Axler, James - Deathlands 63 - Devil Riders

by Devil Riders [lit]

  "Must been some fight," Jak muttered.

  "Ah, that it was young fellow!" a drunk sec man called out, waving a wooden mug. "Buy me a drink and I'll tell you all the details. Lost ten men chilling the bastards, and nearly got caught by the Core!"

  "Shut up, fool," another man hissed, grabbing the arm of his friend and squeezing so hard his knuckles went white.

  The drunk went silent and bent over his mug to concentrate on his shine.

  The Core, eh? Ryan filed that name away to check into if he got the chance. Maybe that was what the Trader was calling his people these days.

  Now voices dropped as the companions made their way through the room heading for an empty table. Taking a seat, Krysty noticed an old brass plaque on the wall, the lettering barely discernable, buried as it was under the accumulation of grease and dirt.

  "Rockpoint Nine Relay Station," Krysty read aloud. "Relay for what, I wonder?"

  "No signs of any power lines," Mildred said, reviewing the ville in her mind. "Might have been a satellite base, or microwave transmission relay for telephones."

  Placing his longblaster on the table in plain sight, Ryan left the table and went to the counter. The man behind the bar was tall and muscular, missing several fingers on his left hand, and his left eye was a marbled white, a long scar going from his forehead, across the dead orb and down to his dimpled chin.

  "Lost it in a knife fight, eh?" Ryan said, gesturing at the man's white scar. "Me, too."

  "But we're still here and the other fellas ain't." The bartender chuckled. "Nice to meet another brother of the blade. I'm Bart. So what do you want, outlander? No eyes for sale today."

  Snorting a laugh, Ryan found himself immediately liking the man. "Just food," he said, then on impulse reached into a pocket and flipped the man a single .22 cartridge.

  The bartender made the catch with both hands and stared at the round of ammo as if it were alive.

  "Damn. Prime condition. Stew is on the fire, help yourself," Bart said, pocketing the round. "Got some roast lizzie, but not much left. If you ain't got a plate, use a hubber, but then you scrub it clean afterward. Or there's some flat bread. All you want."

  A hubber, a hub cap for a plate. Glancing at the fireplace, Ryan now saw a battered plastic milk crate stacked with the ornate metal disks bearing car company logos. The companions had military mess kits, but again showing off their wealth in such a poor ville would only start a fight.

  "We'll use the flat bread," Ryan decided.

  A man stumbled at the end of the bar and thumped it with a fist. "Beer!" he called out, slurring the word.

  "Smart choice on the flat bread," Bart said, pulling a chipped ceramic mug from under the counter and dipping it into an open barrel behind the counter. "Most people don't clean the hubbers so well, and some of them are kinda ripe."

  "Is the bread fresh?" J.B. asked, joining them at the counter.

  Sliding the mug down the counter to the waiting, customer, Bart looked hostilely at the man's glasses.

  "He's with me," Ryan said, twitching a thumb.

  The sec man at the end caught the beer, slopping some of the pale fluid onto himself and the floor, then stumbled away sipping nosily at the mug.

  "Fresh? Well, it wasn't made today," Bart admitted, wiping his mutilated hands dry on a wet towel tucked into his gun belt. There was no blaster, the holster containing a wooden cudgel instead. "But then, it wasn't made last moon either. Fresh enough to eat, if you got strong teeth."

  "Anything to drink, Bart?" Ryan asked. This was a technique he had learned long ago. Chat with the bartender, get on his good side and slowly the man would spill the local gossip.

  "Beer and shine," the man growled. "Only water here is reserved for sec men. Ain't none for sale."

  "That so, brother?" Ryan asked, scratching at his leather eye patch.

  Keeping a straight expression, Bart placed a scarred arm on the counter and leaned forward. "Well," he added softly, "if you pay double the price for shine, there might be water in the mug. Stranger things have happened."

  "Sounds good. A round of shine for the table," Ryan reached into a pocket and placed a couple of .22 rounds on the counter.

  "Nuke me, but you're packing brass," Bart said, covering the rounds with a hand and sliding them out of sight. "What are you, the Trader's bastard?"

  "Could be," J.B. said, resting an arm on the counter and briefly opening his fingers to expose a pile of cartridges. "And if we were looking to avoid that person, which would be the best direction for us not to travel?"

  Bart arched an eyebrow at the man and clamped his mouth tight. "I'll have a girl bring the drinks," he said woodenly, all traces of friendliness gone.

  "Well, that went poorly," J.B. muttered as they walked away from the counter.

  "Gaza has these folks scared to the bone," Ryan agreed, glancing backward. The bartender avoided his look. "Mebbe we should visit the baron and see what we can learn from him directly."

  "You mean, pretend we're mercies and try to hire on for the job of chilling the Trader?"

  "We've done it before."

  "Not always with success," J.B. stated flatly.

  As they crossed the room, a group of sec men watched the companions closely and started to whisper among themselves. Ryan spotted them and marked the group as possible trouble.

  Returning to their table, the men told the others what had happened. Just as they finished, some feminine laughter sounded from upstairs and the floor began thumping in a familiar pattern.

  "Got idea," Jak said, inclining his heads toward the stairs. "Go talk girls. Never knew gaudy slut won't talk for extra jak and no sweating."

  "They'd know everything," Mildred agreed. "Probably more than the baron does about what was happening in his ville."

  "Food first," Ryan decided, pulling a box closer to the table. "Going to be a long night, no matter how this goes."

  A girl who looked more like a gaudy slut than a waitress brought over a tray of mugs filled with water and left without saying a word.

  "Wait a minute before drinking," Mildred said, taking a container and sniffing carefully. Lifting the mug to the flickering candlelight, she inspected the coloration of the contents, then dipped in a finger and placed a drop on the back of her hand, then touched the tip of her tongue to the drop.

  "Clean," she announced at last.

  "And clear," Ryan added, checking his rad counter. More than once, they had bought water only to find it hotter than the bottom of a glass lake. After quenching their thirst, the companions got their food two at a time and settled down to eat. During the meal a few sec men wandered upstairs drunk, and a few came stumbling down the stairs fixing their pants and tucking in their shirts. A bald man stopped near the table and leered at Krysty, but she placed her revolver on the table and he moved off quickly muttering under his breath.

  "If Jak gets nothing upstairs," Ryan stated, laying aside his wooden spoon, "we'll get back and start work on the wag so it's ready to leave at dawn."

  "Leave for where?" Krysty said, chewing a mouthful of her stew. There was meat in the mix and some veggies, but also a lot of gritty corn. The kernels had to have been ground between pieces of sandstone. Or house bricks.

  "Grandee," Ryan answered, taking the last chunk of flat bread and stuffing it into his mouth to chew it soft.

  "We can use that place near the river as a base to start searching the Deathlands," he continued after swallowing, "until we find somebody who knows something."

  "Gotta go there anyway," J.B. agreed, dipping his bread into the water to try to soften the stuff. The bread swelled a little and he chewed it carefully, finding more grit in the flat bread. Damn sand was everywhere. Had to be mighty uncomfortable for the girls working overhead.

  "That seems to be our best plan so far," Mildred said, cleaning her spoon on a spare chunk of bread before tucking the spoon back into her jacket pocket. "I'll get something for Dean and Doc." Standing, she checked her blaster, then he
aded for the fireplace. A couple of the drunks watched her pass, but none of them got in her way.

  As Mildred returned with cigarlike rolls of flat bread containing stew, a mature woman come over with a tray of wooden mugs.

  "We didn't order a second round," Ryan said suspiciously.

  As she placed the drinks on the table, he noticed the woman had eyes as blue as topaz, startling in their intensity of color.

  "Here you are, sir. Sorry it took so long," she said loudly, then added in a whisper, "Bart is my husband."

  "Something wrong?" Krysty asked in concern.

  "Hell, yes," she replied quickly, taking the empty mugs and putting them on her tray. It was just a circle of plastic, but seemed to serve well enough. "In this ville asking certain questions get you sent to the temple to feed the Scorpion God. What you were talking about is top round in that mag. Ain't nobody here going to talk about that person you mentioned. Unless they're a feeb."

  Well, that certainly covered those two at the motel. "Thanks for the tip," Ryan said. "Anything else?"

  "Oops, sorry," the woman said for no apparent reason. Then pulling out a rag, she pretended to mop a spill on the dry table. When she took it away there now was a damp circle on the wood with a tail sticking out like the comet. Or a compass heading.

  Krysty glanced up at that and emerald green eyes met those of ultrablue. "Understood," the redhead said, pressing a handful of spare rounds into the pocket of the woman's apron. "We'll stay low."

  "Don't go upstairs, they're waiting for you. That wag caused a stir here like kicking a hornet's nest. Everybody wants it to try to escape," the woman said, turning to leave. "Sorry again. Anything else you need, just ask."

  As the woman returned to the bar, Krysty wiped her hands across the mark obliterating if from the table. "South by southwest," she said taking a sip of her water, then reacted when she realized the mug was filled with shine. Mother Gaia, it was strong! They could use this to run the wag if necessary.

  "Okay, got what we wanted," Ryan said, standing and hitching his belt. "Let's go."

  The companions left the gaudy house and hurried up the street, pausing at the sight of the lighted barn, Dean standing in the doorway with a drawn blaster in his hand. Ryan slid the Steyr off his shoulder and worked the bolt. "Hey, Able," he called out, using their established code, asking if there was an ambush.

  "No problems here, Charlie," the boy answered, giving the prearranged countersign.

  The friends entered the barn and found the wag parked exactly where they left it, the nukelamp blazing away. High in the sky, lightning briefly flickered across the black storm clouds drifting among the thick patina of twinkling stars.

  "Here you go," Mildred said, passing over the wrapped stew.

  Without a word, Dean tore into it like a wolf and didn't speak for a few moments.

  "Damn, that's good," he said at last, coming up to breathe. "Hot pipe, I was starving. What took you long enough? It's been over two hours, and I was starting to worry."

  "Doc should have told you we were getting food," Ryan demanded sharply, glancing around. "Where is he, anyway? Taking a nap in the wag?"

  Lowering his soggy sandwich, the boy blinked in surprise. "But he's with you," Dean said slowly. "I haven't seen Doc since you left."

  Chapter Twelve

  Stepping outside the barn, the companions listened to the ville around them, straining for the faintest cry from the missing man. But the silence was thick, no shouts or sounds of a struggle disturbing the night.

  "The peace of a grave," Ryan spit, unholstering his blaster. "Somebody is playing us for fools. Mildred, J.B., stay here. Krysty, with me. We'll check the motel, see if Sparrow and Jed are still tied up. Jak, sweep the area for any traces."

  As the man and the woman dashed out of the structure into the dark street, Jak grabbed a nukelamp from the back of the wag. Returning to the street, he started at the front door and began sweeping the blaze of light along the cobblestones.

  "Pity we can't use the wag to search the ville," Mildred said, glancing longingly at the vehicle. "But that perforated muffler makes so much noise it would announce our presence to deaf people."

  "Any chance you refilled the wag?" J.B. asked, zipping up his leather jacket midway. Away from the canopy, the desert breeze blew strong, seeming to go straight down his collar.

  "Sure, not much else to do," the boy answered while licking his fingers, then wiping his greasy mouth on a sleeve. "Mebbe Doc is just off at the shitters."

  "For two hours?" Mildred shot back incredulously. "Damn well hope not."

  "Could have fallen in," J.B. said with a frown. "Old wooden planks get weak and it happens sometimes."

  The physician frowned. "Hell of a way to die. Drowning in a pit of shit. Stay here with Dean, and I'll go check."

  "Nobody is going anywhere alone," J.B. stated forcibly. "We wait for the others to come back, then we check."

  "He could die by then!"

  "And it could be a trap. We go with what we know. I'd sure as hell hate to lose Doc, but I'm damn sure that I would rather keep you, Millie."

  Just then, Jak appeared at the open doorway of the barn holding Doc's sword. The ebony sheath was missing, and the blade was darkly stained with blood.

  "Night creep," the teenager stated. "Got him."

  "Can you track them?" Mildred asked, pulling her piece. Suddenly the silence of the ville seemed to be the stillness of a waiting trap, with enemies watching from every shadow.

  Jak shook his head. "Not on bare stone."

  "Now we recce the outhouses," J.B. said, working the bolt on the Uzi. "Millie, stay with Dean. Let's go."

  Jak and the Armorer charged into the night, their faces grim masks.

  Pulling a metallic envelope from a pocket, Dean ripped it open and used the U.S. Army moist towelette to clean his hands of the grease from dinner, then checked over his Browning Hi-Power. His gut was starting to tell the boy death was on the move and coming their way.

  "We didn't find him," J.B. reported ten minutes later, stepping into view. "And we did a once around the block in case it was just a mugging. Just some ville hardcases out to steal his blaster."

  "He gone." Jak brandished the sword, the ebony stick now poking through his gun belt. "But we found sheath."

  "Where?"

  "Near shitters. Must have ambushed there."

  "Well, don't sheath the blade!" Mildred advised. "We might need that blood."

  "My very idea," Ryan said from the street, holding a dog on a leash.

  Standing close by, Krysty had her blaster hard against the back of Sparrow. The man was shivering in the cold.

  "Saw what was happening from the window," Ryan said with a scowl. "No sign of Doc from up there, so we brought some help."

  "Your turn," Krysty said, nudging Sparrow forward with the muzzle of her blaster.

  Ryan passed the man the rope leash. "Find our friend, and you keep breathing," he growled. "Run off, and we'll torch that pesthole with your brother still inside. Get me?" It was a lie, but Sparrow didn't know that.

  "Sure, sure, no prob. Houston is a good tracker. We found lots of folks for the baron," the fat man sputtered, tightening his grip on the rope and scratching the animal behind an ear. "Just show him the blade."

  Jak held out the steel and the dog approached it warily, then started to sniff, his tail wagging in excitement.

  "Got the scent, boy? Good. Now go find the runaway. Find the runaway, boy!" Sparrow released the rope and the dog sprung forward, his nose checking the ground here and there, spreading across the street, then starting back again.

  Mildred curled a lip at the wording. Runaway, eh? Sounded like the ville did keep slaves. Maybe they simply hadn't encountered them yet.

  "What if this doesn't work?" Dean asked grimly, muted thunder rumbling on the horizon.

  His father glanced at the keep rising above the ville just as lightning flashed, silhouetting the structure for a split second. "Then we gr
ab the baron and trade his ass for Doc."

  "If he's been aced?"

  "Then Rockpoint gets a new baron," Ryan stated.

  Over by the outhouses, the dog suddenly went stiff and lurched down a side street at a lope.

  "He's got the scent!" Sparrow gushed, starting after the hound.

  Moving fast, the companions raced along the cobblestones, following the dog through the maze of streets.

  "Stay close. This could be an ambush."

  "Good," Ryan snarled, working the bolt action on the Steyr.

  Houston paused at an intersection, checking the ground several times before finally choosing an alleyway. People watched through closed shutters as the companions ran by, the adobe buildings going dark as candles were hastily extinguished. Obviously this was sec-man work and none of their concern.

  Reaching a courtyard, the dog froze and growled at the darkness to the left, weird piles of things creaking in the wind, the jumble reaching higher than the wall surrounding the ville.

  "What's over there?" Ryan demanded.

  Sparrow shrugged. "Junkyard. Baron collects predark machines."

  "I thought this place didn't have any wags?" J.B. said.

  "None of them work," Sparrow replied. "Houston just don't like it there 'cause the baron guards the stuff with a couple of big cats he caught in the salt lands."

  Gaza protected wags that didn't work with a couple of cougars? Sure. Ryan was starting to understand why the baron was on bad terms with Trader. It was starting to sound like Gaza was stockpiling weapons and wags for a major assault somewhere. A war was brewing in these sand dunes, which meant there had to be another ville nearby. Unless Trader was the target.

  "Really hates those folks to the north of here, eh?" Ryan tried on a hunch.

  "Ain't nothing to the north that I know about," Sparrow said, sounding puzzled. "Hey, there he goes again!"