by James Axler
Ryan waited, totally still and silent, until the next jagged flash burst around him. He peered closely at the odd architectural feature in that moment and saw something else that he would never otherwise have noticed. The planking held the faint but unmistakable mark of a damp hand print, as though someone had recently pushed at the wood.
Ryan waited again for a few seconds, using the next chem lightning flash to place his own hand precisely in the center of the mark, seeing how much smaller it was than his own spread fingers, and pushing very gently.
It was a cunningly concealed door, matching up to the real, locked and bolted portal, and it swung inward as though greased and counterbalanced.
Ryan felt the short hairs prickling at his nape, thinking again about the excellent supper that he'd just puked up, and the tangle of raw heads and bloodied bones hidden out in the forest. His son and friends were in mortal peril.
Finger tight on the trigger, he stepped inside the cabin.
He had no chance, no warning. Mrs. Fairchild had been waiting in the blackness and she screamed out her hatred, jumping at him, swinging at the side of his skull with a heavy hatchet that glittered in the flare of the next lightning strike.
Chapter Seventeen
No chance, no warning, only razored combat reflexes that had kept Ryan Cawdor alive through long years of hardship and danger.
He was already deeply suspicious of the dark entrance to the log cabin. The open door and the rain-smeared hand print had warned him of imminent potential danger. So, when it came grinning and howling out of the blackness, Ryan was ready for it. As ready as anyone could be.
He lifted the powerful pistol and used it to parry the murderous attack with the ax, blocking the singing edge in a shower of sparks, feeling the lethal impact. The force knocked him three paces backward, staggering off balance. "Shit-suckin' bastard…" The voice was high and hoarse, sounding like it could slice through armored sec glass at fifty yards. The woman's breath, rancid in his face, was like the unwashed floor of a charnel house, and she wielded the whirling crescent of steel with a hideous skill, so fast and so furious that it gave Ryan no chance to do anything but defend, unable to bring the SIG-Sauer into use.
Mrs. Fairchild was in a state of murderous frenzy, forcing him back through the false doorway, off the porch, out into the easing rain, the water dancing off the blade of the hatchet, pattering into his face.
Ryan tried twice to close with her, to use his extra strength and height. But she was too fast, supernaturally swift.
He managed to snatch only one shot, taking advantage of a moment when Mom seemed to hesitate, pausing to draw a ragged breath. But his footing was unsure in the thick mud, and the bullet went inches wide.
If Ryan allowed the woman to dictate the course of the fight, then he was likely to go down. Mrs. Fairchild was showing no signs of tiring, and it was only a matter of time—a short time—before the hatchet would slip by his woefully inadequate guard and hack a chunk out of his flesh.
"Bitch fucker!"
He tried the risk of aggression, managing to press her back onto the streaming, shadowed porch. For the next fifteen or twenty seconds, it was like a Mexican standoff. The maniac vigor of the woman held Ryan off, wearing him down, but she was too aware of the threat of the big pistol to be able to step away for the deathblow.
He took a quick step to his left, hoping to snatch a nanosecond that would enable him to take another shot at Mom Fairchild. But some of the planks of the porch were rotten and cracked under his heel, sending him toppling away to his right. The woman whooped with obscene delight as she saw him suddenly vulnerable, and swung down with her ax, sending the SIG-Sauer spinning from his wet fingers, the blaster landing in a deep puddle a dozen feet away.
"Goodbye, you shit-for-brains dickhead!" she roared, the hatchet looping up behind her shoulder, ready for the final, lethal stroke.
Ryan lifted his right hand to try to parry the blow, realizing the futility of the gesture. His mind's eye projected forward, seeing the steel hack clean through his wrist, leaving a blood-jetting stump, when he saw an amazing sight.
Something like a long needle of steel, smeared with blood, glistening in the lightning's fierce dazzle, had emerged from the center of Mom's chest, below her pendulous breasts, tearing a small, neat hole in the check shirt she wore.
"Oh," she said in a little, gasping voice, taking a single, faltering step toward Ryan. Her fingers unclenched the murderous grip on the haft of the ax, allowing it to drop to the boards at her feet.
"Touché," Doc said, his voice overlaid with a note of quiet triumph.
Ryan watched, seeing the rapier's point withdrawn and then thrust in again, penetrating between the ribs, beneath the shoulder blade on the left side of the woman's corpulent body, slicing into lungs and heart.
He managed to free his trapped boot from the splintered wood and stepped neatly to one side, looking for the blaster, which was barely visible in the pitted pool of muddied water. He picked it up, his eye on Mrs. Fairchild. Once more the heavy clouds had rolled away from the sailing hunter's moon, flooding the wide clearing with a deliquescent, silvery radiance.
Mrs. Fairchild's little piggy eyes had opened unnaturally wide with the shock of the attack from behind her. Her arms dropped to her sides, and she swayed backward and forward for a dozen long seconds, like a stricken tree. Her mouth opened in a great wordless cry, then she dropped facedown into the liquid dirt, sending a wave of muddy water billowing across the open space in front of the cabin.
"Sic semper tyrannis," Doc said, stooping to wipe the blood-slick steel of his beloved Toledo rapier on the corpse's shirt. " 'It was ever thus.' Cast your bread upon the waters and you see what you get?"
"Yeah. Soggy bread," Mildred said from behind Ryan, standing with J.B. and Krysty, all three with blasters drawn.
"All right, lover?"
"Yeah, Dad. Thought you were down and done for," Dean added.
Ryan examined the chipped and scarred metal of his SIG-Sauer. "Yeah, thanks. And a big thanks to you, Doc. I owe you one."
"And I owe you hundreds, my dear friend."
"Mind explaining just what's been going on here, bro?" J.B. asked.
Ryan stepped past Mrs. Fairchild's body and showed everyone the concealed doorway. By now Jak had appeared, shaking his head sleepily.
"Think bit drugged," he said.
Doc patted the teenager on the shoulder. "I would not be a jot or tittle surprised, dear lad. I confess to feeling a little doped myself." He caught Mildred's glance. "Perhaps I should say that I felt a little more doped than is my usual condition. All part of the murderous plan of that red-eyed trollop." He scratched his head and finally returned the slender, engraved steel blade to its ebony sheath. "But I must admit to bewilderment at what lay behind this scheme. Ryan? What was the ultimate aim of this wicked, wicked woman?"
"You three would have simply disappeared. No way of knowing how or why. Could be she aimed to blame the mutie rats. I chilled another of them out yonder."
Krysty shook her head. "I'm puzzled as Doc, lover. What's the point of chilling Dean, Doc and Jak? Just what would she have gained by it?"
"Meat."
"How's that?"
"Fresh meat."
"What for?"
"For her famous jerky."
The storm had moved right away, and the rain had stopped. The clearing was startlingly silent, the six companions staring at Ryan, understanding dawning slowly on each horrified face.
"I cannot…" Doc began, stopping and swallowing hard. He turned away and leaned one hand on the rain-damp wall of the cabin. In the moonlight his normally ruddy cheeks had assumed the hue of old parchment.
"Dad! I…I…" Dean bent double and puked violently.
Jak said nothing, simply going back inside the dark cabin. A few moments later they could all hear the noise of his being very sick.
Mildred reached out and grabbed J.B. by the hand. "Sweet Christ on the Cross, John,"
she whispered. "How can anyone be so…so…wicked?"
The Armorer squeezed her fingers so hard his knuckles whitened, moving closer to hug her to him. Rain streaked his glasses, making it hard to see his eyes. "Least we leave things a bit cleaner," he said.
Krysty had also gone pale, her cheeks like ivory. "The jerky was… Oh, Gaia!"
Ryan told them in a few quiet words about the slaughter dump of corpses that he'd discovered along the rear trail.
"So, I guess we won't stay here too much longer. Woman might have friends. Someone supplied her with the…stuff for her jerky. Might even be a colleague of the Children of the Rock. Just don't know."
J.B. looked at him. "Still some time to first light. I reckon it might be a real good thing to go through the place. See if we can find any clean, uncontaminated food. Then, before we set out tomorrow, we drag that—" he pointed with the Uzi at the corpse of the woman "—drag her inside and torch the place. Cover our tracks. Fire purges."
THE SMELL OF KEROSENE lingered in the dawn air like iron on the tongue.
Through the open door of Mom's Place, Ryan could see the feet and ankles of the owner of the eatery, lying by the bar, where she'd been dumped.
Jak was holding a self-light, waiting for the word to set it off.
"Everyone clear and ready?" Ryan waited for the response from the others. They were all packed and eager to move away from the nightmare place.
The first bright light of morning was breaking away to the east, dappling the slopes of the Sierras with the pale golden sheen. Though none of them felt that hungry, Ryan had insisted that they should all try to force down a reasonable breakfast before hitting the road.
There'd been plenty of eggs in the kitchen of the restaurant, as well as a larder with shelves full of sausages and home-cured bacon.
None of them had opted for any of the meat products, limiting themselves to omelets and scrambled eggs. Krysty also whipped up a plateful of buttered biscuits that vanished quickly enough.
Ryan glanced around, taking a deep breath of the clean mountain air, trying to set aside the memory of what they'd all eaten the night before. "Right, Jak?"
"Sure."
"Set the fire."
The self-light spluttered, its flame tiny and feeble in the dawn sunlight. Jak cradled it in his hands against the fresh breeze, stooped just inside the door of the eatery and applied it to a mess of crumpled paper, which flared up, a cloud of dirty gray smoke curling out into the clearing. In moments the kerosene-soaked wood caught, and the smoke thickened and became black.
Jak backed off, dropping the self-light in the damp dirt by his feet, watching, fascinated, as the red-orange flames spread quickly up the rough timber walls, setting the stained plasterboard ceiling on fire.
"Cleansing," J.B. said, holding Mildred's hand. "Like I said."
RYAN PAUSED as they crossed a narrow ridge, looking back down the valley toward Mom's Place. He saw that the column of smoke, shredded by the northerly wind, was already growing thinner, the building beneath it almost totally consumed by the raging flames.
"Be finished in a few minutes," he said to Krysty, who was walking at his side.
"You think our story will prove adequate for the Children of the Rock?" Doc asked, the sentence interrupted by another coughing fit. The old man's cheeks were flushed, his blue eyes watering, his nose constantly running.
Ryan nodded, talking over his shoulder. "Sure. Best kind of lie is the simple one."
Doc smiled, showing his wonderful teeth. "Mom was having trouble with her stove and said it was overheating. But everything was fine when we left." He recited the words in a singsong voice.
"Way you said that reminds me of the way the guides talk who showed you around the old houses in Concord," Mildred said, grinning broadly. "Said it all so many times they can't speak it in a normal way anymore."
"Shouldn't we be reaching the ville soon?" said the Armorer, slinging the Uzi across his right shoulder.
"From what those young guys said, there'll be sentries." Ryan looked around them. "Can't be far. Reckon they'll probably see us before we see them."
They had passed another neat sign, only about a hundred yards back: Pilgrims and Seekers After Truth are Nearly at the Golden City.
And a second line added in a different hand: Come in Peace or Not at All.
"That's us," Dean said, giggling.
Doc was doubled over, racked, a thread of greenish spittle dangling from his chin. Ryan caught Mildred's eye, but she only shook her head and shrugged.
J.B. had taken off his fedora, using it to fan away a cloud of persistent small black flies that hung around him. "How come they only pick on me. Dark-nighted little bastards!" He brushed at his chest, pausing and staring carefully at the rad counter pinned to his lapel. "Well into the orange," he said. "Must be a local hot spot someplace fairly close."
Ryan checked his own counter, finding the same reading. It was very close to the red of imminent danger. "Shouldn't hang around here too long," he said. "And best keep a careful eye on the readings. Real careful."
THEY SAW A SMALL HERD of deer, with flecked skins, bounding across the trail a little way ahead of them, moving fast and elegant, down the hill toward the west. Ryan automatically unslung the Steyr rifle, picking up the head of a young stag in the laser image enhancer, easing his finger off the trigger as he changed his mind about opening fire. In any case, they didn't need food.
The track had widened, showing clear evidence of heavier use—hoof marks and furrowed wag wheels, the muddied scars filled with water.
Just as Ryan stopped, the others gathering around him, a blaster fired from the cover of the trees to the right of the old blacktop. The bullet gouged up a gout of spray that splashed over Ryan's pants and boots, missing him by less than a yard.
The voice from the shadowed pines was flat and unemotional. "Wrong move buys you eternity, outlanders."
"Keep real still," Ryan said.
Chapter Eighteen
The echo of the shot was still bouncing off the steep rocks to the left.
"You got a lot of blasters there, outlanders."
There didn't seem to be a question, so Ryan chose not to answer.
"You triple stupe, stranger?"
Ryan looked up the hill toward the sound of the voice, trying to detect some sign of movement. But the dense wall of pines was impenetrable.
"You got us cold, brother," he said. "Not the sort of charitable welcome we were led to expect from the Children of the Rock."
"Who told you about us?"
"Don't know their names. There was three of them, eating supper last night at a small place run by a lady called Mom. Made the finest jerky I ever tasted."
Silence.
J.B. was still holding the Uzi at his hip, finger on the trigger. Ryan noticed that the blaster was set on full-auto, ready for a lethal burst of fire. "You letting us in, or do we keep on walking?"
"Keep your dick in your pocket, mister. No need for too much rushing."
"You said about you'd been at Mom's Place, stranger?" another voice said.
Ryan nodded. "Sure have."
"Was things snug when you left?"
"Snug? Don't—"
"We seen signs of fire. Big column of smoke. Seemed to come from roundabouts where Mom has her place. You didn't see nothing at all?"
"Don't look back that much. Just forward." He turned and looked behind them, scanning the horizon. "I don't make out any fire. The place stood all right when we left. Had us an early breakfast and left around dawn."
"We got a patrol heading out that way later on this morning. Check it out."
Ryan waited. There was a tension and a suspicion in the air. It was unmistakable, lying on the tongue, bitter and cold. And that wasn't so unusual in frontier pesthole villes. But he didn't feel any serious imminent threat. The short hairs of his nape stayed flat.
The first voice came back. "There any more in your party, mister?"
"No.
What you see is what there is."
"You aiming to visit or stay?"
"Who knows? My old father used to say that you had to walk that lonely valley by yourself."
There was a sound of a muttered conversation from among the trees. J.B. shuffled a few paces to his left, coming closer to Ryan.
"Think they're going to let us in, bro? Sounds like they run a tight ville."
"Not a bad thing. They sound like bottom-line sec men, guys who think with their blasters."
The first voice came again. "Yeah. We found out the brothers you saw yesterday. They filed a report with us, last night, on a half-dozen outlanders at Mom's Place. Said you might be along here this morning."
"Good."
"Sure. Also said to watch you. Wondered if you was mercies on the hunt. Or bounties?"
"Not these days. Just traders who've had some hard times. Lost our rig. Been traveling across Deathlands, here and there, picking up what we can. We'd appreciate being able to stay a few days with you."
"What you got to offer? Trade them blasters for some food and beds?"
Ryan shook his head. "Not the blasters. But we can trade some of our time. We heard you had troubles with some local Apaches. Long way off their hunting lands."
"Mescalero. Been trouble for a while to the Children. Brother Joshua's named them as wolf's-heads. Means we can chill them when and where we see them. It's a real bitter mort-feud. You run in with them?"
Ryan considered telling the unseen guards about their bloody confrontation with the Apaches, deciding on balance that one of the Trader's maxims about telling what you had to and not a word more was appropriate.
"No. Heard of them. We'd lend a hand in exchange for bed and board."
"Have to put it to Brother Joshua. He's the voice of the grail up here."
"Grail?"
Doc hissed an answer to Ryan's question. "Grail, Holy. Reference to the drinking cup of Christ. As used at the alleged Last Supper. Then utilized by legendary figure of Joseph of Arimathea to catch drops of Savior's blood after crucifixion. Taken, allegedly, to England and has strong links with King Arthur, mythical ruler of part of Britain during dark ages. A very potent symbol of religious power."
