Way of the Wolf

by James Axler

  Blood gushed out with the man's garbled screams. He coughed and choked as he breathed in and sucked blood into his lungs. Terror shone in the wild whites of his rolling eyes. He struggled against the leather thongs, then broke into choking gasps and tears when he couldn't get loose.

  "You bastard nuke-shitters!" he screamed, his voice echoing out over the forest.

  With a flick of quick movement, Jak moved the knife again, burying the point in the end of the man's nose. The captive stopped screaming, but bloody spittle flew from his mouth as he breathed like a bellows pump. The albino ignored the blood.

  "Scream again," Jak warned, "take both ears off. Understand?"

  Keeping his head still, going almost cross-eyed while staring at the knife and trying to keep his tormentor in view, the man said, "Yes."

  "Good." Jak withdrew the knife. "Kirkland's plague. Tell me."

  The man took a long, shuddering breath, then let it out. "Kirkland made it. Come up with it somehow, from some predark book he found or mebbe just thought of it on his own. Nobody knows."

  "A plague spreads," Dean said. "Man's got to be rad stupe to go fooling around with something like that."

  "Not this plague. Only kills the person gets it shot into them."

  "Then it's not a plague," Dean argued.

  The prisoner wiped one corner of his slashed mouth on his shoulder. "Only know what I was told. Kirkland and Liberty call it a plague, they tell me to call it a plague, I fucking well call it a plague."

  Jak thought about what the man was saying. He didn't have all the words or the book learning that Dean did, but he could guess at some things himself. "Why plague?"

  "To keep the ville in line. There's a lot of people don't like the way Kirkland runs things. They want to leave the ville, start over again somewhere else. They figure Kirkland can have this one. But he doesn't figure Hazard is worth having without having people to control."

  "The people in the ville don't know?" Dean asked.

  "No. He always has Liberty schedule a group to keep watch out here. Anyone tries to get away, we take them down. Kirkland's also got people inside the ville who inform on who's thinking about slipping away."

  "Kirkland controls Liberty?" Jak asked. "Sure," the captive said. "Did, anyway. Until you hardcases came along and killed him."

  "Does Kirkland know that?" Dean asked.

  "Fucking right, he does. Knew that when you got to the ville. Nobody arrives in Hazard without Liberty sending someone along to say it's okay."

  Jak glanced at Dean, wondering if the dwarf had deliberately set them up. "Albert know that?"

  "Yeah. Him coming into the ville like that, he had to know Kirkland would know you people chilled Liberty."

  "Means Kirkland has more up his sleeve than an arm," Dean commented quietly. "He figures on taking control of the group."

  "Where Albert fit in?"

  "Got to ask him," Dean stated flatly.

  Jak turned his attention back to the prisoner. "Why you follow us?"

  The man hesitated, then shook his head, throwing drops of blood off his chin. "Kirkland wanted you chilled. You turned up with the plague, your bodies would be proof they needed him. But that wasn't my idea. I was just following orders."

  And that made sense to Jak. Without wasted effort, the albino teenager slashed the man's throat. He wiped the blade clean on the dying man's shirt and turned away while the man kicked out his life. "Let's ride," he said to Dean.

  Chapter Eleven

  "You look good, lover."

  Ryan felt a little self-conscious in the clothes Aunt Maim had sent up by way of one of the maids. The pants were neatly pressed, of thinner material than he would have ever cared to wear, and the shirt had belled sleeves and a ruffled collar that looked effeminate. The short-waisted jacket revealed the fuchsia cummerbund, and the sleeves ended above the puffy sleeves of the shirt.

  "Feel triple stupe," he replied. "And that's an ace on the line. These aren't a man's clothes."

  Krysty slipped her arm through his as they descended the stairs down into the hotel's main room. One of the young maids led the way. "I think you look fine."

  "Not me," Ryan said. "But you look beautiful." Krysty did. The white evening gown showed off her tall, shapely figure to perfection, setting off the liquid fire of her hair. Her face was clean, made over with a light application of cosmetics that had been provided with the clothing that had been delivered to the room only moments earlier. She'd even shed her beloved cowboy boots to put on the fancy high-heeled shoes that accompanied the dress. The hotel was lit by lanterns. Sconces along the wall held them every few feet, beating back the shadows that threatened to fill the building from outside. The windows on two sides of the room offered two huge views of the starry sky and quiet glimpses of Hazard.

  The maid led them across the wooden floor, their footsteps muted by a thick carpet. Ryan was surprised at how big the building was. From the outside, he'd known it was huge compared to existing structures he'd been in that hadn't been left over completely after the nukecaust. But obvious care had been spent in restoring the decor.

  "Isn't it beautiful, lover?" Krysty asked as they entered another room. She paused to run her hand along a grandfather clock that ticked with precision. The hands showed that it was nineteen minutes past eight.

  "Yeah," Ryan responded. There were some things that had been salvaged from before the nukecaust that made him really curious about how life had been lived in those times. The grandfather clock was one. He knew from experience that the people living at that time had access to comps that could be programmed to respond to voice commands and give the time out loud. Yet an object like the grandfather clock had obviously been kept even though it was obsolete. He reached out to stroke the cherry-wood finish with his fingertips.

  The maid waited just inside the doorway ahead of them. Lanterns hung on the wall behind her, throwing out a yellow, elongated sphere. She crossed her hands in front of her, ducking her head. Still, she regarded Ryan with what looked like thinly veiled hostility.

  Ryan returned the woman's gaze. Despite the clothing that had been sent up, he wore the SIG-Sauer in its leather on his hip. The panga was sheathed on his opposite hip, ready for instant access.

  "Aunt Maim, may I present Mr. Ryan Cawdor and Miss Krysty Wroth," the maid announced.

  Ryan glanced at Krysty, raising his eyebrow. The titian-haired woman shook her head slightly, indicating that her mutie senses could pick up no veiled threat of danger. Ryan took the lead into the room anyway, protective of his lover.

  "Relax, Mr. Cawdor," a husky voice said. "I assure you there's no reason to be afraid here. In the rest of the ville, perhaps, but not here."

  The speaker sat at the end of a rectangular dinner table. Black hair was piled atop a pale oval face that looked only slightly more healthy than a corpse's. If she hadn't been sitting in a wheelchair, Ryan judged that the woman would be tall, perhaps as tall as himself. She wore a jade green dress that crisscrossed her chest. A white eye patch covered her left eye.

  "I would get up to greet you," Aunt Maim said, "but I am somewhat invalided these days. Please seat yourselves."

  Ryan pulled a chair out for Krysty, taking a moment to run his hand under the table's edge to make sure nothing was waiting underneath that would do them harm. He did the same at the other end of the table before seating himself.

  Aunt Maim picked up a long tall wineglass in her right hand. The maid poured from a dark blue bottle. The shawl draped across her narrow shoulders hid Aunt Maim's other arm from sight. "You'll find the wine is an excellent vintage," the hosteler said.

  The maid came to Ryan's end of the table and poured drinks. Ryan picked his drink up and sniffed it. It might have been wasted effort, and he knew it. The Trader had made him aware that several poisons were virtually undetectable. Krysty shook her head, letting him know she sensed nothing wrong.

  Aunt Maim laughed, a full-throated bray that carried with it a hint of insanity. S
he caught herself after a moment, then put down her wineglass and covered her mouth. "Excuse me, but it's been a long time since I've found myself so amused."

  "Mebbe you'd care to explain what you found so funny." Ryan let an edge creep into his voice. He kept his hand on his thigh next to the SIG-Sauer blaster. He'd slipped the retaining thong the instant they'd left the room upstairs.

  Aunt Maim quieted with effort, but the madness lingered in the dark eye. "What I find so amusing is that you would believe you have anything to fear from me, yet you accepted Kirkland's offer to enter this ville."

  "Kind of short on choices at the time," Ryan said.

  "So you chose death or imprisonment over taking your chances elsewhere?"

  "Mebbe you want to spit out what you're trying to say," Krysty suggested vehemently.

  "I guess Kirkland hasn't told you that you're prisoners here."

  "No," Ryan answered.

  "And I take it you didn't know about the plague before you walked into the ville?"

  Ryan shook his head. "Mebbe you should start with the plague." As he listened to the, woman's story, related with a morbid fascination, he felt his stomach tighten. Sickness was something he didn't relish. A plague, unless a man found the bodies scattered ahead of him with enough distance between and the wind right, was something that couldn't be run from.

  The maid came around the table as Aunt Maim spoke, unveiling the food covering the surface. Vegetables were cut in beautiful shapes, looking delicate and delicious in their dishes.

  "You don't have to worry that you're receiving better fare than your friends," Aunt Maim said. "I'm having them served out of the same kitchen. Everything that is offered to you here tonight is also being offered to them."

  The maid bent low to talk to her mistress.

  "I'm told only one of your party remains within the hotel," Aunt Maim said.

  Ryan nodded.

  The woman sighed in irritation. She leaned back for the maid to place a napkin in her lap. "That's a pity," the hosteler said, "because not all of this food will maintain proper consistency for long."

  "We've learned not to be picky eaters," Krysty said. "If it's edible, or even healthy enough, they'll eat."

  "Still, I'll not have guests in my establishment dine on anything less than the best. Even if they insist on keeping strange hours." Aunt Maim turned to the maid. "Please inform the cooks that their services will be needed a while longer."

  The maid nodded but remained where she stood.

  Aunt Maim glowered at her. "Don't be difficult, you bitch. Go see to what I've asked you to do."

  "Yes, ma'am, but—"

  "But nothing." Aunt Maim swiveled her head back at Ryan and gave a sweet smile. "I shall be quite safe here under Mr. Cawdor's watchful eye. I think we share a singular view on the world."

  The maid left reluctantly, her cheeks coloring with emotion.

  The woman lifted her wineglass. "A toast, then, before we begin this charming meal. To your health—may you keep it."

  Ryan stared at the woman for a moment, then lifted his own glass and sipped when she did. Krysty joined them. "Tell me about the plague," he said. "How is it spread?"

  "Actually," Aunt Maim said, positioning her soup bowl in front of her with one hand, "I don't believe there is a plague. I think Kirkland occasionally chooses to infect some of the people in the ville. Usually it's only people that try to escape Hazard."

  "He doesn't want them to leave?" Krysty asked.

  The woman speared an asparagus chunk with her fork and bit into it with clean white teeth. "If they did, who would he rule?"

  Ryan made himself eat. Despite the talk of plague, his lovemaking with Krysty had left him famished. He sawed off a piece of steak and ate it, finding it juicy and tender, not at all like the dry, stringy stock the companions sometimes dropped for a meal.

  "If you think the plague is false, why don't you leave?" Krysty asked.

  Aunt Maim sipped more wine. "My handicaps are quite severe."

  "And mebbe you're in this with Kirkland," Ryan said.

  Color filled Aunt Maim's pale face. She sat her wineglass down forcefully. "Kirkland and I haven't seen eye to eye in a long time." The laughter came from her again, not lasting quite as long this time, but sounding more uncontrollable. She recovered. "Although it seems that eye to eye is the only way I see these days. However, just so you'll know, rest assured that in my dealings with Kirkland—" she shifted so the shawl fell away from her left side, shoving the stub of her left arm, the sleeve pinned up, through the material, "—that I have found the fucker quite disarming."

  DOC PROWLED through the stacks of books, carrying a lantern. He was drawn by the titles and covers. Nearly every branch of science that he'd ever heard of was represented somewhere in the collection. Albert, Cobb and two of the others sat around a small oval table in the center of the room.

  "Got no time for you to be looking through the books," Cobb growled. He wiped his nose with the back of his arm, brushing away a few drops of blood that continued to seep.

  Doc ignored the man. He found a section that held all of George Orwell's books. Tenderly he took down a slim hardcover edition of 1984.

  "Doc," Albert called.

  Gently Doc turned the pages in the book, a passage drifting back into his mind. He remembered reading the novel, but he couldn't remember when. He shifted his attention to the dwarf and company. " 'If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face—forever.' " The old man shook his head. "So true, so true. By the Three Kennedys, may you never have known how truly you spake the future."

  Albert crossed the room, stepping into the aisle and into the swell of light that emanated from the lantern. "Doc, tell me how you came to Hazard." Doc automatically put the book back on the shelf. Despite his best efforts, he felt his mind wandering, crashing through the decades, through all the information that was so mixed up in his head. "Why that's easy, dear friend. I came through the hole with Alice. No, it was Emily." Tears suddenly burned into his eyes. "No, no, that's wrong. Dear, sweet Emily couldn't come with me this time. Not this time, nor any other."

  "Leave the old bastard alone," Cobb shouted. "It's evident he's fucking crazy."

  Doc focused on the insult, using vestigial anger to crystallize his thoughts. "And you, sir, are an ignoramus and a bounder."

  Albert smiled. "Glad to have you back among us, Doc. Now, come on over here and let's talk."

  Doc paused a moment, taking up an armload of books. He used his cane across the bottom of them to brace them while he carried them. He sat at the table, taking up one of the stools. He placed the lantern beside him, then began going through the book.

  "How did you get here?" Albert asked again.

  Cobb reached into one of the shelves and brought out a jug. He poured the amber liquid into five metal cups and passed them around.

  Doc sniffed the cup, finding the smell of alcohol strong and burning. "My word, but do you not know the meaning of subtlety when it comes to home brew?"

  "Don't have time to get it perfect," Cobb argued. "Answer Albert's question about how you got here."

  "Why, we walked, of course."

  "You and your friends?"

  "My companions and I, yes." Doc sipped the brew and found it too strong for his taste. He put down the cup and began leafing through his collection of books.

  "And you never heard of the plague before?" Cobb demanded.

  "No."

  "Somehow that doesn't sound right. You got to admit that."

  Doc fixed the man with a hard gaze. "Have you ever heard of Ralph Waldo Emerson?"

  Cobb looked around at the other three men in the room, disregarding Doc's frank stare. "No."

  "Yet you stand in a room filled with books," Doc continued. "I even saw some of Emerson's works on your shelves. I find that it does not sound right that you have never embraced the man's writing."

  "What's that got to do with—?" Cobb began.

&n
bsp; "Exactly my point," Doc roared. "That I have not heard of the plague ere now simply means that neither I nor my companions have heard of the plague. What you actually want to know is a way out of your present problem, and with that I may be of some pedestrian help. Assuming that my companions are amenable." That, the old man knew, would depend on whether Ryan thought he could get them out of the ville without raising an army to do it. And if a way could be found around the plague.

  Chapter Twelve

  "Kirkland cut off your arm?" Ryan asked. He tore one of the fancy biscuits in two and spread honey butter across it.

  "That isn't all." She waved to the maid, who had returned and stood in the shadows. "I'm afraid his vengeance was quite complete."

  Reluctantly the maid rolled the wheelchair back. Aunt Maim pulled back the blanket across her legs and revealed that she only had one of those, as well. The other was perfect and slender, poking down from the hem of her dress, her foot encased in a jade green slipper.

  "The animal took her arm, her leg, her breast, her eye, her ear," the maid said in a shaking voice.

  "That's enough, Jocelyn," Aunt Maim ordered.

  The maid subsided, but cried quietly into the palm of one hand. "You were so beautiful," she choked out.

  "I still am," the hosteler said in a firm voice.

  But Ryan heard the quaver in her words. "You still are," he agreed.

  The woman covered her leg and her stump with the blanket and nodded her head in appreciation. Color touched her cheeks. "Thank you. I am not told that by enough men these days."

  She glanced at Krysty. "I beg your indulgence."

  "Of course," the redhead replied. "What Ryan and I have together has been through a lot. Neither of us is afraid to speak his or her mind."

  "More people should be able to conduct their lives in such a fashion. Push me forward, please, Jocelyn."

  The maid gently wheeled the chair under the table, then she stepped back into the shadows.

  "I apologize for the inconvenience in your meal. I know discussion of such matters is not good for the palate."