by James Axler
“Hang on, Dean!” Clarissa shouted.
Jak kept trying to work his jacket into position, but he was short by a couple of feet.
“Give me pants,” he said.
Without hesitation, Clarissa slid off her pants, stepped out of them and tied one of the legs to Jak’s jacket sleeve. Then she held Jak’s arm while he tried reaching Dean.
This time the pant leg landed over Dean’s hands. With a quick movement of his right hand, the boy grabbed the pant leg. Then, with it securely wrapped around his wrist, he let go of the rock.
“Pull!” Jak said, straining against the current.
“Jak, the fish!”
The albino teen looked past Dean. The fish was swimming against the current toward their fallen friend, as if Dean were bait at the end of a line. They continued to reel him in, but they couldn’t pull fast enough. With a mighty flip of its tail the fish lunged forward, its upper lip brushing up against Dean’s boots.
“Hurry up!” Dean yelled.
The fish kept coming, and Jak realized that even after they pulled Dean in, the mutie fish would still be able to move upstream against the current with its belly against the bottom and water flowing through its gills to breathe.
The shallow rapids weren’t any protection against this fish. They were all in danger.
“Take jacket,” Jak said, handing the sleeve to Clarissa so she could hold on to it with him while he pulled his .357 Colt Python from its holster.
Dean, seeing the big six-inch barrel of Jak’s blaster pointed in his direction, ducked his head, plunging it under the water to get it out of the way.
Jak fired off two rounds that smashed into the fish’s great head. The powerful rounds punched holes in its skull and tore big bloody swaths through its soft body. Chunks of blood, brain and meaty flesh exploded out the sides of its body. But it was still moving for Dean. Jak squeezed off another two rounds, catching the fish in one of its eyes with the first shot and blowing away the entire left side of its mouth with the other.
Blood began to turn the river around the fish a pinkish red, and it began to lose the battle with the current and slowly started to float away.
With the danger of the fish now gone, Clarissa and Jak were able to quickly pull Dean to safety.
“I’ve done a lot of things in the time I’ve been with Dad,” Dean commented, when he was back on his feet and squeezing water out of his clothes. “But I never thought I’d be used as fish bait.”
Jak stood in silence, watching the big fish float downriver, toward the lake. “Fish getting away. Not tell J.B.”
Clarissa began putting on her sodden pants. “Well, we can always try the whirlpool. That was the plan in the beginning anyway.”
But then the fish was caught by an eddy in the river, and it turned sideways against the current. As if by design, it washed up on the north shore, across the river from Whirlpool Point. They’d be able to cut as many steaks as they wanted out of the fish, and the carcass would feed Clarissa’s mutie clan for days to come.
“Hot pipe!” Dean exclaimed. “We’ll tell J.B. all about it. He won’t believe a word of it, but we can tell him.”
They hurried across the river.
“WHERE’S THE FISH?” J.B. asked when the door to the underground garage rolled up and Jak, Clarissa and Dean slid under the bottom gap.
“Floating in the river,” Dean answered.
Doc rubbed his empty stomach. “Are you saying that you did not chill a single fish?”
“Chilled one fish,” Jak said, a burlap sack slung over his shoulder.
“Just one,” J.B. said, working to loosen something in the cockpit of the P-39. “Don’t tell me. All the rest got away, right?”
“Nope.” Dean smiled. “After Jak chilled that one fish, it floated downriver and we didn’t need to chill any more.”
“Washed up on shore,” Jak said, dropping the sack at Doc’s feet.
“But a half-ton fish was too big to bring back here,” Clarissa said, “so we decided to bring back fifty pounds of fish steaks instead. Hope that’s enough.”
Doc was speechless for a moment, then asked, “What sort of fish?”
Clarissa held up one of the neatly cut slabs. “Sturgeon.”
“Is that good eating?”
“No worry,” Jak said. “When finished, taste like chicken.”
BRODY REJOINED the crew later in the afternoon. “I bet all the jack I had on you at ten to one,” he told Ryan. “You’re sitting at eight to one now.”
“What about you?” Ryan asked.
“Me,” Brody shrugged. “Something like twenty-five to one, but that’s just being kind. No one’s put any jack on me, not even me. Come to think of it, nobody’s put any jack on you except for the people in this crew. They’ve all bet on you.”
A sec man approached them from behind. Ryan’s muscles tensed, ready to strike the man or his blaster if the situation required it.
“All right, you two, your work is over for today,” the sec man said. “Catch a ride on the wag back to your quarters. The baron wants you rested up for tonight’s entertainment.”
The two men stopped pulling weeds and headed for the wag.
Ryan didn’t like to chill anything for sport, but it appeared he wouldn’t be having any choice in the matter this time around.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Baron Fox sat back in his chair behind his desk, looking through the pages of another one of his tattered predark skin mags.
“Nineteen have signed up for the contest, Baron,” Norman Bauer said after waiting several minutes for Baron Fox to finish with his mag.
The baron didn’t lift his eyes from the page. “Who is favored?”
“Mog. One to four.”
The baron nodded. “Who’s got the best odds next after Mog?”
“The one-eyed outlander,” Bauer reported. “Eight to one.”
That seemed to catch the baron’s interest. “The outlander has signed up to save his woman, has he? Oh, that’s precious.”
“From what the sec men tell me, this one-eye is a very dangerous man.”
“Really?”
“We can’t prove it, since none of the slaves will come forward, but the talk is that the one-eye must have chilled Purvis in the shower his first day in the orchards.”
Baron Fox put aside his mag. “In the shower?”
“Everyone says Purvis slipped on some soap, but he and the one-eye were the last ones in the showers.”
“He chilled Purvis in the shower, with his bare hands?”
“Smashed his head on the tiles, it would seem.”
The baron was excited by the thought of it.
“Tell Mog’s crew,” he said at last. “A week free of work for the man who chills the one-eye.”
THERE WAS A KNOCK on the door to the nursery.
“Come,” Mildred said. She was watching over Jasmine, making sure the woman was comfortable. She was still experiencing afterpains in the abdomen and was showing a bloody vaginal discharge. The latter was beginning to clear up, but the pains were still as sharp as ever. And then there was the depression that followed delivery, made worse by the absence of the newborn child.
A sec man entered the nursery first, followed by Krysty Wroth.
“Krysty!” Mildred said warmly. “What brings you here?”
“The baron,” she answered. “He wants me to get checked out to make sure I’m healthy for the winner.”
“Girl, you’re one of the healthiest females I’ve ever known. But if the baron wants you checked out, then we should do that in the examination room.” Mildred smiled and led Krysty away from the sec man and into a small room at the back of the nursery.
When the door was closed behind them, Mildred turned to Krysty. “Looks like they’ve been treating you well.”
Krysty nodded. “The best of everything.”
“Ryan’s signed up for the contest,” Mildred said. “And you saw that woman out in the nursery. Her ma
n will be fighting alongside Ryan.”
“It’s good to know he’s not alone.”
“His work crew’s behind him, as well.”
Krysty lowered her voice some. “I found out that our blasters are being stored in the armory near here. They’ll be having another contest, a shooting contest between sec men to see who gets them.”
“Hopefully we won’t be here that long.”
Krysty nodded. “The door’s locked, but I’ve been told it can be easily broken into.”
“Maybe I’ll do that when the time comes.”
“My guess is tomorrow.”
“Mine, too.”
Just then the door to the examination room opened, revealing a sec man standing in the doorway.
“Can I help you?” Mildred asked, her hands on her hips.
“Keep the door open,” he said. “So I can hear what you’re saying.”
“I was just telling her that her female parts are in fine working order and that’s she’s going to make the champion one happy man.”
The sec man smiled and turned away from the open door.
JAK AND CLARISSA COOKED the fish steaks over an open fire near the entrance to the underground garage. As usual, there were muties hanging around on the other side of the garage door, but they’d all gorged themselves on the sturgeon carcass in the river and were now just waiting for instruction from their goddess, Clarissa.
J.B. had managed to free the 37 mm cannon from the P-39 and was now in the process of stripping it to check for dampness and rust.
“Will it fire?” Doc asked, peering over J.B.’s shoulder.
“I think so.”
“Any thoughts on how you might mount such an infernal weapon?”
“Thinking about bolting it onto the side of the wag, but there’s not much solid steel to mount it on,” he explained. “If we had any more than sixteen shells to fire, the cannon’s recoil would eventually tear the whole side off the wag. Should hold together till we’re done with it, though.”
“What about aiming it?”
“I’ll have to point the wag where I want the round to go. Probably have to use a round or two to calibrate the cannon, mebbe put an X onto the windshield marking the target at a hundred yards or so.”
“Ah, a precision weapon, I see,” Doc teased the Armorer.
J.B. smiled. “In some ways it’s like your LeMat, Doc. With this thing, all I have to be is close. The half pound of hot lead will do the rest.”
Doc smiled, knowing J.B. was in his element. “When do you think it will be ready?”
“Not tonight,” the Armorer said with a disappointed sigh. “I still have to mount the .50 calibers and then test the guns, and that should be done during the day. So I’m afraid Ryan will have to wait one more night.”
“I could do with another night’s sleep myself,” Doc said. “That and a bite to eat.” He turned in the direction of Jak and Clarissa, who had now been joined by Dean. “I say, Master Jak, is dinner close to being served?”
“Not yet,” the albino said. “Take time if want taste like chicken.”
Doc was forced to go hungry another fifteen minutes, but forgot all about the wait when he discovered that sturgeon steaks did indeed taste like chicken.
And very tasty chicken at that.
Chapter Twenty-Three
There was a carnival atmosphere in the air.
The slaves had gotten off work early and many of them had broken out their private stocks of booze, most of which the baron had given them as reward for good breeding.
An eight-point ring had been mapped out in the courtyard about fifty feet across, with tall wooden stakes being pounded into the ground and connected to each other by a length of medium-gauge chain. Each stake was topped with a red flag, and the chain was painted bright red to clearly denote the perimeter of the circle.
Slaves and sec men gathered around the outside of the circle. Those eager to be spattered with sweat and blood sat on the dry, hard ground just a few paces back from the chain, while less bloodthirsty spectators kept farther back of the makeshift arena, sitting on an assortment of crates, boxes and chairs.
Baron Fox appeared on the wooden stage that had been constructed years earlier for such outdoor spectacles and addressed the crowd.
“This is a happy time at Fox Farm,” he began. “We have birthed more offspring in the past month than in the previous three months combined, and it’s all because of you!
“So, as a small token of my appreciation for so many jobs well done, I have arranged a special entertainment for this evening. Like gladiators from a long ago time, these men will be testing their strength, courage, desire and spirit in a fight to the finish. Ten men will enter the circle….”
Over in the main building, Ryan stood behind the closed doors, waiting for his time to enter the circle. “Only ten?”
“A few must have dropped out,” Brody explained, “signing up just for show and an early quitting time. Or the sec chief might have tossed out a few men he thought would only get in the way.”
“…and in the end, only one will remain. The victor!”
“To the victor go the spoils!” the crowd shouted in unison. “To the victor go the spoils!”
The baron looked pleased. He nodded and Krysty was led out onto the stage by a pair of sec men. She had changed yet again, this time into a short skirt and skintight tank top that highlighted all of her curves. She was still wearing her cowboy boots, but a studded collar had been added to her neck.
The baron put out his hand to calm the crowd. “The spoils, yes! Here she is, a shining example of feminine perfection, hot, fiery and a worthy prize for the strongest, most virile male on the farm. Their union will produce a beautiful offspring.”
The baron placed his hand on Krysty’s breast. She tried to move away, but the sec men behind her held her in place.
The sight caused Ryan’s blood to boil with anger.
“Easy, my friend,” Brody said. “You’ve got to chill a few other men before you can get close to him.”
The baron continued. “But before any of that can happen, we must first decide which of these brave males will be allowed to be drowned in this woman’s ample feminine charms. And so, I give you sec chief Grundwold, who will remind you all of the rules.”
The crowd let out a long, loud cheer.
The baron, waving to the crowd, sat on the purple throne set atop the stage. Krysty was brought by his side and was made to sit on pillow at his feet. A chain was attached to her dog collar, with the other end locked to one of the throne’s purple legs.
Grundwold stepped forward. “The last man left standing in the circle is the victor. Rest periods will be called for the removal of bodies from the circle. Wounded combatants can leave the ring of their own free will, or they can be forced out at any time by another combatant, or they can be chilled!
“And so, let the game begin. And as always, to the victor go the spoils!”
The doors to the main building were opened by a sec man standing in the courtyard. “Get out there, you two!”
Ryan and Brody stepped out into the hot afternoon sun and walked along a path kept clear by sec men that led into the circle. There were a few cheers for the two men coming from their own crew, but everyone else kept quiet, saving their loudest cheers for the others.
When Ryan and Brody reached the far end of the circle, they turned to see a white miniwag pull up and two sec men step off the back, heading for the circle. The noise level among the slaves remained constant, but the sec men who were scattered around the courtyard and up in the towers all whistled their approval.
“Richmond and Salazar,” Brody said. “They’re the two meanest sec men on the farm. I doubt they’ll go up against Mog and his animals, but if they’ve entered the game it means they’re looking to chill someone.”
Ryan understood, and he hated the two men instantly. He’d seen plenty of sec men go mad from the power they had over people. These men enjoyed b
eating slaves and had probably chilled dozens over the years. Their first few had been a mistake, the result of a combination of overeagerness and not knowing when to quit. After the first few, however, chilling got easier, until they needed to chill someone like an addict needed jolt. They were here for some fun, to chill and inflict pain and then back out of the fight like cowards. Ryan would see to it that they didn’t leave the circle in the same shape they entered it.
The doors to the big barn opened next, and two pale creatures scrambled across the courtyard and into the circle. Their skin was white, covered by a layer of grime. The rest of their bodies were covered in tattered clothing, and their exposed arms were as thin as blaster barrels. Tufts of black hair stood up on their heads, patches of it coming low on the forehead and shading eyes that were sunk back deep in their sockets. Tongues lolled uselessly out the sides of their mouths as both of them sniffed at the air.
“That’s Laslo and Hambly.”
“Muties?”
“Mostly,” Brody answered. “They’re more norm than mutie, but they aren’t allowed to rut with the rest of us. The baron keeps them in the barn to shovel shit and clean toilets. Every once in a while he gives them a nonbreeder he’s all done with since once they go into the barn, they don’t usually come back out alive. They’ve probably got their sights set on your woman.”
“That’s all they’ll get of her, too.”
The crowd began chanting as one. “Mog! Mog! Mog!”
“Here he comes,” Brody said.
Ryan turned toward the orchard closest to the courtyard. Walking between two rows of plum trees, almost as tall as a tree himself, was what had to be the man called Mog.
He stood over six and a half feet tall, and his naked upper body bulged with well-defined muscles and flesh that was covered with a road map of scars. His head was shaved above the ears, and his remaining hair was cut short, bristling straight up from his head in a sort of cocomb that split the sides of his skull in two, like a wedge. Half of his left ear was missing, and his nose looked as if it had been broken several times.
