by James Axler
"Yes. But not very far."
She smiled at him, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. "Course you can. Anyway, stickies can't swim."
"Who says?"
"Moses."
Michael kicked at the loose pebbles that covered the long expanse of beach. "How's he know that?"
"Stupe!" she said affectionately. "Moses knows everything. Really everything."
"Why didn't he know that the stickies were going to attack the children and chill some of them? If he knew, then he could have prevented it."
Dorothy stopped dead and let go of his arm, turning away to stare silently out over the mirrored surface of Sham pi in Lake. She shrugged her shoulders, easing the cord strap of the rifle she carried.
For fifty beats of the heart, neither of them spoke.
"It's true," he insisted.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because it's all part of the big pattern. Moses says he knows everything, but he often can't tell us because it would spoil the big pattern."
"What?"
Dorothy turned, and he saw unshed tears glistening in the corners of her blue eyes. "Like when there was a sickness in the ville, when I was only about ten summers old. Blackwater fever, Moses called it. Nearly a third of us died, wasted away, shitting black blood. Moses knew it was coming."
Michael shook his head. "I heard all that when I was an oblate in the sanctuary. 'God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform.' Heard it. 'It's God's will, children.' God's will that those mutie bastards butchered the little ones this morning. How can you believe that, Dorothy?"
"Come and sit down with me," she said, wiping her eyes, managing a smile. "Just in among the trees."
"Stickies?"
"Not this close to the ville. Anyway, we'll hear them coming, won't we?"
She placed one hand on his arm, the other hand on the side of his neck, leani ng toward him so that Michael could catch the scent of her body. Dorothy lifted her face, eyes closing, her soft red lips parting to show the gleam of white teeth.
The late-afternoon sun was sinking out over the water, sending a great slash of crimson from the western horizon. Michael kissed the young woman, feeling his instant arousal as her tongue flicked out between his lips, pushing it way past his teeth. He put his arms around her and clasped her tightly. Dorothy's right hand dropped from his arm and eased itself between them, across his stomach, feeling lower. "Mmm." She broke away and smiled at him. "We should definitely go and sit down for a bit."
SHE WORE NO UNDERCLOTHES, and the teenager found her warm arid ready for him. The moment he had wriggled out of his clothes, she cupped him in her hand and guided him into her, gasping at the moment of penetration.
"Slowly, slowly," she whispered.
Michael could feel her flexing the inner muscles of her body around him, sucking him deeper. "God, Dorothy... I'm... I'm going to-"
"No, you aren't. Not yet. Not until I'm ready, as well." Her sharp teeth nipped him on the side of the throat, bringing a small cry of delighted pain.
She moved against him, her hips coming off the soft turf, her arms spread above her head. There was a flurry of sound in the undergrowth and Michael checked himself, straining to look over his shoulder. He felt himself beginning to shrink as his mind was flooded with a picture of a giant stickle grabbing him by the genitals with its rending, suckered hands.
"It's okay," Dorothy promised. "Only a squirrel. Don't stop now, or I'll have you put in one of the stand-ups."
"What's a-"
"Shh. Show you later. There's two close by here. Show you... later."
LATER MEANT THE SUN slipping halfway down over the edge of the lake, bringing elongated shadows and a chill to the air among the trees.
Michael lay flat on his back, Dorothy lying sprawled on top of him. He felt totally drained, hardly responding when she ran the tip of her tongue into the corner of his mouth. She reached for him, and he winced at the stickiness as she unpeeled his cock from his stomach.
"Don't think I can do it again," he said.
"Maybe not now. But there's tomorrow, Michael, and tomorrow and lots more tomorrows. Right now it feels like you couldn't even raise a smile."
"Did it four times in.. .well, it can't be anything over the hour," he replied, not quite managing the difficult task of mixing pride and modesty.
Dorothy smiled into his face. "You have lovely hair," she said. "Black and strong. And such dark eyes. Hardly anyone around Quindley has dark eyes."
"I noticed. Hey, shouldn't we be getting back to the ville? Be dark soon. They'll think the stickies got us."
She knelt on the grass and pulled on her pants, easing them up over her hips. "That was real nice, Michael."
"Yeah. Good for me, too. Real good."
"You had lots of women, Michael?"
He fastened his belt, checking that the Texas Long-horn Border Special was snug in its holster. "Lot of
women? Why, sure I have. Me and Ryan and the others all get our pick, wherever we go. Hardly a ville in Deathlands that I haven't got a lover."
Dorothy kissed him on the cheek. "You're cute, you know. I guess that Krysty and the other woman must have had lovers as well, have they?"
"Sure."
"I'll ask them both about it when we get back to the ville. Be interested to hear how they talk about picking all these male lovers."
Michael swallowed hard. "No, Dorothy. That wouldn't... We have a kind of rule that we don't speak to others about our private life."
She smiled. "I believe you, Michael."
There was a cool breeze blowing, and they both felt a few spots of rain.
"Dean got pissed at me for wanting to be alone with you," Michael said.
"Could that be trouble?"
He shook his head. "Don't think so."
"Will he go and tell the one-eyed man what we've been talking about?"
"No. Don't think so."
"Will he agree?"
Michael sighed. "He's real bright and tough as a diamond. But he loves his father."
"I can never begin to understand that. To feel great affection for someone as old as that."
"Do you feel affection for me, Dorothy?"
"Course. Wouldn't have done the loving with you if I didn't. Never mind what..." She stopped.
Michael didn't notice the hesitation. "How long before you get to be twenty-five, Dorothy?"
"Long enough," she replied. "Hey, I promised to show the stand-ups. Two of them are just along here. Unless the stickies found them, of course."
THEY WERE WITHIN fifty yards of the top of the lake's shore, set among the shadowed fringe of sturdy beech trees, two stone columns, each about eight feet tall and less than five feet across.
"Come on," Dorothy said.
As they drew closer, Michael saw that there was a tiny barred window about five feet from the ground.
"They look like tiny prisons for... Shit a brick! There's someone in that... in both of them. My God, Dorothy, what have they done?"
"The old one is an outlander. He was caught ten days ago. Tried to rape little Eleanor. She told us so."
Michael stepped nearer, peering in with a ghoulish fascination. Now he could see there was a rusted iron door with a large lock set into the front of each stone pillar.
"How do they sit down?"
She laughed delightedly. "They don't, That's why they're called 'stand-ups,' you goose!"
"Who feeds them?"
"Nobody."
"Then they die."
"Eventually."
Dorothy joined him, putting her arm through his, smiling contentedly at the grizzled face that stated out through the bars. Though the light was fading, the teenager could see that the man's eyes were sunken and dulled. His mouth sagged open, but all that came out was a dry, gobbling sound, tike an enraged turkey.
"What language does he speak?"
"None at all. We cut out his tongue before he was locked in."
Michae
l was beginning to feel a little sick. "Is he tied up in there?"
"No. No need. Some of the time when they die and get taken out, we find they've tried to bite open their own wrists or scratched at the blood tubes in the neck."
"Dorothy..." came a croaking plea.
"He can talk!" Michael exclaimed, looking at the second cramped prison.
"Course. It's Heinrich. He was the one you saw in the dining room last night."
"The one who's nearly reached-"
"Twenty-five. Yes." She stood close to the bars. "Stop all that noise, Heinrich. Should have done what Moses told you. Then you could have enjoyed the passing ceremony like most of us do."
"Shoot me, Dorothy, please. Throat hurts and I shit myself and my knees are on fire and my ankles are breaking."
"He's talking stupe, Michael." Dorothy lowered her voice. "Though sometimes Moses tells us to really break their ankles before locking them in."
"Least give me some water."
"Not after what you did. Running away like that. Shames the whole ville."
"Something to drink.. in the name of blessed Moses, Dorothy... please..."
She giggled. "I could give him something to drink, Michael. I had three tumblers of water at noon meal and I'm about ready. Think he'd like it?"
"No!" The teenager turned away in disgust. "How can you be so nice to me, and at the same time be so cruel, vicious and sick, Dorothy? It doesn't make sense."
"They deserve it. Both of them. If it wasn't so dark, we could make the loving in front of them. Think how they'd feel, all naked and locked up and helpless... Watching. It'd be excellent, Michael. Part of their punishment."
"No." He suddenly made up his mind and drew the small revolver from its holster.
"What are you doing?"
The young man in the closest of the stand-ups started to beg. "Oh, please, outlander. Please do it,"
Michael cocked the .38 and leveled it at the white face in the darkness behind the bars. Dorothy had her hands to her mouth.
"You can't... Blasphemy, Michael! Moses would have you locked up in there. Cut off your lovely strong cock and break your fingers and your ankles and elbows and your knees. It's death to defy him. Bloody death!"
The barrel of the handblaster was steady, Michael's finger tight on the trigger. Everything he knew that was right made him want to fire the gun and put the two wretches out of their prolonged agony, show them mercy.
Dorothy had fallen to her knees, hands lifted as though she were praying. "I beg you, Michael. Moses'll have me chilled, also. Honestly. Think of what we did this afternoon. Think I love you. Think of what we talked about. You and me. And little Dean. All of that'll be for nothing."
"It's not decent, Dorothy, to treat human beings like beasts, no matter what they did or didn't do."
"He raped a little girl." She pointed to the farther stone column. The sun was almost gone, and it was no longer possible to make out the faces of the prisoners. "And Heinrich knew the laws. Lived here all his life. Knew it. Took part when the older ones gave their selves up for the good of the ville. For all our futures. And he ran from that when it was his turn. Yellow-gutted coward."
Michael slowly lowered the blaster, easing the hammer down.
"Ah" right," he said, his mouth so dry he could hardly hear himself speak.
But for most of the way back to the fire pit safety of Quindley he heard the screams behind him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
"Abe?"
"Yeah, Trader?"
* 'Remember that time we got stuck in the middle of the freeway bridge?"
"No. Can't say I do."
The older man shook his head impatiently. "Your brain's fucked, Abe, you know that?"
"Where was this bridge, Trader?"
"Somewhere in the Rockies. We only had War Wag One, doing some dealing around the old Phantom Canyon Highway. Up toward... What the fuck was the place called? Kind of a ghost town. Had a big fire during the long winters."
"Leadville?" Abe offered hesitantly. One of the changes that he'd noticed in Trader was that he seemed even more short-tempered than he used to be.
"No. I know Leadville. Had a theater. Local gaudy used it to put on special shows." Trader laughed and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Not that special. Limit to the combinations, ain't there, Abe?"
The little ex-gunner wasn't altogether sure what his former leader meant, but he nodded enthusiastically. Their camp fire was burning brightly and Trader had
used his trusty, battered Armalite that afternoon to take out a small black bear. They'd roasted some of the tender parts, like the tongue and paws, and were both well filled.
"You get a slut with a man. A man with two sluts. Three sluts or four. Seen shows in the outskirts of some of the Eastern city-tombs. Men with men." Trader spit into the smoldering embers. "Turns your stomach, that kind of thing."
"Yeah," Abe agreed. "Never had no time for benders and ass bandits."
"Me, neither." He hesitated. "What the fuck was l talking about, Abe?"
"Shows in Leadville."
"Sure. Sluts with each other. Like that. See *em goin' down on each other. Get me a rock-solid boner just thinking about it. Know what I mean?"
"Sure do." The previous day Trader had leaned on the elderly owner of an out-of-the-way general store to the east of old Seattle to give them a bottle of home brew. Now it was almost gone. Liquor didn't do anything to improve Trader's temper.
"Like sluts an' dogs. Once saw a full-grown stallion and a three hundred pound breed slut. Up in the shens. Marsh Folsom could Ve been there. Ripped her in two." He took a last slug from the bottle, then hurled it into the trees around them, where it shattered. "What was I talking about before you started on about sluts, Abe?"
"Some trouble we once had on a bridge."
"Sure. Victor. That was the name of the ville. Remember Ryan Cawdor saying he thought it was real 'picturesque.' That was the word. Old Ryan still use big long words like that, does he? Does he, Abe?"
"Sometimes." That seemed a safe, middle-of-the-road reply to the question.
"Was I telling you about the time on the bridge, Abe? My fucking memory is getting worse and worse. You noticed that, Abe? Huh?"
"No. I got a mind like a sieve, Trader. Words go hi one ear and then they fall clear out the other."
The older man nodded, his grizzled hair almost white in the evening light.
"Yeah. You was always like that, Abe. We was on this old freeway bridge. Some local vigilantes put up a burning barricade against us. Behind us there was some stickles that got hold of some implode grens and they was trying to bring the whole mess down, with us in the middle."
The event didn't ring any bells for Abe. It sounded dramatic enough for him not to have forgotten it. It obviously happened before he started riding with the war wags.
"So what happened?"
"Old J.B. popped off a couple of frags from the gren launcher on the rear turret of War Wag One. Blew them stickles into a fine pink spray."
"You go back?"
"Shit, no!" He pounded one fist into the other. "Day Trader turns back is the day Trader catches the
last train for the coast. We drove on. That switch-hit dyke Hunaker was at the controls."
"I liked Hun.' Abe remarked.
"Me, too. Some of the time. Not all of the time. I always said that a man who gets too close to a woman might as well cut off his balls with a bayonet."
Abe smiled, though he wasn't really sure that Trader was joking about it.
Far above them, plunging out of the cold infinity of space, they both saw a piece of military detritus finally tumbling from its hundred-year-old orbit. It was an archaic remnant of the old Totality Concept of the United States, or the Eastern Bloc's equivalent, Project Szvezda, a brilliant streak of pink-purple, flaring across the heavens.
Trader stared up, watching it fall, and shook his head. "This used to be a good country, once," he said quietly. "I think about
it in those long waking hours of the early morning. But I don't have the learning. Not like Ryan. Wonder if he's got that message we sent after him. How long did we give him? Three months, was it?"
Success. Will stay around Seattle for three months. Come quick. Abe.
That had been the simple message given out to every traveler and packman they could find hanging around the ruins of the once great city.
