Outlaws of Babylon

by Eugene W. Cundiff

  “Somebody clipped him in the side. He says he’ll be fine until we can get him to our little Saint. What about you?”

  “Eh, not so bad. Not as bad as that time leaving Vegas was, anyway. Plan A looks like a wash, and Ivory’s old man is down here popping slugs into Feds. Any word on the Irishmen’s ETA?”

  “No word. Last they said, they were trying to set up a perimeter to keep the Sixes from escaping with the cargo. They're not able to spare shock troops into that fray just now.”

  “Oh that’s just great. Going dark before someone hears us. I’ll be holding the cab until help gets here.” The Californian shut off the radio, then took stock of his surroundings. If he stayed in the cab he would be found out in short order, and no matter which of the two sides now battling came out victorious that would be an undesirable situation. The only option he had was to take refuge in the truck’s cargo trailer. Ric pushed open the door in the rear of the cab and slid into the back, closing and sealing it behind himself. Gunshots rattled off outside, the odd one ricocheting from the vehicle’s heavy armor, but the chattering gunfire and shouts of warring soldiers and zealots suddenly seemed unimportant to him as his eyes took in the truck's cargo. Fortunately, his shocked expletives were drowned out by the battle raging outside

  “Say again? We couldn’t make that out. Boytoy. Repeat?”

  Ric numbly reached down to the radio at his belt, managing to click the button to respond.

  “Yeah, Dollface... I’m… I’m here.”

  “What is it?”

  The Californian's eyes drifted across the immense arsenal of firearms and stockpiled ammunition before him, stacked neatly in pristine military order. “We... may have got the wrong truck.”

  “Repeat that? Wrong truck?”

  “There’s a damned weapons cache in here! Enough guns and ammo to level half the city!”

  It was the Sheriff’s voice, not Jen's, that answered. “Did you say a weapons cache? This was supposed to be a supply delivery.”

  “Supplies to start World War Four, maybe! I don’t see a scrap of provisions in this cargo, Sheriff.”

  “Damn it. We needed provisions.”

  Ric sighed. “Yeah I know. But right now what we need is to keep the Sixes from getting their Bible-beating hands on these weapons. Seriously, you need to send in our reinforcements, because if –“

  The Sheriff’s reply was apologetic in its tone, but utterly unapologetic in its grim frankness. “There’s no way, Lee. Especially since it's not the supplies we need. We’ll need to let the Feds think it was just bad luck with the Sixes. They’ll be even better-armed and harder to crack when they send in the actual provision convoy, so we’ll need all our men and our ammo for that raid.”

  Ric made no attempt to hide the fury in his voice as he hissed a reply. “And what do you think letting the Sixes have these weapons will do to your chance of success?”

  “The Sixes aren’t currently an enemy of the Irishmen as a whole, little one. We can’t take the chance.”

  “So you’ll just let them have all the guns and ammo they need to wipe Sanctuary off the map, then, and leave me to die in the damned bargain.”

  The Sheriff’s voice was coldly professional. “This is war, child. People die in war.”

  Ric’s hand tightened to a white-knuckled grip on the radio as he replied. “The lowest circle of Hell is reserved for betrayers, Sheriff.” He clicked the radio off and gave a quiet glance to his surroundings, fighting down the seething core of anger boiling up into his gut. Losing his head in angry fantasies of making the Sheriff lose hers for this betrayal was not going to get him out of this. Anger and violent revenge fantasies were not what he needed to focus on now.

  What he needed to focus on now was a plan.

  12

  “You did what?!” Jen’s eyes blazed with rose-colored light as she screamed into the short-range radio. The voice at the other end was calm and emotionless.

  “We had no choice. I’m sorry.”

  “Not as sorry as you’re going to be you dried-out New York c-“

  Jen’s words were cut off as Kurt weakly grabbed her wrist. “Leave it for now, Dollface… we need…”

  “We need to get Ric and then hang that bitch from the gates of Sanctuary!”

  “That’s... nice. Mind if we do that after... we stop me from bleeding to death?”

  Jen swore viciously, but turned her attention to her bleeding companion. She tore a swath from Kurt’s shirt, tying it tight around his wounded torso. Kurt shouted in pain, and a flash of blue fire erupting in his eye. Loose bits of rubble scurried across the rooftop around them. “Deep breaths… no pain, Killer.” Jen's eyes flashed with the light of her own power, and her voice grew heavy in his ears. "No pain… no pain, Killer... deep breaths, no pain.”

  “No... pain...” Kurt droned. The punk nodded.

  “Not for you, anyway. Come on, we need to get Boytoy out of there so he can help in choking Judas on her own damned silver.”

  “Judas on her... own damned silver.”

  “Damn it, dosed you too hard there. We need to get you to the bandage-box-on-legs. I doubt she’ll be thrilled to find out what her ‘Auntie' just pulled on her boyfriend.”Jen rose up to peer over the rim of the roof, watching the chaos below. She sighed, pulling her gun free of its holster. “But first we need to save my favorite hetero lifemate from the mess his foolish faith in humanity landed him in.” Jen took a deep breath, then exhaled it. “What I wouldn’t give to not have to keep doing that.”

  “Doing… what?”

  Jen shook her head. “Nevermind. Time to move, Killer.”

  Kurt nodded, dazedly, and followed after Jen as she led them down the rusting fire escape that clutched defiantly to the side of the building. When they reached the street the pair ducked into an alleyway. Jen cursed vilely, her eyes still alight with rosy light. Kurt leaned weakly against the ally wall, looking to the punk. “What was... step two?”

  Jen glanced to Kurt, slumping helplessly against the opposite wall. “Step two is to get Ric out of there. Damned if I have a plan for that, though."

  “That’s why I usually handle the plans, Dollface.”

  Jen snatched the radio from her belt as it crackled to life, raising it to her ear. “Ric?”

  “Yeah, I’m in the back, hidden out of sight and behind some nice, heavily-reinforced storage crates. Looks like we’re on our own.”

  “Thank to that dried-up, turncoat Slicker harlot of a tw-“

  “Jen... it was a short-sighted call, but not strictly a wrong one. This warzone’s too hot right now.”

  “Then what’s our plan, Ric?”

  The answer was self-assured and confident. “You get Killer back to Ivory to be patched up, and don’t get yourselves caught in this mess. Same goes for our people further back. Take them with you and don't let them start a fight with the Irishmen.”

  “Damn it Ric I am not just going to abandon you!”

  There was a long moment of silence on the end of the radio before Ric answered. “Jen there’s nothing to do here that won’t get you killed. I’ll be fine, I promise. Now go.”

  “But –“

  “Go.” The radio went silent again, and it stayed silent. Kurt looked to Jen glumly, his expression pained.

  “I think that was him dropping our frequency.” Kurt paused to take a shallow breath. “I hate saying it, but he’s right. I’m hurting too bad to concentrate, and that means no flash and smash. Plus, you know, bleeding to death.”

  The wounded Preserve exile chuckled weakly, and Jen groaned. “All right, fine... let’s go... damn it Ric... damn it.”

  With a reluctant glance backward, Jen slumped forward out of the alleyway. Kurt following after her.

  ◆◆◆

  “Ric? Ric answer me, please…”Mory made no attempt to hide the worry and dread in her voice as she called into the radio again and again. She was so focused on her task that she didn't notice Jo enter the tent until the dark
-skinned Preserve refugee spoke.

  “Killer’s been shot. He needs your magic touch, Miss Whitechapel.”

  Mory turned alabaster-white, rising quickly from her chair. She rushed past Jo and into the winter chill in nothing but her slip of a dress and a pair of old boots, her long black curls flying behind her as she made for the gates. Her mad dash stopped only when she nearly collided with Kurt and Jen. Kurt was pallid and unconscious, and Mory wasted no time. She placed her delicate hands on Kurt’s chest, gasping out instructions breathlessly. “Get the bandages off, quickly!”

  Jen nodded, quickly drawing a knife from her boot. The punk cut the bloodied cloth away, and once the wound was bared Mory’s eyes brightened into snow-white stars. Kurt groaned as the shrapnel of the shell pushed itself free from his flesh. His wound knit itself back together, and color returned to Kurt's complexion even as it faded from Mory's. Kurt gasped, and his eyes fluttered open again just in time to watch as Mory’s frail, snow-white form shuddered and collapsed onto him.

  “Not sure whether to be more grateful or more jealous, just now.”

  Kurt sat up with a groan, gently lifted Mory from himself. He held her gently as he gave the punk a sour look. “Very funny, Dollface.”

  Jen shrugged dismissively. “Just ‘cause she’s too soft and idealistic doesn’t mean she’s not hot. In that porcelain-doll sort of way.”

  Jo rushed up to the three, lifting Mory's insignificant weight from Kurt. “I’ll get her to a cot.”

  Kurt nodded and thanked his fellow Preserve exile. Jo carried Mory off, passing T.J. approached from the opposite direction. The younger teenager looked to Kurt and Jen in concern.

  “Where’s the boss? Where’s Ric?”

  Jen’s glower made the younger teen cringe back a few steps. She shook her head, sighing. “Sorry, Kiddo. Not your fault that the Irishmen screwed us when things went sideways."

  “Is Ric?”

  “Alive, far as we know, but stranded in the back of the cargo truck that was our target. A cargo truck full of guns that's likely well on its damned way to a Six base by now thanks to that bitch of a Sheriff!”

  “But...”

  T.J. shook his head in confusion. Jen raised an eyebrow. “But?”

  “But I thought the Irishmen were our friends, our allies? They backed us up building this place here.”

  “They did.” It was Kurt, not Jen who answered. Jen just nodded in seething silence.

  “Then why did they just leave him behind like that? Why did you?”

  “Combination of me bleeding to death and Ric ordering us away to deal with that first bit.” Kurt offered. T.J. nodded slowly.

  “So... urm... how do we get Ric back?”

  Jen shook her head.

  “We’re working on that. Truth be told? Even if I’m a little worried, it’s not like this is the first dangerous place full of dangerous scum Ric’s had to make his way out of. Once we make sure Killer’s fully-charged and ready, we’ll get a gang together, use the nav-link in the radio to track the stolen cargo down, find Ric, and get in contact again. See how it goes from there.”

  Kurt grunted. “I think we’re good to go. Mory’s little blessings may not be as flashy and scary as mine, but they’re no less potent.”

  Jen nodded, holding a hand out to help Kurt find his footing. Kurt took the offered hand and rose, touching his bare side gently. His eyes blazed with blue fire, and a nearby bit of rubble rose somewhat shakily off the ground. It floated through the air, hovering before his outstretched hand. “Weapons check, Killer?"

  Kurt flicked his wrist, sending the chunk of masonry hurtling into the walls. He nodded to Jen. The punk grinned.

  “Yeeep, that’s a big check.”

  “Go get a few of our friends readied up again, Dollface.”

  “Any sort of friends in particular?”

  There was no humor in Kurt’s voice as he answered, and his face bore an expression that seemed to finally warrant the name the Californians had bestowed upon him. “The kind who are ready to be bad guys.”

  13

  Richard Lee could think of worse scenarios he could be been in. In fact, he could think of a good handful he had been in. Still, despite having access to enough guns to outfit a small army, he was woefully outnumbered by people who would quite happily make a real ghost of him. Even worse, keeping the diplomatic situation between his people and his erstwhile superiors cordial after getting out of this was going to be even more difficult.

  "One step at a time, chummer. Step one: lock and load."

  Ric quickly slung a pair of rifles over his shoulders and shoved spare ammunition into his pockets. Outside, the sounds of open conflict had begun to die away, fading into the grisly chorus of a battle’s aftermath. The slow groans and sobs of dying men were punctuated periodically by the thunder of an occasional cold-blooded execution or kind-hearted mercy-killing, and it would not be long before he knew the nature of the company he would soon be making violent acquaintance with. As the air outside grew quiet, Ric was able to make out conversing voices.

  “Paladin Whitechapel, we’ve taken out the last of the heathen knights of the Fallen Babylon.”

  “Good work, Brother Benjamin. I see now that our doubts in you were misplaced, and why our good Brother Vega, now in glory, spoke highly of you.”

  “You honor me, Paladin.”

  “And you honor our noble cause, and our Lord, through your service.”

  “And what of you, High-Paladin?”

  The Whitechapel's voice was tired. “I shall remain here to aid in preparing the other shipments and prevent this one’s tracing by the servitors of the Fallen Babylon.”

  “So shall it be, High-Paladin. God be with you. So shall it be.”

  “And with you as well, Brother Benjamin. So shall it be.”

  There came the sound of someone clambering into the vehicle, followed by that of the cab's door slamming shut. The engine rumbled to life, and the vehicle lurched into reverse. Ric pondered his options. It seemed the Sixes were either too under-manned or too cocky to think more than a single driver was needed, so when they were out of range for an easy rescue he could easily overpower the hapless Six and drive the cargo back to Sanctuary. Normally Ric would have done so without second thought, but what the ‘Paladin’ had tasked this particular hapless Six with gave him pause. The Six was taking the cargo back to the Sixes’ fortress, to the base for their operations. The opportunity to learn the location of such a valuable a target was a tempting. Ric stayed hidden in his dark corner, listening and waiting as the Six drove the rumbling vehicle down rough and potholed streets. After several minutes, the Six turned on the radio, and a singer began singing in upbeat tones, telling of how the city had died and its residents had fled to Florida. The Californian grinned as the sound of piano filled the vehicle, but the grin faded quickly. It gave Ric a few moment’s pause when he realized that on at least one distant level he had found common ground with one of the Sixes. It felt strange to find any similarity with one of the men who so fervently sought the murder and destruction of himself and those he held most dear. Ric peered up, invisibly, to watch the Six a bit closer. The young man slumped back into his seat, and the upbeat number gave way to a quiet holiday tune from an old country singer began. The song told of a Christmas truce in the middle of a battlefield, and Ric saw the Six shake his head.

  “That would be nice, for sure. To have a break from all the drills and fighting and shooting each other. Even if they are demons. Sometimes I wonder if we're any better anymore...” The young Six shook his head again. “Get it together, Benny. You let the High-Paladin or the Reverend hear that, right when you're back in their graces and... I mean seriously, High-Paladin Whitechapel just had his best friend shot dead by those demons. Demons that are holding his kids prisoner! You don’t see him doing the whole holiday moping thing, do you? And yeah, sure that nightmare with the Queen's victims was bad. But they probably couldn't have been saved, right? But... Lord, we c
ould have tried, couldn't we? Instead of just... sending them on to You?”

  The song began speaking of fear and doubt, of the narrator dying were he proven wrong as he prepared to join in singing with an enemy soldier, and though Ric he had no fear that it would be him who did the dying if the insane ploy he was considering went south, he would be risking the information he had a chance to obtain. All he needed to do in order to learn where his enemies laired was to remain quiet and stay out of sight. But Richard Lee had never tolerated the indignity of remaining quiet and out of sight particularly well, and this time was no different. Ric finally grinned, and his voice thundered out from behind the Six.

  “Benjamin… Benjamin… why do you persecute Me, Benjamin?”

  It was by pure luck alone that the poor Six did not careen off the road, given how fast he slammed on the brakes and whipped around with his gun drawn. It was only pure strength of will that kept Ric from erupting in laughter at the dumbstruck mix of confusion and terror on Benny's face as the Six's eyes cast about in a vain search for the Californian.

  “Who... who’s there? Answer me!”

  Taking a silent breath and forcing his voice to remain composed and imperious, Ric called out again. “It is you who answer unto Me, Benjamin, as all men must. This is not the road to Damascus, nor are you Saul, Benjamin, but My question still stands.”

  Benny continued to look about frantically for the source of the voice addressing him. Finding none, his own voice became far less assertive and far more humble. “Who… who are you? What’s... what is..?”

  “Why do you ask questions to which you know the answer in your heart, Benjamin?”

  The Six sputtered. “Oh God...”

  Ric grinned, unseen. He had always wanted the chance to do this. “Yes, Benjamin?”

  It had the reaction the Californian had expected.

  “I... I... Lord, have I offended?”

  “You seek the murder of children, Benjamin.”

  “Demons!”

  “By decree of whom?”