Judas Strike

by James Axler

  “Not even a canoe,” Dean said in a serious tone.

  “I know where there is a ship,” Ann said, levering herself upward on an elbow. “And I’ll show you, but only if you take me with you. Please…”

  J.B. appeared at the doorway. “Company coming,” he reported. “Lots of them.”

  “Brandon?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Triple red,” the Deathlands warrior barked, sliding the Steyr off his shoulder and working the bolt.

  Going to the window, Ryan watched as whistling objects arced over the wall to land among the dead and bounce along the ground, spewing forth thick streams of black fumes. A bird caught in the gas gave no reaction and continued feasting. Not poison gas, then, which was good. Spreading across the compound, thick tendrils of dark smoke crept along the ground, hiding the dead. Then dim figures on horseback appeared in the smoke, stopping occasionally to stab at the corpses with long spears. Testing to see if any were still alive. Had to be slavers come for fresh muscle.

  “Dig in here?” Dean asked, jacking the slide on his Browning semiautomatic pistol.

  “Fish in a barrel,” his father answered curtly. “We’ll have to snipe these bastards to pieces. Dean, stay with Mildred and the girl. Everybody else, spread out. Now move!”

  Going to the bed, Jak gestured and a knife was in his hand. Kneeling, he pressed it into the palm of the girl. “Any probs, whisper about blasters,” he said fast. “They lean close to hear, stab in throat.”

  She silently thanked him with her eyes, and Jak moved off at a run.

  Dashing outside, the companions separated into the thickening smoke, not daring to fire their blasters yet and draw unwanted attention to the baron’s home. As soon as the companions were gone, Mildred and Dean manhandled the door into position and dropped down the wooden arms on each side. The slats held the door in place, but Mildred highly doubted its ability to withstand any kind of an attack.

  “Best we got,” Mildred said, wiping her hands.

  “Watch the windows,” Dean replied grimly.

  Hoofbeats pounded in the smoky compound. So they had horses. Good. Keeping his back toward the wall, Ryan drew the SIG-Sauer and waited until a dimly seen figure came closer. He fired, there was a muffled cry and the rider tumbled to the ground. Small as the sound of the silenced pistol had been, it drew a barrage of return fire, tongues of flame stabbing into the smoke from a dozen flintlocks, the telltale thud-clack sounding before the powder ignited. Lead balls slammed into the steel wall around him, one plowing into the dirt between his boots. Diving out of the line of fire, Ryan rolled to get some distance. Rising, he fired again, another rider dropped and again the flintlocks delivered a brutal retaliation.

  Dark swirling clouds filled the ville, the galloping of horse hooves thudding onto the soil forming a low rumble like an approaching storm. It was difficult to know which direction the riders were coming from, but Ryan realized the smoke worked both ways. The companions couldn’t see the invaders very well, and the coldhearts would have no idea how many defenders there were. Might be able to use that in their favor.

  Somewhere close by, a revolver snapped off rounds, followed by the thundering roar of the LeMat. Flintlocks responded, accompanied by several thrown spears. Then Jak’s Magnum pistol boomed, and a horse screamed in pain. More flintlocks spoke, lead balls ricocheting off the wall and rebounding back into the compound. Ryan felt the hot passage of a near miss and started zigzagging across the ground.

  Leaping over a corpse, he stopped just in time before tumbling into the firepit full of decomposing bodies. A sputtering smoke bomb lay on top of a dead man, charring the flesh and clothes. Odd place for it to land. Damn thing should have rolled right off. On impulse, Ryan kicked the charge into the firepit. Almost instantly, a spear jabbed from the billowing clouds and he fired from the hip, the cough of the SIG-Sauer heralding the wet smack of lead hitting flesh. The figure staggered and dropped its weapon to grab an arm, but the coldheart didn’t cry out in pain. Swiftly, he retreated into the smoke and disappeared. But now Ryan knew why they were so hard to spot. The enemy was wrapped in gray cloth the same color as the smoke. Camou clothing. Clever.

  From the distance came the stutter of a rapidfire, the fiery flower of the discharges brightening the clouds in a brief strobe effect. J.B. was in action. But the sound stopped almost as quickly as it had started, and Ryan feared the worst.

  Moving sideways, the man headed in that direction and after only a few yards discovered that the body of the man he had aced was gone. The coldhearts took their dead? Suddenly, Ryan wasn’t sure they were facing just slavers anymore, but something infinitely worse.

  More gunfire and flintlocks spoke as the one-eyed man reached into a pocket and pulled out a rebuilt gren from the lighthouse. Ryan couldn’t use the explosive in the smoky field; that would be a sure way to chill his own people. But he could toss it into the firepit. That would contain the deadly shrapnel and hopefully the noise of the detonation would rattle the unseen enemy. Slim chance, but worth a try. This whole fight could turn against them with lightning speed.

  Something long went by the man, as silent as a dream, but he saw what it was and drew the panga with his free hand. Then another lasso snaked out of the clouds and Ryan caught it on the blade, slicing the loop apart, and firing back along the rope. A man cried out and the rope went slack.

  As if in response, Krysty’s voice cried out, her blaster blazing steadily. More voices were raised, the smoke and steel walls distorting their origins. A riderless horse galloped past Ryan, almost knocking him down. The LeMat discharged five, six, seven times in a row, the last answered by an anguished scream. Slapping in a fresh clip, Ryan grunted in approval.

  Suddenly, he heard the sound of splintering wood, followed by the sound of two blasters firing together. Then it abruptly stopped. Pocketing the gren, Ryan headed for the baron’s home. As he went past the well, a spear stabbed out of the swirling fumes, the shaft coming so close it passed through his black hair, ripping some out by the roots. Ignoring the minor pain, Ryan spun and fired from the hip. There was the meaty thump of a slug hitting flesh, but again no cry of pain. The invaders seemed to make noise only when they died; wounds meant nothing to them.

  Huffing horses were running everywhere in the compound, the bones of the dead audibly cracking under their hooves. A flintlock discharged, a revolver answered, and then there was silence. No sound or movement for several minutes.

  Barely breathing, Ryan stood stock-still, straining to hear anything. But the eerie quiet continued. Even the scavenger birds were gone, and the complete lack of noise seemed thicker than the roiling clouds of gray smoke.

  Chapter Seven

  Chaos and pain filled J.B.’s world as he sluggishly came awake.

  He was tied wrist to ankle, bouncing on something hard that kept slamming into his stomach, knocking the breath out of his lungs, and he was facedown with the ground moving past his face at great speed. Dark night! He was tied over the back of a galloping horse. A big one, white with black stripes on its rump.

  There were a lot of horses, fifteen, maybe twenty, and he caught jumping glimpses of the riders. Gray camou! So that’s how they did it. Clever bastards. The group was racing along the dried riverbed, the hard-packed earth cracked in a mosaic pattern. The stink of sour horse sweat and badly cured leather nearly made him vomit, but he fought it. With his mouth gagged, he could easily drown if his stomach rebelled. Out of the hundreds of ways to die, that was suddenly the worst he could think of.

  Struggling against his bonds, he tried to see the rider on his horse, but there was a bundle in the way. In horror he realized it was three of the gray men roped together and stacked across the back of the beast. J.B. was near the rump, which explained the severe jostling. They took their dead? Oh, no.

  Then a familiar sight swung into view, bouncing off the chest of the huge animal. His munitions bag was hanging from the bone pommel of the saddle, the wire stock
of the Uzi sticking out the top flap. Now he had a goal. J.B. tightened his stomach muscles to handle the pounding, and worked out a couple of plans in his mind. He knew that time was against him; moments, not minutes counted here. Two plans came to mind, each seeming more dangerous than the other as he mentally reviewed them. But the man couldn’t think of a third, so he had to use one of these.

  Decision made, J.B. pulled on his bonds as hard as he could, the ropes tightening painfully on his wrists and ankles, but that gave him some slack. Bracing himself, the Armorer dived forward to slide around the beast and was suddenly looking at its stomach. The hind legs started banging into his side like sledgehammers, and the ground slammed into his back so hard he feared bones would break. Breathing was impossible in this position, and J.B. fought to suck in enough air through his nostrils to stay alive. His arms felt as if they were coming out their sockets, and he squinted as hard as possible to keep his glasses from flying off.

  Dark night, this was the worst idea he had ever come up with, but it was too late now to stop. They’d chill him, or blind him once they discovered he was trying to escape. This was his only chance.

  Swinging back and forth to the rhythm of the hind legs, J.B. got the timing down and jabbed out with his elbow to stab the horse directly in the testes. The stallion screamed and kicked backward. Caught by surprise, the rider tumbled over the animal and hit the ground hard, rolling wildly with his arms and legs failing like a broken puppet.

  Guttural laughter sounded from the riders of other horses, and the mount he was on abruptly slowed to a canter, the beast turned to snap at the man dangling under its vulnerable stomach, bringing the munitions bag close enough for J.B. to snatch the wire stock and haul the Uzi free. Timing pencils and coils of fuse came with the blaster and tumbled away, but the Armorer paid them no attention.

  Several horses came to a stop, and men began to dismount when a woman screamed, and the startled riders turned their attention to her for a moment.

  But that split second was all that J.B. needed. Flipping the weapon over, he worked the bolt with his jaw and clumsily placed the barrel of the blaster to the knotted ropes and fired a short burst. The horse bucked wildly at the blaster fire from underneath, making him drop the weapon, but the rope was torn to pieces and he fell to the ground.

  Heavy hooves stomped all around J.B., sinking inches into the soil, and he frantically rolled clear. Then he threw himself back under the beast to reclaim his blaster. Angry voices sounded from the advancing gray men, and several drew big flintlock pistols. Another uncoiled a lasso from his belt.

  “Fuck you!” J.B. shouted through his mouthful of rag and started firing on full-auto, spraying the coldhearts with half a clip, turning quickly in a full circle. Those closest to him fell over riddled with copper-jacketed lead. Startled by the noise, the horses bucked, and the riders cried out, clutching the reins with both hands, unable to attack for the moment. Then the Uzi jammed, and J.B. feverishly worked the bolt to clear the malfunctioning cartridge. Not now.

  Horses circled him, kicking up clouds of dust. A blaster fired in a thunderous boom, the black powder blowing an acrid cloud of smoke over the area, and his fedora was yanked off his head by the near miss. Shitfire, too close! Cold adrenaline filled his body and, slamming his fist onto the breech, J.B. got the round loose and started to fire 9 mm rounds at the masked riders. He jerked the barrel of the Uzi away from a horse with a woman bound across its back exactly as he had been. Then he recognized, the ragged clothing. It was Ann!

  Just then a lasso snaked out of nowhere to land around the man’s shoulders. As J.B. jerked away, the rope drew tight and he was yanked off his feet, but he kept hold of the Uzi. This was how the bastards got him in the ville. It wasn’t going to work twice.

  Another landed on his boots, and he managed to slip out of the closing loop. Running toward the rider holding the rope loosened the lasso, and J.B. shrugged his way out. A third flew toward him, and the Armorer blew it out of the air with a hip shot. Going to single rounds, he fired again and again, constantly moving to avoid any more of the those freakishly accurate lassos.

  A riderless horse slammed into his side, knocking J.B. to the ground. Hooves pounded everywhere, one coming so close it grazed his cheek. Hugging the Uzi, he rolled away to avoid the smashing hooves. He fired twice more and the blaster clicked empty.

  Throwing the weapon at a gray man, J.B. took off at a run, pelting down the riverbed with all of his strength. The banks were too high to climb easily. He had to find another section where he could get into the jungle. The horses and lassos would be useless there. He’d have a fighting chance to live.

  Flintlocks fired from behind, and the ground puffed as the miniballs plowed into the hard soil. That only spurred him on to greater speed. Then he heard galloping hooves, and he knew they were after him again. No way could he outrun a horse, even with the load of dead bodies each was carrying.

  Turning in midstep, J.B. dashed for the nearest embankment and started to scramble up the side of the riverbed. The soil broke loose under his hands, and he kept sliding back down. But he was still making headway. Less than a yard to go, then he slid back two feet. Throwing himself for the edge so tantalizingly close, J.B. grabbed hold of the grassy top when a flurry of blasterfire rang out, and he braced for the arrival of the hot pain.

  Then the blasters roared again, and he realized those weren’t flintlocks shooting. Glancing over a shoulder, J.B. saw the rest of the companions charging up the riverbed in the old bulldozer, Ryan in the shovel and steadily triggering the Steyr. Another gray rider fell, and the last one turned to flee when Doc unleashed the LeMat. The handcannon boomed like doomsday in the confines of the riverbed, and the rider flew out of the saddle to land on the ground in a crumpled heap with most of his skull blown away.

  “Get those horses!” J.B. shouted, then released his grip and slid down the embankment on the seat of his pants.

  As Ryan turned off the dozer, several of the companions started to walk toward the horses, talking softly and making clucking noises with their tongues. The beasts were skittish, but obviously well-trained as they didn’t bolt. Soon the five horses were gathered by the reins and brought back to the dozer.

  “Whoa, there. Easy does it,” Krysty said in a soothing voice, tethering the reins to one of the hydraulic lifters of the dozer. The animals sniffed curiously at the huge machine, but didn’t shy away. Then she noticed the heavy scarring on their flanks, not from spurs, but whips. The horses had been beaten into submission like any human slave, the will to rebel crushed completely. They wouldn’t have dared to run away. Fear ruled their hearts.

  “We’re going to need those animals to get Ann,” J.B. said, limping over to the dozer. His clothes were torn and bloody in spots, his hands turning purple from the tight ropes cutting off the circulation.

  “We know,” Jak said, producing a blade. Carefully, he cut away the remnants of rope from the man’s wrists.

  “Thanks,” J.B. said, rubbing his sore wrists. There were chafe marks on top of his old scars. It wasn’t the first time he’d been bound by rope.

  “They came in through the windows. Almost got me and Mildred, too,” Dean stated. “I think they knew it was the baron’s home.”

  “Want a drink?” Krysty offered.

  “Dark night, yes!”

  The canteen was passed over and the Armorer drank greedily, the excess running down his cheeks. Then he poured some into his palms and washed the dirt off his face.

  “Better,” he said, returning the canteen. Then he hawked and spit, and bloody saliva hit the ground. Damn, busted a tooth. “Got my hat?”

  “In the dozer. What happened?” Mildred asked, checking his face and ribs. There didn’t seem to be any serious damage, just a lot of fresh bruises forming. The wiry little man was as tough as old boot leather.

  Briefly, J.B. explained while reclaiming his dropped blaster. The Uzi was dusty and dirty, but undamaged. Ryan passed over a box of 9 mm r
ounds, and the man reloaded the 30-round clip. All of the Armorer’s spare clips and ammo were now with the gray men. Plus his munitions bag.

  A few yards away, Doc went to one of the corpses and pulled off a gray mask. The face underneath seemed perfectly normal, no obvious mutations or differences. How odd. One at a time, he went through their clothing and found several flintlocks, plus several pounds of black powder and lead shot. He filled his ammo pouch and left the rest. As far as the old man was concerned, the abundance of black powder for his Civil War blaster was the only good thing about these wretched islands.

  “Five horses, seven people,” Ryan said, checking the cinches on the saddles. “Going to be slow traveling. But we’ve got no choice. Ann helped me escape. We have to at least try to get her free.”

  “Agreed.”

  Stroking the neck of a horse, Krysty looked up the riverbed. “They’ll know we’re coming.”

  “But not when,” Ryan said. “We’ll use that.”

  “We had best tend our mounts before departing,” Doc rumbled in his deep voice. “They have been used most strenuously for quite a while.”

  While Dean climbed the bank and got some green grass for the animals, the companions let the horses drink from cupped hands, but not too much. They didn’t want to slow them down. When the grass arrived, the poor things ate as if ravenous. Afterward, Mildred went to the clear stream, intending to refill the canteens, but upon testing the water she found it was heavily polluted. Totally undrinkable.

  “You okay to ride?” Krysty asked in concern. “Took quite a beating.”

  J.B. slapped the clip into the rapidfire and worked the bolt, chambering a round. “Try and stop me.”

  “The dozer works,” Dean offered, “and we have juice. Found a cache in one of the cargo containers.”

  “Too slow, and they’d hear us coming for miles,” Ryan stated. “Besides, we used most of the juice getting here. Had it in high gear all the way. Damn near blew the engine.”