by James Axler
"Of course, of course," he muttered, fingering the hide. Even marked with scars, burns and bullet holes, the durable skin was still beautiful, and flexible. He could probably make bulletproof vests from the stuff and sell them to barons for a fortune. Ammo, food and sluts till he died.
"Anything you want," the man said, beaming. "Saddles and reins. Blankets, too. I wouldn't want to cheat you on the trade. Fair deal Tom, that's me. Ask anybody above the soil."
With instincts honed in a hundred trades, Ryan knew that was too much, too fast. The hide had to be worth a hell of a lot more than they thought possible. "Eight," he corrected, testing the limits of the deal. "Plus tack, plus feed."
"But there's only seven of you!"
"And we'll need one to haul supplies."
"Oh, use the boy," Tom countered hotly. "He's young and strong, why burden a horse? They're expensive."
The stable boy was cowering, and new shadows appeared on the wall from people standing in the doorway.
"Incoming," Ryan said with a smile.
Tom scratched his head. "What's that mean, huh?"
"I know," J.B. answered, pulling the Uzi in front of him.
Doc crossed his arms and rested a hand on the LeMat. "Could be friendlies," he hedged.
There came the click-clack of a blaster, and Ryan spun, shooting from the hip just as the man with the shotgun fired. A sprinkling of buckshot took Ryan in the shoulder as he dived for cover. Fat Tom started pleading as the stocky man in the doorway fired again, blowing the plump man off the floor.
"Three, two, one," Ryan said, standing.
In unison, the companions unleashed a volley of lead. Torn to pieces, the attacker fell into the trough, the scattergun breaking in two as it hit the ground. A line of holes in the trough began to leak water. Then a flurry of arrows hissed into the stable, thudding into the split rails, posts and walls.
"There's more," Krysty announced, snapping off shots. Nearby, Fat Tom lay dead on the floor, his guts splattered over the wall and dribbling onto his shocked face.
Crouched behind a bale of hay, J.B. shoved the Uzi over the top and fired a short spray. A man cried out, but it sounded fake.
"It's the assholes from the tavern," Ryan said, clearing a jam.
"Bitch Feather," Jak snarled.
"No, this is my fault," Ryan stated harshly. "I wasn't paying attention for once. Not a blaster in sight here, and we come waltzing in with an arsenal. Of course somebody is going to try and chill us."
An ax flew between the horses and slammed into the floor, biting inches into the wood, missing Doc's hand by a hair. He withdrew quickly.
"They will try," Doc corrected, watching the doorway that led to the living quarters. A figure darted into view, and he snapped off a shot from the LeMat, catching the man in the throat. Clutching his shredded flesh, the man stumbled and fell, quietly bleeding to death in the doorway.
The horses were whinnying in fear, making it hard to hear movements outside. "You there, boy," Krysty demanded, crawling on her belly. "Where's the back door?"
"Ain't got one," the boy whimpered, huddled in the corner. "Just the front."
"Ladder to the hayloft?"
"The what?"
"Where you store the hay!" The boy gestured at the floor. In understanding, Krysty cursed the slovenly stable owner. There was no way out, and they were trapped in a tinderbox. "Sure hope they don't want to burn us out!" she muttered.
"That would chill the horses," J.B. said, firing at the ground and hitting a booted foot. The owner screamed, fell into view and was chilled. "They can't get us, and we can't leave. It's a standoff."
"So what do we do?" Dean asked, sliding a fresh clip into his gun. Surrendering their blasters wasn't an option. They would only get chilled afterward as the coldhearts laughed at their stupidity.
"Change rules," Jak said, holding his breath as he fired his .357 magnum pistol. A rope overhead snapped, and the first door to the garage rolled to the ground in a loud crash. The teenager tried the same trick again, but the second door only slid halfway before getting stuck. The third didn't move an inch.
"Use the horses," Ryan said, wriggling between the rails of a stall. The nervous animal reared at his presence, but Ryan soothed the horse with soft words. When it was calm, he laid a sack of feed across its back, then draped over a blanket, cinching it tight with some reins.
Moving quickly, the others did the same. Then whooping and firing their blasters, they chased the beasts out of the stable. The horses stampeded for freedom, charging into the street past the waiting gang of coldhearts.
"Fuck!" cried one, nearly trampled in the rush. "See those lumps? They're on the damn horses!"
"Could be a diversion," said another, notching a steel arrow into his crossbow. The deadly weapon was carved from solid oak, the steel bow salvaged from a predark car chassis. His crossbow could drill a three-pound bolt through a man at two hundred paces. Silent, and reusable, it was his preferred weapon. He only wanted the blasters for what they would buy—women, more arrows and jolt. Lots of jolt.
Charging inside, the coldhearts found the stable empty. "If they're not on the horse, or in here—" a man started to say.
A sharp whistle made them spin, and the companions cut loose from the living quarters, the barrage of rounds tearing the attackers apart, limbs flailing from the multiple impacts of hot lead.
When the smoke cleared, Ryan took the point and entered the stable, checking the bodies to make sure none were only pretending to be dead. Without remorse, he dispatched a pair who seemed remarkably undamaged. After gathering their backpacks, the companions walked from the stable and found a squad of sec men racing their way.
"Here come the Marines," Mildred quipped, shifting the med kit over her shoulder to a more comfortable position. She knew Ryan was wounded, but there was little blood, and now wasn't a good time for repairs.
"What the fuck is going on here?" the sec man in the front demanded, a loaded crossbow in steady hands. His head was shaved, except for a thick lock hanging from the back, and his clothes were old but clean. A quiver of arrows was draped over his shoulder, and zip gun was tucked loosely into a holster designed for a much larger pistol.
"Who are you?" Ryan demanded, the stock of his longblaster resting on a hip.
The man scowled. "I am Corporal Anson, sec chief for Baron Polk, and I ask the questions here, outlander. Now for the second and last time, what happened?"
"Dueling is forbidden, you know," another sec man added.
"Does this look like a duel?" Dean retorted.
The second man shrugged. "Could be."
Ignoring the fool, Ryan addressed the corporal. "We just arrived today and came here to buy horses, when a gang tried to back-shoot us. They aced Fat Tom, and we aced them. No duel, just a straight theft."
"Ratter, you alive?" Anson called into the stables.
A pile of hay shifted, and the stable boy crawled into view. "I didn't see nothing," the youth said standing meekly. "I was working hard."
"Hell boy, that's what you always say," the sec man grumbled.
"Can I go?" Ratter pleaded.
Anson swatted at the boy. "Git!"
Ratter dodged the blow and scampered out of sight around the stables.
Taking his time, the corporal studied the companions. "Well, your story sounds legit, but I think we'd best go talk with the baron. He doesn't like killing in his ville."
"Unless he authorizes it," Ryan said.
"Is it different where you come from?" Anson asked bluntly.
"No," Ryan admitted, slinging the blaster over his undamaged shoulder. "Lead the way. Mebbe we can talk some business with the boss."
The corporal eased off the string on his crossbow. "It has been known to happen. That is, if he decides not to hang you."
"Fair enough."
"Looking to become a sec man by any chance, there's lot of openings."
"Not likely," Ryan answered, then tried a shot in the dark. "W
e have info on Frankenstein."
"You do?" Anson asked, excited. "What kind of information?"
Satisfied his hunch was correct, Ryan smiled and said no more.
After the people had gone, Feather snuck into the stable and found Ratter looting the kitchen of food. Tiptoeing close, she hit the boy over the head with a stone, and he dropped to the floor. Unsure of his condition, Feather hit him a few more times until the blood ran freely from his mouth and nose.
Tossing the stone away, Feather grabbed the bag and finished the job he started, then left quickly.
As she pelted down the streets, the gaudy slut chortled in her newfound wealth: a bag of food, weapons, clothes and a bullet. The old doomie in town had been right— this was her lucky day! Pity about what the mutie had foretold about the outlanders. The black-haired cyclops seemed nice. Too bad he was going to die.
Chapter Eleven
"He will lie," said the female mutie, leaning on the table, "but believe every word."
Lunch long done with, Baron Jackson Polk looked up from the crumbling book on chemistry he was struggling to read and stared at the doomie. "What was that?" the man asked.
Althea said nothing for a moment, listening to the silence of the throne room. The predark auditorium was shaped like a seashell, with a raised dais at the apex of the truncated cone. Radiating outward across the room were hundreds of seats, and the softest whisper on stage would carry to the farthest reaches. Simply amazing. Many of the farmers and fishermen thought it was magic, and secretly worshiped the wizard baron. Knowing a good thing when he heard it, Polk did nothing to change their opinion, and having a doomie for a lover only helped his mystique of being more than just a man.
Her solid white eyes seeing nothing, the beautiful mutie came closer and took his hand. "The black man with one eye," Althea whispered, "he will lie, but believe every word. He has come to kill, has already killed and must kill more. His destiny is in blood and fire."
"An assassin?" Polk asked, probing for details.
"Yes and no. He hasn't come for you, doesn't know you, cares not for you. He seeks the sky killer who threatens the world."
"Sky killer. A plane?"
The woman wobbled on her feet, and the baron snapped his fingers. A servant appeared to slide a chair into place before she fell. Polk waited until Althea caught her breath. When he'd first found the mutie woman ten years ago, he took her to his bed because she was blind. His disfigurements were such that he couldn't stand to have another person see him without the robes of state. Then Polk learned of her gift and realized what a treasure the doomie was. Twice in his reign as baron, Althea had foretold of attacks by coldhearts, giving them enough time to prepare a deadly welcome for the raiders, and once she warned him of a close friend who plotted to chill him and become baron. Sadly, that also come true. Althea was always correct.
But now the baron wondered if her gift of seeing the shadows of the future had driven her over the edge into madness. Believe a liar—what was the point in that? Besides which, she always reminded him that the future wasn't set in stone. Sometimes when they were alone in his chambers, Althea spoke of karma, a person's destiny, but also of yarma, a person beating karma through courage and wisdom.
"Some water, my dear?" Polk suggested, pushing the carafe forward. There was no response. "Wine, then?"
"I need sleep," Althea whispered, and walked from the throne room holding her temples.
The moment she was gone, a sec man entered the throne room and shouted, "My lord, several of the fishing captains request an audience."
"Let them enter," Polk commanded, rolling his chair to the edge of the dais.
When the sailors arrived, they took seats in the first row and were forced to crane their necks to look at the baron. Polk could smell the salt and tar on them even from his elevated vantage point.
He glowered down at them. "Well?"
Twisting a cloth cap in craggy hands, a big man in rough-hewn clothes stood, "I'm Dwight Lane, captain of the Dixie Rebel. Baron Polk, the big swamp mutie aced another five of my men yesterday when it ripped apart my nets and stole a full day's catch of fish. My lord, our crews are starving, and each has lost kin to the mutie."
"Some of us have lost more than that," Polk stated forcibly, his anger readily present.
"Of course, sir," Lane said, smiling uncomfortably. "Now, what we would like, with your permission, is to organize the crews of our five ships, and the whole ville, into a single hunting party to track down and kill the thing!"
"Useless," the baron stated. "Without blasters, nobody stands a chance against the behemoth. Plus, there are the bugs to worry about. A hunting party that size could easily be thought of as an invasion force, and while we're hunting the beast, they're burning our homes."
"But something must be done!" Lane shouted.
Another captain stood, a grizzled sea dog with weathered skin like canvas. "I was born here, my lord, but I'll be leaving on the next high tide. Living be hard enough without working every other day to feed that hell demon!"
"Give us the secret of the black powder!" another shouted.
"We'll make blasters and hunt it down ourselves."
"Then turn against me," Polk stated.
"To kill ole Frank!"
"Don't bother," Ryan called, walking down the center aisle. "We already chilled the gator."
Murmurs ran through the crowd of people, some frightened, others disbelieving, as the ville sec men led the way for the heavily armed outlanders. The strangers were carrying more blasters than anyone had ever seen before.
Drawing a flintlock pistol from under his blanket, Polk used both hands to cock back the striking hammer. Their leader was a big man with hair black as midnight, and a patch covered one eye. But Althea spoke of a black man with one eye. This fellow was close, but clearly not the killer she spoke about.
"Who are you?" Polk demanded.
"Outlanders from the north, my lord," Anson announced. "They had some trouble with Fat Tom, a horse merchant who tried to steal their weapons."
"And they chilled him first," Polk deduced. "The man was a coward and a thief. Good riddance."
"What was that you said about ole Frank being dead?" Lane asked. "Is it true?"
"Lies," another sailor said scornfully. "They're not from here, why should they care?"
"We don't," Ryan replied. "It attacked, so we chilled it. Nothing more."
"Big words," Polk said slowly. "Prove it. Bring the body in here."
Ryan met the man's gaze. "How much is the reward?" A public statement was what the one-eyed man wanted, something the baron couldn't pretend had never been agreed upon. A man's word was often only as good as the number of people who heard it.
The baron rolled to the very edge of the stage, the front wheels of his chair hanging off the edge. "Everybody from the Dead Swamp to the ravine knows I posted a bounty on the mutie. What is it you want? Blasters? I'll pay you blasters."
"Got them, and better than you have," Ryan said in frank honesty. "But we could use some horses."
"One each," Polk stated. "My very best, with full tack."
"We also need to carry supplies."
Polk grew grim. "Enough haggling. Ten of my top animals and all the ammo and food you can carry without breaking your bones. Just prove to me it's dead!"
The man threw off the blanket, and his pant legs were flat with nothing inside. "He took my legs and my son on the same day. If you knew my hatred of the beast, you'd shit with fear. Now, if you truly took care of Frankenstein, I'll pay your price. But if this is a trick, you won't leave this room alive." Somehow, only those last words echoed throughout the auditorium.
Sliding the duffel bag off his shoulder, J.B. tossed it onto the floor. "There, all the proof you should need."
Impatiently, Baron Polk snapped his fingers, and servants rushed to gathered the bag. Opening it under his supervision, they removed the leathery roll and spread it across the stage.
It was t
hirty feet long, eight wide, the colors matched and there was the scar from his own pistol! The baron couldn't believe it. This was the hide of the monster, every bullet hole and ridge layer of rough hide forever burned into his memory from that awful day.
"How?" he weakly whispered.
"We joined forces with the beetle warriors," Ryan said. "They helped a lot. Mean fighters."
Lane sneered. "The clicks? Bah, man, nobody has seen them in years. They're breathing dirt."
"We fought side by side with their chief yesterday afternoon," Ryan stated. "Nice folks, once you get to know them."
Polk waved the trifle of the beetles aside. He didn't care if they laid claim to the Dead Swamp and Salt Lake. They were of no conceivable use to him.
"So it's finally over, the beast is dead. Truly dead." Polk sat up straight in his chair. "Name your price."
"Exactly what we agreed upon. Ten horses and supplies, blankets, food enough for a week. A tent if you have any."
"We don't."
"Then some canvas will do, and we'll make a tent."
"And explosives," J.B. added.
"Are you insane? "
"We had a deal," Ryan reminded harshly.
"And I will honor that," Polk retorted. "But not at the expense of my people. Horses, tack, food, blankets and such, all you can carry. Shine and women, all you want. But not one live round and no explosives of any kind. I won't have you strip this ville defenseless. Understood?"
"Black powder," Doc added. "One pound."
The man chewed his cheek for a while in thought. "Who says we got any?"
Doc glared. "I heard the earlier conversation as we entered, and I have seen your cannon, sir. It is a fully functioning weapon."
"That it is," Polk said with pride. "Half a pound, no more."
"Done?"
"Done," Ryan said.
Polk turned his attention to the others in the throne room. "Captain Lane, I believe we now have nothing further to discuss. So I shall expect the quota of fish delivered to my ville to be doubled by the next moon. Anything less will be considered theft from me and dealt with harshly."
