by James Axler
"What, ma'am?"
"Way the felines are still skittish, I have an uneasy feeling that we've just experienced something of a preshock. Could be a much bigger one lurking just around the next corner. Best be ready for that and all."
Josiah Steele came by a few minutes later, to make sure they were all safe after the earthquake.
"Young Penny Boot broke a wrist when a cupboard came off the wall on top of her. Not serious."
"We're fine. Don't know how Doc got along, out in the woods on his lonesome."
The sec man shook his head. "I have to reckon that you could be hearing some bad news in the next two or three hours. Once that coldheart Owsley and his gang get back to the ville. They won't likely be taking prisoners."
"Is Wolfe planning to chill us all?" J.B. asked, sitting on one of the beds, holding Mildred's hand.
For a long moment Steele didn't reply to the question, then he cleared his throat, looking all around him. "Not for me to try and guess."
"But if you were a gambling man," the Armorer said, "then you wouldn't give good odds on survival."
Steele stared at him, stone-faced. "No odds I could offer you at all."
Suddenly J.B.'s usual icy control snapped, and he jumped off the bed, coming right at the sec man. "You stinking bastard! I'll rip your lungs out!"
Steele hastily drew his blaster and jammed it into the advancing man's stomach. "Hey, just back off," he shouted, his voice thin and high and frightened.
Ryan quickly came between them, brushing aside the Hawes Montana Marshal .45. "No need for this," he said quietly. He placed a hand on his old friend's shoulder, looking him in the eyes, unable to see the true expression behind the glittering lenses of the spectacles.
"All right. Dark night! But I hate…" He turned away, ignoring the threatening blaster.
Ryan also turned away, but his eye had been caught by something glittering brightly on the lapel of J.B.'s coat. The little rad counter was a clear and unarguable red. Not orange. Not reddish orange.
Full red.
THE WIND that had dropped, oddly, during the quake, was suddenly rising again, setting up with a real menace, shaking some of the largest branches on the huge pines all around Maya Tennant's little cottage.
"Could be in for some darned unpleasant weather," the woman said, one hand absently stroking the kittens.
"Hold up the pursuers, mayhap. Indeed, I have a scintilla of hope that the quake might have deterred them from chasing me any farther."
"Not if it's those Children of the Rock, Doc. All the years I've been here, they've been sniffing around and causing trouble. Kidnapping little ones from the Mescalero who arrived here a few years back. Nothing but anguish. They leave me alone, though that miserable one-armed son of a bitch, Joshua Wolfe, tried to have me burned as a witch about three winters ago. Failed. I went up to their poverty-hill ville and defended meself against their charges. Challenged them to burn or hang me."
Maya gave a throaty laugh. "Course he backed off."
Doc leaned back, blinking as the wind blew dust into his pale eyes. "You think it likely that the villains will attempt to follow me?"
"Guess so, Doc." She stood suddenly, brushing the little tabbies from her skirts. She stared across the small kitchen garden, with its neatly tilled rows of vegetables. Coming toward them was a very large ginger cat, stalking between the cabbages, tail held high like a bright orange beacon.
"Here comes Mehitabel," Maya said. "Way she's moving tells me that we're about to have us some company. Best go get hid where I showed you, Doc."
KRYSTY WAS SITTING UP sipping at a bowl of oatmeal with some wild honey stirred into it. She was still very fragile, but the draining effect of using the Gaia power to save her life was gradually wearing off.
She had sat and listened while Ryan took her quickly through everything that had happened since she became unconscious, explaining why it became necessary for the ailing Doc to flee from Hopeville.
"Couldn't you have tried…tried to get at the weapons? Mebbe it would have been easier. Safer?"
Ryan had argued against that idea, pointing out that Wolfe only needed a feather of an excuse to set in the balance to justify murdering them all. And the odds were way too long against them. It was just a question of waiting a while longer.
Now the wind was rising, making the flames of the big central fire tear sideways in streaks of red and orange, rattling a loose shingle on the roof.
J.B., as taciturn as ever, stood and peered out through the dirt-smeared window. "Some folks putting up storm shutters," he observed.
Dean was on his bed. "Cover for escape?"
Ryan nodded. "Possibly. Need to be a sight worse than this. Now, if there was to be another shaker, then it might give us a chance."
OWSLEY LED his sweating men up the narrow side trail. To his frustration they hadn't been able to find any definite tracks of the old man, but he felt confident that they had trailed him down to the cottage of the mad old cat woman.
"Hey, in there," he shouted, lifting his voice over the soaring wind. "Bitch! We know you got a guest, and we fucking want him out here. You got just thirty seconds to come out with him, or we come in and we come in hard and heavy. Do some damage and mebbe some hurting of your cats. And you. Thirty seconds, witch, and your time starts now!"
Chapter Thirty-Three
Doc could hear the shouting.
He was crouched in a sweet-scented linen chest of carved walnut and cedar. Maya had told him that it had once belonged to her great-great-great grandmother, taking it back way before the long winters and the horrors of skydark. The acanthus pattern around the lid was deeply polished, and the ornate key turned smoothly in the oiled brass lock.
The woman had led him, holding his large hand in her slender, dry fingers, up a twisting cupboard staircase, into a low-beamed attic. It was crowded with antique items of furniture, many of them so old that they actually took Doc back to his childhood, some two hundred years ago.
There was a beautiful mahogany credenza and an elegant pedal harmonium, made in Woodstock, with ivory knobs and keys; a sideboard so big that Doc guessed it had to break down into smaller constituent parts, unless they'd originally built the attic around it; a round table, beautifully veneered, with a pie-crust edge and a single, central claw foot.
And the linen chest.
At first it didn't seem possible for Doc to coil his length into it, but Maya removed some fragile sheets from it, and he was able to hunker down. Cramped and stooped, he heard the key turn in the lock.
For a passing moment Doc felt the frightening taint of claustrophobia, sucking in a deep breath, wondering just how airtight the old chest might be. And just how long that remaining air might last him. With an effort he controlled his respiration, fighting against the sudden temptation of a violent coughing fit. He'd seen enough of the sec men to figure that they wouldn't deal kindly with Maya Tennant if they found out that she'd been sheltering the object of their anger.
The shouting seemed to be coming from the first floor of the cabin, and he could make out the noise of boots pounding on the stairs. And there was Maya's voice, tense with a barely controlled anger, threatening action if any damage was done to any of her valued possessions. Or if even a hair was harmed of any of her beloved felines.
"Shut that flapping trap. The Blessed Jesus, lord of freedom and detester of government says that the open mouth of a nagging slut is an offense in the eyes of any right-thinking person. I say amen to that." The whining, hectoring voice belonged to Brother Owsley.
"I say that sec men are all either bullies or cowards. And most frequently both."
Doc had unsheathed his rapier and gripped the silver lion's-head hilt in his right hand, though he was only too aware that it was likely to be a futile gesture.
"By the Three Kennedys! But I can take one of the mongrels with me, Emily," he whispered to himself, and to his long-dead beloved wife.
Outside, the whole building seemed to
be swaying in the wind, now risen to full gale force. Doc was aware of timbers groaning, and he could actually feel the sides of the chest vibrating against himself.
"This is the attic," Maya said. "I keep telling you, I haven't seen an old man. Haven't seen a man at all for nigh on three weeks. There's just me and my cats here."
"If I have to I'll slit the throat of every one of your fucking cats, starting with this sinister black bastard." There was a shriek of protest from an animal and a yell of anger from the woman, followed by a gasp of pain and the sound of someone falling to the floor of the crowded attic.
"You broke my balls, you—"
"You hurt Astaroth, you devil! You deserve all the agony there is going, trying to wound a poor, defenseless little mite like Astaroth."
"Defenseless! Its fucking claws opened me up from wrist to elbow."
Another voice warned Owsley that he was bleeding from the cat scratch.
"I know it, you triple stupe. And the witch kneed me in the balls."
Doc's fingers were slippery with perspiration. He was trying to do what Ryan had always advised. If there was going to be some sort of combat, then try to ready yourself for it—imagine the opening moves of the fight, so that you had a heartbeat's edge over your opponents.
But that still came down to having a single chance with the rapier.
One lunge. That was all there'd be. Doc thought it through, imagining the feeling of the razored steel as it slid between the fourth and fifth ribs, warm blood gouting along the blade, over his hand and wrist.
Then there would be the crack of blasters. Probably, Doc thought, several of them. He winced, closing his eyes in the perceived expectation of several .44- and .45-caliber bullets ripping into his body, punching great holes in his flesh, smashing bones to white shards.
He wondered how long death would take to come.
"Where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling," he hummed to himself.
"And grave thy victory?"
Now he could feel the floorboards vibrating with heavy boots, feet very close to the chest, and Owsley's complaining voice, still moaning about the grievous injury that Maya Tennant had inflicted on him.
"How about opening up that old chest for us? Or would you rather we smashed it in? Come on!"
Doc clearly heard the clatter of a shingle breaking loose in the gathering storm. He held his breath.
J.B. STOOD in the doorway of their cabin, bracing himself against the gale, his eyes narrowed. "Bastard rough," he said, making two words do where other men might have used two dozen.
Krysty was walking around the room, leaning heavily on Ryan's shoulder, her fiery hair glowing in the gloom of the hut. Her face was pale, emerald green eyes tight shut, lips pinched. A tiny worm of blood inching over her jaw. Ever since she first recovered consciousness, at the beginning of the storm, she had been fighting hard to regather her damaged strength.
"Damn this Gaia weakness!" she exclaimed, letting go and flopping back onto the bed.
"Without it you'd likely have been butchered," Mildred said. "You know that you can't just use it and hope to get away free. Always takes a dreadful toll from you, drawing on the Earth Mother's power."
"Yeah, yeah, I know it. But if I'd been fit and able, then we could have pulled together for Doc."
They hadn't seen any sign of Joshua Wolfe or any of his crazed minions, not since Owsley had led his hunting party off into the deteriorating weather. The shutters had been battened down on all of the buildings, fires extinguished, the ville's dogs gathered in to safety.
"Getting worse," J.B. commented, leaning hard against the door to press it shut, softening the howling of the storm. "Hope Doc's not caught out in this."
"Hope Doc's not caught period." Ryan carefully turned up the wick on the oil lamp, pushing the dancing shadows into the corners of the room.
"Reckon they'll bring him back here?" Mildred asked, stretching out on her bed.
Ryan nodded, dropping his voice even though they couldn't have been more private. "Wolfe seems to be the sort who likes showing a good example. Let the Children of the Rock see his authority. Big public execution is likely his style."
"Then us," Krysty said.
He nodded again. "Yeah. Then us."
DOC WAS as ready as he ever could be, the lion's-head hilt gripped tight, his whole body braced to explode out of the chest.
He could almost see the sec man, poised to smash his wooden coffin, hear Maya Tennant protesting in the background. And above it all was the muffled fury of the storm.
"Last chance before I break it in, lady."
"I have a key somewhere. Just give me a bitching minute, will you? If this man you're after is in there, then he surely isn't going anyplace."
Doc grinned, lips tight across his excellent teeth. "Game to the last," he whispered to himself.
"Sounds like the roofs going," said another voice, high toned with the edge of panic. "Mebbe we'd best get out of here, Brother Owsley."
Suddenly Doc felt the wooden walls of the chest start to vibrate, and he tensed himself, thinking that the pursuers were trying to tilt it or lift it. But it wasn't that.
"WHAT FUCK?" Jak exclaimed, taking a couple of loose, staggering steps to one side, hands stretched out to fight for balance.
J.B. lurched toward the bed, stumbling and falling on top of Mildred, who reached up to check him.
Ryan and Dean were close to the bed where Krysty lay, and they managed to sit down quickly, feeling the floor shifting and rippling, like liquid sand. The timbers creaked and split, unpeeling furrows of white splinters.
And there was the familiar noise, rising all above and around the noise of the massive storm, like a dozen powerful war wags revving their engines at once, somehow directly beneath the planking of the cabin.
"Outside, lover, Dean," Krysty said. "Safer than in here."
He could barely hear her above the cacophony of noise from the twin sources.
There'd been bad quakes at other times in his life, and he recognized the bizarrely disorientating effects, with reality crumbled at the edges. He struggled to focus his mind on what they should do.
"Outside, everyone!" he shouted, agreeing with Krysty's mutie feeling.
Easier said than done.
Ryan remembered being on a sailing ship once through a tornado, and when he stood the sensation was remarkably similar. The whole building was quivering like a frightened animal, and he staggered and nearly fell. He recovered his balance and held out a hand to steady Krysty as she swung her legs off the bed. Dean was up and moving.
Jak was first to reach the door, moving with the natural poise of the skilled acrobat, hesitating with his ringers gripping the handle. "Ready?" he asked, his voice shrill above the raging noise.
J.B. held Mildred by the hand, as they weaved across the heaving floor, looking like a couple of drunks trying to make a decorous exit from a frontier gaudy.
"Door's jammed!" the teenager yelled. There was a ferocious shuddering, and the kerosene lamp crashed off the table onto the floor, rolling under one of the beds, plunging the room into momentary darkness.
But that lasted for only a few seconds. A flicker of orange flame snaked out of the blackness as the dust-dry blankets caught fire, followed by the crackling of the floorboards igniting in the fierce heat.
J.B., Dean and Ryan reached Jak, and they all threw their weight against the opening. But it was obvious that the whole structure of the hut had become twisted by the quake, pinning the door into its warped frame.
Already the place was filling with coils of choking smoke, muffling the climbing flames.
"Windows are all shuttered from the outside," the Armorer shouted. Already it was hard to breathe.
THERE HAD BEEN a period of total confusion.
Doc's control over his own mind had never been that strong, and times of severe stress tended to create some serious brain slippage. If he'd been presented with a wag load of jack, he could never have told anyone how long
the shuddering, crashing, sliding and yelling went on.
It could have been less than fifteen seconds.
It might well have lasted for two or three minutes.
Either way it seemed to Doc to be an endless eternity of terror.
The chest spun as though possessed by its own malevolent demon, crashing across the attic floor, pitching and tossing, the wood of the panels splintering, showing daggers of light through the fresh cracks.
For a few shards of broken time, Doc passed out, slipping into a mysterious blackness.
When he came around, the movement had ceased and there was an uncanny near silence. For a while he lay cocooned in the welcome stillness, luxuriating in the calm.
He couldn't sense the presence of the sec men. They had to have gone. Otherwise they'd have broken in the lid of the chest and hauled him helplessly out.
"Hello," he said cautiously. Doc cleared his throat and tried again, aware of the frailty of his voice.
But there was no response.
"Anyone there? Mrs. Tennant? You out there, madam? Could you possibly unlock me?"
He braced himself against the sides of the chest, pushing with all his strength. Despite the splits in the wood, the bands held like iron.
Doc realized that the storm was still raging, and that the silence was comparative after the intensity of the massive earthquake.
He also realized that he could smell the bitter, acrid tang of wood smoke.
"Help! Help me…"
THERE WAS a final shock that felt as though the whole building were being jerked sideways, with one end dipping and twisting. Krysty was knocked off the bed onto the floor, and all the others were thrown off their feet.
"Fireblast!" Ryan banged his elbow against the door, blinking in the sudden shaft of light. One of the shutters had been torn off its mounting, the glass shattering in the window, as the wall of smoke opened before his eye.
"Get out!" Krysty screamed, staggering across the rocking floor.
She led the way, risking cuts on the broken windowpanes, followed by Jak and Dean. Then came J.B., helping out a dazed Mildred.
Ryan was last out of the burning building, emerging into a wilderness of destruction.
