by James Axler
“Thank you.” Leading the way to the wag, Ryan ushered everyone else in first, making sure no one, Doc especially, hurt themselves getting into the high-sided vehicle. When everyone was situated, the boy clucked his tongue, twitched the reins and turned the team around to head into the ville.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The place itself was as neat as the road, with well-maintained wooden houses lining the streets, the intersections lit by torches. Even at this relatively early hour, there weren’t a lot of people out and about, the neat sidewalks and roads devoid of activity. Ezekiel turned down a side street a few blocks in, neatly labeled with a wooden sign that proclaimed it Hudson Street, then clip-clopped three more blocks to the crossroads of Hudson and Lincoln, where a whitewashed house sat with kerosene lanterns burning in its windows. Another carved wooden sign out front read Grandma Flannigan’s Boardinghouse.
“Here we are, folks. Grandma runs a nice, clean house, and she’ll take care of you right.” Jumping down from the buckboard, Ezekiel ran to the back to let down the tailgate. Everyone got out, and followed the boy up the concrete steps to the front door. He had just raised his hand to knock when the door swung open.
“Guests at this hour? Welcome and come in, you all must be tired.” Grandma Flannigan, if this was her, didn’t fit the image Ryan had in his mind. She was a tall, whipcord thin woman with iron-gray hair and a stern demeanor who was dressed in a homespun cotton dress over which was an apron with several unidentifiable stains on it. “Goodness, I’ve barely had time to clean up after our last visitors, but I’m sure we can find room for you all.”
“Caleb said to tell you they’re guests of the ville,” the boy piped up.
The old woman’s lips curved up in a smile. “That’s all I needed to hear. Please take your coats off and hang them in the hall there.” Upon seeing the various blasters, she nodded. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask to you hand over your blasters while you’re under my roof. They’ll be kept safe, you have my word.”
There was a pause, and J.B. and Krysty’s eyes flicked toward Ryan, who nodded, unslinging his rifle. Unloading it, he slipped the magazine into his pocket, then did the same with his SIG-Sauer before offering both firearms to her. It was a matter of trust. Either side could have done the other in long before this.
“You can set them on the table there.” The rest of the group did the same. Ryan noted the proprietor didn’t request that they surrender their knives, even though J.B.’s flensing knife was visible on his belt.
“You all must be hungry. I was just about to sit down to dinner.”
Ryan and the others had eaten less than an hour ago, but one of the cardinal unspoken rules in the Deathlands was to eat whenever food was available or offered. After all, a person never knew when he might get the chance again. “We’d be happy to sit at your table.” He took a moment to introduce everyone, with Doc sweeping his arm out in a courtly bow that nearly knocked Jak off balance next to him.
“Ezekiel? Go set six more places at the table, now!” The boy took off into what looked to be a dining room off the entry hall. The smell of something cooking drifted into the hall.
“You manage this place by yourself?” Mildred asked, looking around at the spotless wooden floor and ancient yet clean rug in the middle. The candelabra overhead held several candles, the melted wax catching in metal holders at the base of each one.
“The boy helps out, and for larger groups some of the women come in and assist with the cooking, but there’s plenty for you folks tonight. Come on.”
She led them into the dining room, where Ezekiel was just finishing placing bowls around the table. Grandma motioned for them to sit at the table, then disappeared through a swing door into what had to be the kitchen. She emerged a minute later with a large tureen, steam wafting off its top.
“Go on, sit down.” She set the tureen down in the middle, disappeared into the kitchen, and returned again carrying a tray of flatbread and bowl of honey. Setting it down next to the pot, she ladled out servings of a thick, light-green soup into the bowls. “Afraid this is all I have ready at the moment.”
“It’s smells heavenly,” Doc offered gallantly.
Once the elderly woman was done, she sat down and waited for everyone to watch her before bowing her head. Ryan did the same and suddenly much of the ville’s appearance—the clean streets, the drab clothes—fell into place. Small groups of the religiously inclined often found a ville that they could remake in whatever fashion they desired. Ryan counted his blessings that both this place and the last one weren’t one of the more zealous groups. There didn’t seem to be much chance of Jak being accused of consorting with demons here or worse, of being one himself.
The evening prayer complete, he bent over the earthenware bowl in front of him. Picking up the clean spoon on the wooden table next to it, he scooped up a bite, all the while sniffing the liquid for any sign of drugs or other additives. Again, the broth didn’t have any real odor, malign or otherwise. He sipped cautiously; it was all right, with bits of what might have been finely chopped yet unidentifiable vegetables swimming in it.
Jak hadn’t wasted any time, blowing on the soup to cool it before shoving the spoon in his mouth. Grandma noticed and raised an eyebrow. “Boy’s got a powerful appetite. I daresay he looks a mite skinny for his age.”
Ryan hid his smile as he exchanged a covert glance with Krysty. Despite his odd appearance, Jak often brought out the motherly instinct in older women for some reason. J.B. had once opined it was because the kid looked like a half-starved, half-drowned cat. Jak hadn’t spoken to him for a week afterward. “He eats as much as the rest of us. Who knows where it all goes?” Ryan stirred his meal, waiting for any sign of incapacitation. He caught J.B.’s eye as he ate, and the bespectacled man gave the slightest shrug. Everything seemed to be on the level here.
The sound of conversation broke Ryan’s thoughts, and he realized Krysty was replying to the old woman’s question. “We came from the west, over the river, and straight through. Heard talk of cannies near Madison, so we thought we’d avoid the city altogether.”
Grandma Flannigan stiffened in her chair as if she had been slapped, then crossed herself. “Filthy creatures. Eaters of the dead. They haven’t been seen around here in a long time. I hope to never set eyes on one for the rest of my life.” She set her spoon down on the table, as if the conversation had made her lose her appetite. “So, Krysty said you were traders. What might you have for barter?”
Ryan took this one. “Ammo for your men’s rifles, fishhooks and line, a bit of spices, clothes, tools, some other odds and ends. Ought to be just about something for everyone.”
She nodded, her iron-gray head bobbing. “I would be interested in seeing what spices you could part with. Your first night here is courtesy of the town, but anything afterward will be paid for, of course.”
“Of course. I’m sure we can come to a suitable agreement.” Ryan sipped at his cooling soup, reaching for a piece of bread to mop up the remains. Jak had already pushed his bowl forward in hopes of receiving another serving, and Grandma obliged.
“You’d mentioned another group of visitors, madam. We didn’t see any people heading west when we were approaching your fair town.”
“They had come from the east, true, but decided to try their luck north instead of continuing on to the river. It was a small caravan, only staying a few days before moving on.”
“What does your ville have to trade?” Ryan asked
“We are a simple community, living primarily off the bounty of the earth, and trading for whatever we need with those who stop by in their travels. We offer fresh vegetables, candles and honey from the local bees and—” her mouth pursed in disapproval “—fruit of the grain, or distilled corn liquor.”
Ryan stilled his eyebrows before they could rise much higher in disbelief. Next to jack and drugs, moonshine was another highly prized commodity, but he wouldn’t have expected this place to traffic in it.
Finis
hing his soup, he mopped up the bottom of the bowl with the soft flatbread, then leaned back in his chair and stifled a belch. “I think we can certainly do business.”
“Good to hear.” Grandma suddenly pushed back her chair. “The days are long here, and our work begins well before sunup. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your rooms. Ezekiel will clear the table.”
Ryan rose, and everyone else followed suit. Carrying a candle in a metal holder, Grandma Flannigan led them single file into what was a parlor or living room, furnished with hand-carved furniture surrounding a stone fireplace, currently cold and dark. On the other side, a staircase led to the second floor.
“Who does the carving around here?” Ryan asked as he ran his hand up the polished wooden banister. “Got a real talent for it.”
“The Ephraim family’s been supplying furniture for the town for six generations, since before the harrowing.”
Ryan caught Krysty’s raised eyebrow, and waved her off. These insular communities often had their own terms for skydark, as the rest of Deathlands called the nuclear catastrophe that had maimed the world.
Doc, however, didn’t catch the subtle gesture. “Beg your pardon, madam, but I do not believe I’m familiar with that particular word.”
“The harrowing was God’s plan to cleanse the land, and everything that man had created on it, and all those who dwelled in it in the flames of his holy fire. Those who are not worthy in His eyes will be destroyed, and those who are worthy, those who worship Him, will receive their just reward in heaven.” Her voice hadn’t changed in timbre or tone, but Ryan felt that strange shiver curl around his spine whenever he was in the presence of religious zealots. Since Doc was behind him as Ryan ascended the stairs, he wanted to turn and motion him to shut up, but Grandma had already reached the top and had turned to face them as they came up.
Fortunately, Doc had the sense to not pursue the matter further. “Ah—I see. Thank you for the elucidation, it is much appreciated.”
They were at the second-story landing now, and Grandma pointed at three doors, one behind her, and the two right next to her in the hallway. “Rooms are all the same. One mattress only, so I hope the men don’t mind slumbering together.”
“Not at all, it’s common enough in our group.”
“Good.” Grandma stepped to the first room and opened the door. “I think the ladies will be quite comfortable in here.”
Ryan opened his mouth, but was forestalled by the iron-haired proprietor. “Mr. Cawdor, I do not care what sort of arrangement you may have outside of this establishment, however, under my roof, you will obey my rules. As I do not see any sign of matrimony, neither a ring nor a collar, the men and the women will sleep separately. If you do not agree, you are more than welcome to find lodging elsewhere.”
Caught, Ryan couldn’t do anything but glare at Jak as he sniggered behind his hand. They could leave the house, but that would sour relations with the entire ville, and not gain them anything. Besides, it was only for one night. “We have no wish to cause insult.” He waved Grandma into the room. “After you.” With her back to him, Ryan caught Krysty’s eye and signaled her to have one person stay on watch through the night, then caught Jak’s eye and passed the same message to him.
The Armorer had walked into the room, followed by Ryan. Grandma Flannigan had lit the candle by the bedside table, illuminating the wooden floor, a lone hardback chair and lumpy mattress, most likely stuffed with straw, and covered with a homespun quilt. “If any of you have to do your business, the chamberpot is underneath the bed. The closet is there.” She waved at a small door on the far wall. “Sleep well, and I’ll see you in the morning.” With that, she walked out, closing the door behind her.
Ryan stared across the bed at J.B. “Certainly isn’t how I figured things’d work out.”
“You’re telling me.” The pale man had crossed silently to the door, pressing his ear against it for a few seconds. “She’s gone, back down the stairs.” He tried the door, which opened under his hand. “Least she didn’t lock us in.”
“Yeah, which also means anyone can come in.”
J.B. nodded. “You want first watch?”
“No, you take it. Wake me in four.” Ryan stretched out on the bed, sinking into the mattress, which didn’t rustle underneath as he’d expected. “Goose down mattress, whattya know?” Within seconds he was fast asleep.
RYAN COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time he truly slept. He rested certainly, but years of protecting his life and others’ had turned it into combat sleep, from which he could come awake at a second’s notice, ready to destroy any attacker.
It was this rest he came out of when J.B. touched him lightly on the shoulder, stepping back when Ryan rose, the handle of his panga in his hand. Memory of where he was flooded back to him, and he nodded at his old friend. “I’m up, I’m up. Anything?”
The Armorer yawned widely. “Other than watching you sleep, it’s been as quiet as a grave.”
“Nice choice of words.”
“Suits this place.” J.B. sat on the bed, testing it, then lay down, putting his battered fedora over his face. Just like Ryan, he was asleep in seconds.
Ryan walked over to the chair, picked it up and set it against the wall that had the closet door in it, and sat, crossing his arms as he watched the room. He sensed it was the darkest part of night, and J.B. had been right—everything was dead silent. The night outside was calm and still, without a hint of a breeze. Even the house didn’t creak, which surprised Ryan, as it had to be at least a hundred fifty years old, maybe more. Maybe the Ephraims also did house repair.
The minutes crawled by, and Ryan amused himself by watching the moonlight drift across the bed, bathing J.B.’s legs in silver. He tried to see shapes in the light, finding a crude war wag, then a running horse, then, strangely enough, a patch that looked an awful lot like Krysty’s face.
Despite this diversion, he wasn’t caught off guard in the slightest when he heard the creak of a floorboard, soft, as if someone had stepped on its edge. No, the surprising thing was where it had come from.
Inside the closet.
Ryan’s hand stole to his panga as he rose and stood next to the chair, sliding the eighteen inches of honed steel out with barely a whisper. On the bed, J.B. hadn’t changed position or breathing, but Ryan would have bet his life the Armorer was completely aware of everything going on nearby.
Seizing the moment, he stole across the room and lay on the bed, concealing his blade at his side. Keeping his eyes slitted, he watched the closet door crack open. Minutes passed before it moved again, testifying to the patience of their assailants. Ryan didn’t move, but felt J.B. shift in the bed as if turning in his sleep, dislodging his hat. He also spotted the telltale glint of the flensing blade, now drawn and waiting.
For long moments, nothing stirred. Then the closet door opened wider, and a pale hand curled around it to stop it before it went too far. One figure, then two crept into the room, both swathed in black, including masks over their faces, making them blend with the insubstantial shadows.
Ryan had to give them credit, they stalked their targets carefully, stepping only when they were sure the bed’s occupants were asleep. And he was willing to give them all the time in the world to reach him.
Step by step, they edged closer, slim knives clenched in their hands. Ryan figured they planned to stab J.B. and him in the heart, causing instant death without soaking the mattress in blood. After all, they had to keep the room clean for their next victims.
By now Ryan’s attacker was almost right next to him, with only a few feet separating them. Keeping his breathing slow and even, he adjusted his grip on the panga handle ever so slightly. Just a bit farther now, and—
The killer paused, as if scenting the air, then took that last step to the bed, his knife sweeping down.
Ryan’s left hand flashed up and grabbed his wrist, pulling the weapon down to his side. Caught off balance, the man was forced down near Ryan’
s body. He opened his mouth to cry out in surprise, but never got the chance to even draw a breath.
The moment Ryan’s free hand grabbed his attacker’s and pulled, his right hand rose into the air and brought the panga down on the man’s neck, the razor-sharp blade sinking deep into his flesh and severing his spinal cord.
The man was dead before he even knew what had happened. Ryan kept his hold on the man’s wrist and maneuvered him onto the bed before he thumped to the floor. He didn’t have to look over to know that J.B. had dispatched his own enemy without a sound as well.
Lowering the corpse to the floor, Ryan rose and padded quietly to the closet. It was empty, but he noticed a panel of wood in the back wall that didn’t seem to be quite lined up with the rest of them. He picked at it with his finger, and felt it give under his touch.
He sensed J.B. near him. “Candle?”
“Not yet.”
“They’d probably light it to signal the deed was done.”
“Yeah, but the folks outside don’t know how long it’ll take. Besides, we have to check the others first.” He stalked to the door and pressed his ear to the wood, trying to hear anyone outside. “You check Jak and Doc, I’ll take the women.”
Turning the knob slowly, Ryan eased the door open, his panga ready to cleave at the slightest sign of anyone in the hallway. It was deserted, with only blackness greeting him. Ryan slipped outside just in time to hear what sounded like a pained grunt come from the women’s room. Sticking close to the wall, he sneaked over to the door, grabbed the knob, opened it and burst in.
Ryan had scarely taken a step when he almost tripped over a lifeless form sprawled on the floor in front of him. Sensing someone nearby, Ryan looked up to catch a glimpse of dark hair, red-black in the moonlight, and knew it was Krysty coming at him.
“Shh! It’s Ryan!” Along with his hissed warning, Ryan threw his arm up, in case she was wielding steel, too.
“Ryan! I almost stabbed you!”
