Deathlands - The Twilight Children

by James Axler

Jehu nodded. "His spirit dwells there."

  "Not his body?" Krysty said. "Don't we get to actually see him?"

  Dorothy gave her a pitying smile. "Nobody at all gets to see Moses. Except the boy or girl honored by being chosen as the leader for the year."

  "Moses picks them personally?" Michael had moved close to Dorothy.

  "Not himself. But at the time they are permitted to let fall the reins of their year, it is Moses who releases them."

  Jehu coughed. "Sister, it will soon be time for the ending of work for the day. After prayers, the outlanders can come and sit with us at our meal." Dorothy hesitated. "Does Moses..." "Yes, he knows. Moses knows all, sister."

  "Blessed be that knowledge." Dorothy crossed herself and lowered her eyes.

  "Amen to that."

  "Can we wash up?" Krysty asked.

  "Of course. There is a building set aside for outlanders who are permitted to stay in Quindley." The young man looked at the seven friends. "But it is a place divided."

  "Divided? What do you mean?"

  Jehu spread his hands like a market huckster displaying his wares. "Men on one side and women the other. As you will not stay long, the old and young can remain together,"

  Ryan felt his temper flaring, but Krysty sensed it and gripped him by the wrist. "Only for a night. Two at the outside, lover," she said. "Not a problem. We're guests in their ville, so we play the game by their rules."

  "When in Rome, one must do as the Romans do." Doc intoned.

  "Trader did a good deal in Rome once," J.B. said. "Bunch of knives."

  "In Rome!" Doc exclaimed. "I had not realized that the gentleman was familiar with the Eternal City."

  "Halfway between Atlanta and Chattanooga, Doc. -That the place you mean?"

  "Not quite, my dear John Barrymore. Not quite."

  Chapter Twenty

  "Bugged?" Ryan looked around the semicircular room. Its longer, flat wall of feather-edged boards was what divided them from the women's half of the thatched building. The floor was tongue-and-groove planks.

  J.B. sat on one of the narrow wooden beds, laying his Uzi across his lap. "No," he replied. "Quindley doesn't look much like a hi-tek ville to me. Fact is, it looks the opposite. Like those places with Amish barons. Can only just about bring themselves to use the wheel."

  Doc lay on another bed, his hands locked behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. "I was never comfortable with thatch above me. I fear that some great cockatrice will tumble into ray snoring mouth while I sleep."

  "Once had a mutie rat fall on me, Doc," said Dean, who was roaming around the room, peering at the handmade tables and chairs. "Tried to bite my tongue right out, before I was properly woked up."

  "By the Three Kennedys! You poor mite." Doc sat up, his eyes wide with dismay. "What happened?"

  "I bit its head off," Dean replied, sitting on the bed nearest to the door.

  "It had it coming," Michael was tying down on his side, facing the blank wall.

  "Right! Hot pipe, but you should have seen the look on its face when I gobbed it out in the dirt."

  Jehu had left them, saying that they had half an hour before the evening food would be served. "Get water through the trap in the floor. Bucket on a rope. We barter for soap. But it's costly, so be sparing with it."

  There was a single bar on the central table, in a shell dish. It had the look and consistency of old tallow. So far none of them had bothered to use it.

  "What do you make of this place, J.B.?" Ryan asked.

  "Like to meet up with this Moses" was the Armorer's elliptical reply.

  Ryan nodded. "Know what you mean. All this clean, healthy living. Got to be something wrong."

  ON THE OTHER SIDE of the partition, Mildred and Krysty had reached the same conclusion.

  They shared a bucket of cold, clear water, struggling to get anything approaching a lather from the cake of soap, having to be content with a greasy scum on their skin. Krysty had considered washing her hair, but changed her mind.

  "What do you reckon about this place?" she said, sitting cross-legged on one of the beds with her vivid green eyes closed, concentrating on one of the Earth Mother's meditation techniques for inner power.

  Mildred stood staring out of the narrow, barred window, across the expanse of the lake. "Don't know. I really don't know."

  "Neat and tidy."

  "Healthy."

  Krysty ran her fingers through her hair, producing a shower of tiny, fiery sparks. "Clean."

  "Too clean?"

  "Could be."

  Mildred turned from the window. "It's like I once visited Disneyland, over in Los Angeles. It was wonderful and I had a great time there, but... maybe it was just a little too squeaky-clean. Same feeling here."

  "And they're all so damned young!"

  "Still, they've been okay with us, Krysty. Apart from being snotty about how old we all are. All except Dean and Michael, of course."

  ' "The way they look at Doc, it's like he's carrying a living curse."

  Mildred sat on her bed, considering the wall between them and the men. "Think we might be able to find a way around that for tonight?"

  Krysty laughed. "Can't you and J.B. do without it, just for one night?"

  "Yeah. It isn't just the sex, though that's real good. It's being close to someone you...you love. There. Now I've said it. Love. Don't you feel that with Ryan?"

  "Sure I do, Mildred. There's been times, when we pass through somewhere real beautiful, that I want to settle down with Ryan and raise kids and all that shit.

  Other times, it seems we can only ever keep running and chilling."

  "They don't call this place Deathlands for nothing."

  "I know. I've seen more corpses in the past couple of years than..."

  "Than I've had hot dinners? That's the saying from my time. But I haven't had all that many hot dinners since I woke up here in Deathlands."

  "Well, if the meal that they promised us is as good as the stuff looked growing in their fields, we could be in for a real treat."

  IT WAS DOROTHY who came calling for them a half hour or so later.

  They'd heard a noise-like a kind of trumpet booming out over the ville-that they assumed was a signal for all the workers to come in along the causeway so that Quindley could be secured for the night.

  "Light's going," Michael said, standing by the open door and peering out into the evening gloom.

  "They don't have a generator," J.B. said. "No 'lectric power."

  "Saw a couple of gas tanks, along by the place where this Moses lives," Ryan said.

  "My recollection of New England makes me think that it could be somewhat cold in the winter." Doc rubbed his stomach. "I admire the morality of those who eschew meat-eating, but I cannot conceal my carnivorous desires for a good chunk of flesh every now and again. I am wondering just how much longer we will be kept waiting."

  "Here comes Dorothy," Michael said from the door.

  "How DID YOU GET ALL the blasters your people carry?" J.B. asked, as the young woman led them through the quiet lanes of the ville.

  "The blasters?"

  "Yeah. Guards on the tower and the ones on the gate, all got good long guns. Brownings, a Mann-licher Model S, chambered for a .375 round. Couple of Marlins. Nice Winchester. Not many handblasters, though."

  She stopped and looked at him, her face illuminated by the burning torches set in brackets along the way. "Moses knows the answer about the blasters. I heard there was a store in town, miles off from Quindley. But all this was long ago." She frowned with the effort of memory. "Called Jolly Jack's Sporting Goods. Least, I think that was the name."

  "Yeah. They'd sell mainly r ifles and scatterguns," the Armorer agreed.

  "How long has Quindley been run like this?" Krysty was at Dorothy's shoulder.

  "Run like what?"

  "Neat and not eating meat and well guarded."

  Dorothy smiled. "Since the day before yesterday. That's what Moses says to tell outland
ers who keep asking too many prying questions."

  "How many people live here?"

  She looked at Ryan. "That's the end of questions. We have to go for the meal."

  Dean tugged at her sleeve. "Come on. Tell us how many live here."

  The young woman smiled. "For you, Dean... You aren't spoiled like... There are thirty-seven men between fifteen and the top. Forty-six women."

  "What's 'the top' mean?" Michael had contrived to be right beside Dorothy again.

  "The top is what we in the ville here call the ending time." She shook her head, so that her long blond hair caught the reddish glow of the torches. "But I've spoken too much. Much too much, Michael."

  "Where are all the children?" Dean asked.

  "Heard her say no more questions," Ryan warned.

  "No!" Dorothy spit at him "He and Michael may ask me anything they wish."

  "Well?" Dean had his hands on his hips, grinning triumphantly at his father.

  "Young ones below five live in one building. Middle ones from five to fifteen live apart as well."

  Ahead of them the large double doors of one of the thatched huts swung open, spilling a lake of golden light across the packed earth.

  Jehu stood there, staring out into the darkness of the evening. "Late, Sister Dorothy," he called.

  "We're coming."

  THE DELICIOUS SMELL of cooking seeped out from the long dining hall. The air was smoky from the lights, and from the ovens that could be glimpsed through a door to the rear of the building.

  The inhabitants of the ville were seated at two long tables that ran along the wooden walls, with a shorter table laid crosswise at the head.

  Every seat seemed to be filled, though Ryan noticed immediately that males and females were strictly segregated-men to the right and women to the left. Only the smaller top table held a mix of both the sexes.

  "All young," he breathed to J.B., as they paused in the entrance to the hall.

  "All young," the Armorer agreed.

  Jehu had taken his own carved chair at the center of the high table. There were already four or five men and women with him, along with eight empty seats, waiting for Dorothy and for the seven friends.

  The place had been filled with noisy conversation as they'd walked toward it, but, at the moment of their entrance, an unearthly silence fell over the room.

  "Welcome, outlanders," Jehu called. "Come in and sit and receive the hospitality of Quindley."

  "Thank you kindly," Ryan replied, checking automatically what kind of weapons the young people were wearing.

  Most had knives sheathed at their belts, but only one or two seemed to be carrying handblasters.

  But what was most noticeable was the reactions to their presence in the dining room, revealed on every face at every table-a mixture of curiosity and vague dislike. But, here and there, was the clearest expression of something that went a whole lot further than dislike.

  The animosity was voiced before they even walked halfway around the room, behind Dorothy, toward the vacant seats at the top table.

  "Not right, Jehu!" a man called out, but it wasn't possible to see who.

  "Old outlanders not permitted in Quindley." This time it was one of the women.

  "Was Moses asked, Jehu?" This time the speaker had risen to his feet, a slender boy, who looked to be about seventeen, with a squint in his right eye.

  "Of course, Donnie. Would I admit strangers without the word of Moses?"

  A woman, heavily pregnant, also stood up, pointing with a wooden ladle at Doc. "What of him, Jehu? What of that obscene sight?"

  "Madam," Doc said, bridling with anger, "I might be many things, but I would suggest that obscene is not properly one of them."

  "Two from seven only would pass the test!" shouted the first person to have spoken, finally rising to his feet to reveal himself to everyone.

  His hair was cropped short, and he wore a pale blue bandanna knotted around his forehead. He pointed a bony forefinger directly toward Doc.

  Jehu was on his feet, shouting for the teenager to sit down again and keep quiet. "Enough, Jimmy. You shall not go against the command of Moses."

  "This is a blasphemy, Jehu!"

  "You can argue this in council."

  "When?"

  "Two nights from now."

  "Too late." Jimmy pushed his way from the table and stalked toward the outlanders, his fingers brushing the hilt of his knife.

  Ryan, Krysty and J.B. all drew their blasters, covering the lad.

  "Not unless we have to," Ryan whispered.

  Jehu jumped over the table with a casual, athletic ease, his right hand clutching a narrow, glittering blade. "Moses will make you pay the price, Jimmy!" His voice cracked with the sudden high tension of the moment.

  "Fuck that. Fuck Moses and fuck you, oldie!"

  He moved so quickly that he took everyone, including Ryan, by surprise. He threw his knife with a deadly, practiced, underhand flick, the polished steel slicing across the hall toward Doc's throat.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was Michael Brother who saved Doc's life.

  Ever since they'd met, Ryan had been constantly astounded at the dazzling speed of the teenager's reflexes. But he was still shocked at Michael's incredible reaction to the sudden, murderous attack.

  It was almost as though time itself had been slowed, the hurled blade spinning in the air as it hissed toward the helpless old man.

  In the background there was a collective gasp of indrawn breath at the certain knowledge that the wings of Death were folding around Doc. Nothing could possibly save him.

  Nothing.

  As casually as if he were plucking a hovering fly from the still summer air, Michael reached out his right hand. Almost lazily, it seemed. He took the thrown knife by the hilt, when it was less than a yard from Doc's neck.

  He held it for a moment, then dropped it by his feet, the steel tinkling on the wooden floor.

  "No," he said quietly into the total stillness.

  The teenager called Jimmy stared hi total disbelief. "You fucking traitor."

  "Shall I chill him?" J.B. asked.

  Ryan shook his head at the question. "No. Wait." For a few heartbeats, it seemed like everything was balanced on the edge of a razor.

  Half the young men and women were up on their feet, most with their own knives drawn. One wrong move now and there would be serious blood-spilling.

  It was Jehu who defused the moment.

  Moving catfooted, he walked behind the paralyzed Jimmy, placed an arm around his shoulders, almost like an old playmate at the end of a day's sport, and cut his throat.

  The honed dagger entered just below the left ear, with the faint crunch of punctured cartilage. Jehu drew it swiftly but firmly across, slicing through the helpless boy's windpipe, opening up the big artery under the right ear.

  The bright blood jetted out from the white-lipped wound, splashing up to the heavy rafters that ran across the dining hall.

  Jehu pushed the twitching corpse away from him, letting it drop to the crimsoned planks. The heart still labored, but the river had slowed to a trickle. Jimmy's hands were opening and closing, as if he were trying to cling to life.

  "He shouted 'traitor' to us all," Jehu said, his voice trembling with the emotion of the killing. "But Jimmy was the real traitor here. A traitor to us all. A traitor to Moses. A traitor to Quindley."

  There was a murmur all around the hall that could have been agreement.

  Or could have been disagreement.

  But not a soul lifted a voice to oppose what had happened or what had been said.

  "Blasters away," Ryan advised, bolstering the SIG-Sauer, He glanced across at Michael. "Done good."

  But the teenager simply stared at him, his eyes blank and incurious.

  "I owe you my life, Master Brother," Doc said, wiping at his clammy forehead with the swallow's-eye kerchief. "Better than owing Asculepius a cockerel. It is a debt that I shall always stand ready to h
onor, whensoever you feel the need to call upon me, Michael, and where-"

  "All right, Doc," the teenager muttered. "Only caught the knife, is all. Didn't know the poor kid was going to end up like a butchered steer in the shambles."

  Jehu stooped and wiped his blood-slick blade on the dead boy's shirt, carefully avoiding daubing his boots with the spreading pool of crimson.