by James Axler
“You think that’s gonna help you? Listen, if I was you I’d just run like hell. Or hope you get chilled in the raid so that they don’t bring you back here. Do you have any idea what they do to us when they get us in here?”
“I think I might,” Ryan said slowly, surveying the carnage around.
“They’re the lucky ones,” the voice said bitterly. “I wish I was with them right now. I figure it won’t be long, but…”
“I’ve seen what they do to each other, I can make a guess,” Ryan said gently.
“No…no, you can’t,” the voice said with an unexpected venom. “You couldn’t even begin to imagine it unless you’d had to go through it. What they do to each other is just playing compared to what they do here. Any men they catch have to have sex with their women, and any women get raped by their men. And if they have men and women they catch, then we have to have sex with each other. They want kids, see, otherwise the ville will die. Tell me something, how many kids do you see out there?”
Ryan furrowed his brow. It was a good point. He couldn’t recall seeing any during their enforced stay. “None,” he answered simply.
“Exactly. You ask me, these inbreeds can’t have kids anymore and they use any outlanders they can get to try and have kids. And if they don’t get results, then they get bored and that’s when they start to get vicious. They play these games, see, how much any of us can take. How we act when we’re getting hurt or when anyone else is getting hurt. They ripped Malone’s guts out in front of us—he tried to hold them as they fell out of his belly, tried to grab them as they spilled over his hands. It was like trying to catch a whole load of eels that wouldn’t stay still. And I never realized that they’d make so much steam as they came out.”
The hidden voice was getting lost in his memories, his tone changing and becoming more distant. Now that Ryan was pretty sure of the fate that awaited the companions after the raid—assuming they got out in one piece—he needed to get some more details. But it was going to be hard to interrupt the hidden voice, who was now lost in a reverie of awful imaginings.
“Stacey was the next. They all raped her but she wouldn’t get pregnant. I figure those bastards are all sterile. So they cut off her hands and feet, burned the wounds so she stopped bleeding, then raped her again. Then they cut off her head and used it to throw at us. We had to catch it, or else we got cut or lost something of our own. Crazy bastards, laughing as they watched.”
The horrors that the voice had witnessed went through Ryan’s head. In his mind’s eye he could see them and it made him wince in sympathy for what the man had seen. The wonder of it was that he wasn’t totally mad already. But despite this, Ryan had other priorities and he had to press the man, change the direction of his thoughts.
“Listen, show yourself to me. Come into the light and I’ll try and help you get the hell out of here. They’re too busy to think about you today or tomorrow. You tell me what I need to save our hides and I’ll try and help you save yours. No promises—you’ll be on your own. But at least you’ll have a chance.”
There was a long pause. Ryan scanned the darkness in the direction he had first heard the shuffling that preceded the voice. There was nothing. Taking a chance, he resheathed the panga, which had previously been dangling in his palm. This gesture seemed to have an effect, as he heard shuffling again and the source of the voice moved into the light. He was emaciated, with sores and open wounds across his body. His shirt was in ribbons and his combat fatigues were ripped and torn. He had no boots on his feet and Ryan could see some of the toenails were missing. One of the man’s eyes was cloudy, but the other was clear as he fixed it on Ryan.
“I’m Ryan Cawdor. Me and four others were trekking across the wasteland when they found us. Who are you?”
The man nodded an acknowledgement. “I’m Cyrus Gill and I was a driver for Trader Simms until the wag blew a tire when we were on our way to Duma. Simms, the stupe bastard, couldn’t wait to get to Duma ’cause he had some grens to sell to the baron for big jack, so he left us. Then they came out of nowhere, like rats, and took us.”
“It’s your wag we’ll be using. We’re supposed to join a convoy and go into the ville on the back of it—will it be your convoy?”
Gill shook his head. “Too soon. Simms is probably still screwing gaudies and snorting jolt on his profits. But there’s always a lot of convoys. It’s a big stop in these parts. These crazy fuckers taking you right into the ville and not ripping off the convoy outside? Man, you ain’t ever coming back,” he said with a sad and grim laugh.
“Why? What’s it like in Duma?”
Despite the situation, a wry grin cracked Gill’s features. “Listen, it’s the richest ville for hundreds of miles. Xander’s got it all wrapped up. Half what he pays the convoys for their trade he takes back from jolt, booze and gaudies. Man’s smart and all smart barons have a good sec, right? The place is guarded and wired all around. If you start firing off in there, they’ll have you outnumbered fifty to one and chilled before you can even say your name. You want my advice, Ryan Cawdor? Don’t go—though it’d be buying the farm quicker and with less pain than living in here,” he added, indicating the barn around him.
“Buckley ain’t as stupe as mebbe you think—he’s keeping two of our people back with him, kind of a fail-safe, I guess,” Ryan said quickly. “How we get the hell out of here I’ll have to work out triple quick. But you…you up to making a run for it?”
“Do bears shit in the woods, boy?” Gill snapped back. “I dunno how far I’ll get, but if you can guarantee me no sec to mow me down, then I’ll run like I never have. I’d rather buy the farm out there than rot in here and play their next game.”
Ryan gestured and Gill shuffled closer. He was limping and was obviously weak, but seemed to have no serious impairments.
“Why did they leave you till last?” Ryan asked out of curiosity—and perhaps a touch of suspicion.
“Lucky, I guess,” Gill replied bitterly.
Ryan looked around the barn. “You’ll need boots…” His eye caught a pair hidden under the filthy straw. He reached down and picked them up, then nearly dropped them in surprise when he realized that they still had severed feet in them, the blood congealed and dried on the leather.
Biting down the bile, the one-eyed man reached into each boot and pulled out the rotting flesh and bone, dropping it on the floor of the barn. He handed the boots over to Gill, who kept his face impassive. Who could tell what had to be going through his mind? He pushed his feet into the boots and winced.
“Must’ve been Stacey’s. She did have little feet.” He grimaced without a trace of humor.
“How many of you were there, for fuck’s sake?” Ryan asked, looking at the carnage around.
“Only five. The rest of this shit was here when we got here. Guess they’re not the world’s best housekeepers,” Gill managed with a sickly grin.
Ryan ignored the gallows humor. “C’mon, we’d better get going,” he said shortly, unwilling to hang around the barn any longer than necessary.
Moving the door as little as possible to allow them to squeeze through, Ryan then closed the doors firmly, and carefully put the bar back into place. He looked around to see if there was any movement toward the barn from the center of the ville. The dwellers were still too occupied to notice.
The two men made their way carefully back over the wooden bridge, and Ryan heaved it back into place, so that it would seem to the casual observer that no one had been over the moat that night. He looked up to see Gill staring into the center of the ville with undisguised hatred in his face.
“Fuckers,” he spit, “enjoying themselves when they reduced us to meat.”
“Don’t knock it right now,” Ryan whispered. “They’re giving you the chance to get out by doing that.”
Without another word, he led the limping Gill around the moat and toward the back end of Nagasaki, away from the center of the ville. It was quiet there and dark, with the on
ly signs of life being the slack-jawed, sloe-eyed animals that passed for livestock, watching the two men pass by with only the briefest of interest. They reached the edge of the ville without any interruption and paused at the edge of the farthest building.
“You’re on your own now,” Ryan said simply.
Gill stopped and looked at the one-eyed man. “I dunno why you bothered to do what you just did, but I’m glad.”
Without another word and without looking back, Gill limped off into the wasteland beyond the ville until he was swallowed up by the darkness. Even when he was no longer visible and the sound of his shuffling feet was lost in the all-encompassing night, Ryan still stood and watched. Why had he helped him? Because he’d learned something about Duma and the idiocy of Buckley’s plan? Perhaps, but he already knew enough to realize that the chief was a moron and the plan was tantamount to jumping into a firefight headfirst. All Gill had done was confirm that.
So why had Ryan helped him? Perhaps because, if he had been in Gill’s position, the one-eyed man would have wanted to take his chances in the wastelands rather than die ignominiously at the hands of the Nagasaki dwellers. There was no dignity in buying the farm. It was messy, painful and it meant that you kissed your ass—and this life—goodbye. But it was better to face it on your own terms.
Yeah, mebbe that’s all it was: having the choice of how to go.
Ryan turned and walked back through the ville, careful not to be seen by any stray passersby. He needn’t have worried; they were all too concerned with enjoying themselves, celebrating the great victory that they hadn’t even begun the fight for as of yet.
As unobtrusively as possible, Ryan slipped back into the circle around the fire. The fun was beginning to wind down as more of the ville dwellers were either sleeping or passed out in the dirt. A few still indulged in rutting and fighting, but even this was halfhearted as the alcohol and the chemicals and herbs claimed them.
Jak spirited his way between those left standing. He didn’t ask any questions, just fixed Ryan with an impassive stare.
“Tell you when we get some privacy,” he whispered. “But it doesn’t look good.”
“Didn’t figure it would.”
Following Jak, Ryan went over to where the others were waiting. There was no sign of Buckley or his two sec men.
“Interesting time, lover?” Krysty posed.
“Kinda—what about you?” Ryan countered.
“Great, just great.”
As Ryan looked out beyond the glow of the fire and the billowing smoke that still obscured a great tract of sky, he could see that beyond was beginning to lighten as dawn tried to break through the chem clouds over the wasteland.
“Better try and get some rest before these bastards revive and want to start for the convoy,” he murmured. “Figure we’ll be safe now—they’re all too tired to do anything.”
“Then perhaps this would be a good time to escape,” Doc pondered. “After all, you were able to slip away.”
“Yeah, but I was on my own, Doc,” Ryan countered. “Jak, what d’you reckon?”
The albino shook his head. “Buckley not that stupe. Back of the ville is okay, but if we want to take the wag then we got trouble. Five guards mounted on it and the road out.”
“Yeah, and if we go by foot then you aren’t gonna get far, Doc. Not yet, at any rate,” Ryan added.
“Mayhap you are correct, Ryan. But perhaps that means you should leave me here,” Doc said solemnly. “After all, if not for me, we would not have been taken.”
“We don’t do that and you know it,” Ryan said softly. “We stand and fall together. If at least three of us have the wag tomorrow, then at least we stand a chance of getting a ride out. See what happens.”
They walked through fallen bodies back to the ranch house and the relative safety of the room. Once secured in there, Ryan told them all he had seen in the barn and all he had gathered from Gill. And his reluctance to escape became a little more clear when he added, “Thing is, if we did just run away these sick fucks would still be around to do this to other people. I don’t like that idea too much. I’d like us to wait until we’re in a position to grind these fuckers into their own shit and mud.”
The others exchanged glances. Doc spoke for them all. “Put like that, sir, I can find no argument in my heart. We bide our time, then strike at the foulness and rip it out of the body of this land.”
There was nothing more to be said. Time now only to rest, to wait for the time when Buckley would load up the stolen wag and mount his attack. Time only to wait for the moment when they could turn the tables on the chief and his pesthole ville and wipe them out. Time now only for the chief to sleep in a deceptive peace, not knowing what they would attempt to make of his grand plans.
It was going to be a long day’s journey to the fall of night.
Chapter Twelve
Gill walked all day. From the moment the sun appeared on the horizon, through its rise to the apex of the day, until it began to slowly descend, bringing—if not relief—a drop in the harsh temperature. Sweat prickled his skin and dried out, leaving salt trails that stung in his open wounds. He had nothing left to sweat out and was almost delirious. He felt sure he would buy the farm, but was glad. At least he would be alone, not ripped to pieces and used as meat by those inbred half-mutie, half-mad scum who had held him captive. He had no idea which direction he was headed. The heat and dust made it all seem the same and even looking at the sun didn’t help. Rather than give him a point for location, it merely blinded eyes used to the gloom of the barn.
Gill fell over. If it was once, it was a dozen times. At each fall, he stubbornly picked himself up and continued, determined to chill on his feet if he was going to…when he saw the blacktop extending in front of him, stretching as far as he could see in either direction. He thought it was an illusion—just as he thought the wags coming toward him and the motorbike rider with the M-4000 who sped toward him were also an illusion.
The biker skidded to a halt only a few feet from where he stood, swaying. Gill raised his hand, tried to speak to his hallucination. But no words escaped his parched throat and dry mouth; then collapsed on the asphalt.
“HE’S WAKING UP,” were the first words Gill heard. He opened his eyes, aware of a sickening lurch in his guts. Then, as he steadied, he realized that the lurch wasn’t inside him, but was caused by the movement of the wag in which he was now lying. Faces loomed over him in the gloom of the wag’s interior and he could smell that familiar odor of gasoline, sweat and old goods that every convoy member recognizes as home.
One of the faces was female: lined and old, but still with some kind of caring in it. She took a damp piece of cloth and cleaned his forehead.
“Where the fuck did you spring from, stranger?” she asked. He tried to answer, but his throat was almost closed with lack of water. She was able to interpret his strangled yelp as a plea for water and lifted a canteen to his lips. He drank heavily, his throat so sore that the cooling liquid actually hurt on the way down.
He began to speak. It was barely more than a whisper and at first his words tumbled over themselves in his haste, but eventually he managed to croak what had bought him to this point.
“What a shit stupe plan,” the woman breathed, then turned and relayed the story in a louder voice to everyone else in the wag.
“Better tell Malloy,” the driver said over his shoulder. “Riders haven’t raised any alarm, but mebbe he’ll want to do something about this ’afore times.”
“Can’t think how the fuckers think they’re not gonna get noticed,” another voice—one he couldn’t see—said from the gloom.
“Sounds of it, these inbreeds are completely fucked in the head.” The woman shrugged. “Figures that stupes like that think they can get away with anything. Are you trying to get Malloy’s attention, Leroy?”
“What d’you want me to do, wave my black ass out the window and stop him in shock?” the driver replied laconically. “Y
ou know how hard it can be.”
Using the wag’s horn, he tapped rapidly SOS in Morse, attracting the attention of one of the bikers who rode shotgun to the convoy. As the biker closed, the driver yelled out of the open window to tell the trader to pull over. The rider sped to the front of the convoy and delivered the message. Following the lead of the front wag, the entire convoy came over to the side of the blacktop, grinding to a halt.
The back of the wag opened and Gill watched as the woman slipped out the back. She ran forward to relay Gill’s tale to the trader, who then came back to question the man himself.
Gill was tired and could still barely speak, but he outlined what he knew once more. The trader left the wag and Gill could no longer tell what was going on.
Outside, Malloy ordered one of his bikers to go ahead to Duma and warn the sec guard what was going to happen. Malloy had no intention of risking his own men in a firefight with the rogue wagon. Let Xander’s men do that. They were much better equipped for such a circumstance.
“It’s a shit stupe plan they’ve got,” he told the biker, “But if it means all we’ve got to do to avoid a firefight is pretend not to notice them, then that’s fine with me. We’ll take them right into whatever kind of a trap Xander wants. Hell, the tight-assed bastard may even up the jack on this load if he feels grateful.” A wry smile cracked the trader’s lips. “Naw, nothing short of warning him about the next nukecaust would make him that grateful—even then it’d have to be a cold day in hell.”
With a short, barking laugh, the trader sent the biker on ahead. Pausing before returning to his own wag, Malloy quickly walked back to the wag where Gill lay asleep. Waking him roughly, the trader told him what he’d done. Gill grunted and fell back into sleep. Right at that moment, he truly didn’t give a shit. Malloy shrugged, called him an asshole and returned to his lead wag, indicating that the convoy should take off again.
