whew. Let me just catch my breath, here.”
“Glad you made it, J.B.,” Ryan said. “Run into a little problem on the way?”
“No,” the Armorer said. “The marshal had the problem. He hasn’t got any at all, now.”
“Ace in the line.”
Ryan started moving west again, keeping to the narrow trail as it undulated between the courses of thorn-studded vines. He didn’t say anything to the others about it. It was as if he just assumed they’d follow.
They did.
J.B. waved Ricky ahead. “I got trail,” he said. “Biggest threat right now’s those boys running up on us, though it doesn’t seem likely they’ll do it any too soon. They seem happy enough having a firefight all by their lonesomes—it should keep them occupied for a spell.”
“We can’t assume that, though,” Ryan said from the point position.
“Of course not,” J.B. said cheerfully. But Ricky thought his mentor was right. The Second Chance sec men were burning a prodigious amount of ammo shooting up an empty house.
And, if the fugitives were lucky, each other.
“So where to now, kemosabe?” Mildred asked. She sounded almost cheerful for once. Ricky guessed she was still hyped up by the sudden onset of danger and their hair-thin escape.
“I’m going circle us southwest,” Ryan said.
“But that’s—”
“I know.”
Ricky saw Mildred glance doubtfully over her shoulder at Krysty, who was walking behind her. Doc came next, between the redhead and Ricky. The teen saw Krysty shrug.
