The Afterblight Chronicles: Death Got No Mercy

by Al Ewing

  The children?

  Cade could do that if he had to. But it'd most likely be a death sentence to start, and he wasn't sure there was too much of a need for it. If he was gonna die here, he'd die here.

  But he was willing to gamble on the Pastor having something else in mind.

  He stepped into the crowd, hands raised, and the crowd folded around him. Dozens of men, jostling and pushing at him, herding him through into the middle of the street, hands roaming and pushing at his back, grabbing at his shoulders and forcing down.

  For a second, Cade resisted, and then someone behind him kicked into the back of his knee, sending that knee crashing into the concrete. Cade's expression didn't change, even when they forced him onto his back. He didn't make it easy for them - he fought as much as he could. But the trouble with Cade was that so far as he was concerned, fighting meant killing, and he'd decided he wasn't going to kill any of these people.

  Not just yet, anyhow.

  Cade wasn't a man who enjoyed being held down, and he flexed his arms as well as he could, but there were two or three big men for each arm or leg. He wasn't going anywhere.

  "Oh sinner man... are you prepared to embrace the Lord your Master?" The voice was soft and almost soothing as the Pastor stepped out of the crowd, shuffling. He had a pair of railroad spikes in one hand - big, sharp steel things, giant nails. In the other, he had a hammer.

  Cade was starting to wonder if he'd gambled wrong.

  He flexed, but they had him pinned. He still wasn't going anywhere. Suddenly he was very conscious of how warm the tarmac was against his back.

  He didn't bother saying anything. There wasn't much to say.

  Gently, almost lovingly, the Pastor pressed the tip of one of the spikes into Cade's palm. Then he brought down the hammer.

  Cade didn't flinch. The spike went through the palm, kicking up a gout of blood as it lodged fast in the tarmac. The Pastor raised the hammer again, and brought it down hard enough to drive the spike another inch in. The pain was like a red hot knife carving all the way down Cade's arm, and he wondered if he'd be able to use his hand again when he got that spike out.

  If he got that spike out.

  Another blow from the hammer and the spike was deeper into the road. Then a third. Each of those blows of the hammer was like someone sticking battery acid into Cade's palm and shooting eight hundred volts down his nerves. It was a hell of a thing to take and not flinch or cry out, but Cade didn't figure crying out was going to profit him all that much, and flinching was just going to tear his hand up worse.

  Another blow. The sound of the hammer on the spike was like a ringing bell. Cade started wondering about infection. The spike was most of the way into the tarmac now. The Pastor stood, panting slightly. "Oh Lord," he breathed, his face flushed, his eyes shining. "Oh Lord."

  The Pastor was stronger than he'd looked, to swing the hammer that way. Cade wondered how many times he'd done this before.

  Probably a few.

  That gamble was starting to look like the worst bet Cade had ever made.

  Cade's thoughts were starting to run away from him a little. He tried to focus. He'd been a damn fool to let himself get took. He could've run. Running wasn't his nature, but all the same, he could've hid out, got his answers another way.

  He could feel his forearm getting sticky as the blood pooled under it.

  The pain was gigantic.

  The Pastor moved to the other hand, pushing the point of the railroad spike into the flesh. Cade was ready for it now, when it came, anticipating that first brutal blow of the hammer. But the Pastor was ready too. The hammer didn't move.

  Cade looked up and saw that cracked, crazy-paving smile, the eyes glittering above it.

  All he could hear was the slow, steady tic, tic, tic of someone's watch.

  Cade scowled.

  The son of a bitch was making him wait for it.

  Cade's lips twitched, nearly baring some teeth. He came pretty damn close to saying something about that. Then he realised that even a cross word was giving the son of a bitch a measure of satisfaction, and the hell with that. Cade took a deep breath, and relaxed, letting the pain in his pinned hand be its own thing, not touching him.

  Above the crowd, the sky was a slowly deepening blue. The first stars were starting to come out. Cade looked up at them, letting everything else fade away.

  Crang.

  The hammer came down, hard, and another white wave of pain smashed down Cade's arm, then crackled and burned like hot coals as the hammer rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell. The Pastor wanted to get it done quick now, Cade figured. Good for him.

  The men in the crowd let him go and stood back. They still hadn't said a single damn word, which might have shown an impressive command of internal discipline under other circumstances. Right now Cade wasn't concentrating too hard on that. He was pinned, arms spread wide, palms nailed to the tarmac, and that was where he was going to be staying. He figured he could probably pull himself free if he wanted to - except that'd drag those metal spikes through the flesh and bones of his hands, tear them both apart. He'd probably cripple himself for life.

  Might have to come to that.

  The Pastor knelt down, grinning like a snake in a gerbil's cage.

  "Oh, sinner, your sins are black as pitch... but have faith. Trust in the good word of the Lord. Oh, sinner, hear his word!" The Pastor's bony hand crept to Cade's combat knife, pulling it out of Cade's belt. Then he laid the blade against Cade's chest and the black fabric of his tank-top. "You got the Devil in you, sinner! You got the hand of Satan on you!"

  He laughed, and it chattered like skeleton's teeth rattling in a cracked glass jar. "Cast him out, Lord! Cast... him... out!"

  Then he cut.

  Down first, through fabric and flesh, then across, the blade bit, slicing as keenly through Cade's skin and muscle as it did through anything else. Carving a bloody cross.

  Cade swallowed. That was just overkill - plus it wrecked a pretty decent vest. He just hoped nobody he'd cut up earlier had any kind of blood diseases. These days there wasn't any telling. A man should be careful.

  The Pastor stood, passing the knife to a man in the crowd. That was it. The whole mass of people walked away, not saying a word, most of them heading back down Cervantes and filtering off into the streets and buildings. Within five minutes, Cade was alone.

  The agony in his hands and chest had become a steady drumbeat of pain. He could feel the blood matting what was left of his top and the hair on his chest. He was very conscious of the hard blacktop under his head, and how uncomfortable the chains on his biceps were, all of a sudden. He wanted to flex a little, but with the soft tissues in his hands pierced by a pair of railroad spikes, that wasn't a good idea.

  Cade breathed in, and breathed out. Far away, a dog howled.

  It was going to be a hell of a long night.

  Chapter Nine

  The Ghost

  Another man might have screamed.

  That's not to say a man couldn't deal with being nailed to tarmac in the middle of the street without screaming. That would certainly be possible, if a mite unlikely. But another man might have found himself gasping out, or grunting, or groaning, or making little noises every time he breathed to help himself deal with the pain. Another man might, after the first nine or ten hours rolled past and the pain in his hands turned into an itching that didn't stop, and the freezing night turned into a baking day, and all in total silence, with just the blowing of the breeze to listen to - well, another man might start to cry. Or start howling in the night like a damned wolf, shrieking at the top of his lungs until those lungs gave out and his vocal chords ruptured, just to break things up, just to hear a sound, any sound at all...

  Not Cade.

  Cade just lay there and took it.

  It wasn't until the sun dipped below the horizon again, and he realised how dry his tongue and throat were, and how he'd been laying there with his mouth open for a coupl
e hours because he'd forgotten to close it and his throat was like sandpaper - it wasn't until then that Cade made a single sound, and even then, it was a slow sigh.

  As if to say, Hell with it.

  He didn't say a word until the second day.

  That was when Fuel-Air turned up.

  He was sitting on the tarmac next to Cade, his boonie hat pushed back on his head, grinning. He looked wired.

  Holy fucking shit, dude, he said, although Cade didn't hear him exactly, more felt him speak. That's some Jesus Christ on the motherfuckin' cross shit. You messiah-acting motherfucker.

  Cade scowled.

  Serious, dog, this crazy fuck's got some sort of king-size fucking hard-on for your ass. I mean, this is some awesome shit, man.

  Cade swallowed. "Reckon?"

  He could hardly hear his own voice - it was a rasping croak, like a toad baking alive in the middle of the desert. That wasn't any damn good. He could use some fluids pretty soon. Maybe Fuel-Air had some Red Bull or Jolt Cola or something.

  Sorry, dog, all I got is coffee granules.

  He was eating them raw. Cade shook his head. Goddamn Fuel-Air.

  What, I'm supposed to be bringing some magic sponge for your ass? Man up, bitch, you can handle this shit. You did a year in the hole and you didn't blink, man... shit, you were one Steve McQueen-ass motherfucker, know what I'm saying? This should be a walk in the fuckin' park.

  "Had a drink back then." Cade didn't know why he was talking to Fuel-Air. It just encouraged him when he was alive, no reason why it should start making the boy see reason now.

  Something about that didn't seem right, but Cade couldn't put his finger on it.

  Hate to bring this up, dog, but that was urine. You were drinking piss the whole time you were there.

  Cade almost shrugged, then remembered his hands. They were almost numb now. He rolled his eyes instead. Piss was sterile, and he'd needed the liquids. Come to think of it, he wouldn't say no right now.

  I ain't gonna piss in your mouth, man. I know how you fuckin' think, dog, and that's some very homo-erotic I Am Curious Yellow shit and I ain't fuckin' doing it. Shit, man, is that even legal in this state? What I look like to you?

  Cade took a deep breath, counted to ten, then let it go. Goddamn Fuel-Air always managed to annoy the hell out of him. Maybe the Duchess could talk some sense into him when they got back. Had they met?

  Why hadn't they ever met?

  Cade closed his eyes for a second, fumbling for the words. "Fuel-Air... aren't you..."

  He opened his eyes. There was nobody there.

  Hell of a thing.

  The sun crawled across the sky, beating down like an oven. Like a kiln. Baking the tarmac until it burned hot all around Cade, baking him just the same. The heat made his hands scream, and the carved-open wound on his chest throb and itch, pulsing raw and red. The sun blazed into his eyes, even when he closed them, and it seemed to pulse to that same hellish drumbeat.

  Another man might have passed out.

  Cade just took it.

  By now it wasn't just his hands, or his chest. His whole body was itching, aching, wanting to move. His leg kept twitching. Shaking. He couldn't seem to stop it. Every time his leg jerked, it sent a little bolt of pain down his arms from his hands.

  His mind kept coming back to the heat.

  The noon sun up above him was a like a blowtorch searing him, burning him alive, just sitting up there without a care in the world. Roasting him to death and there wasn't a cloud in the sky to stop it. He tried not to think about it, and then he had to swallow with a mouth as dry as bone on sand, or blink away the sweat in his eyes, or shift his weight and feel the burned skin scream at him for it, and there wasn't much option but to let his mind revolve around it, coming back to it again and again, like a planet revolving around the sun, that damned burning sun...

  So in the end, Cade just took it. He could take it. Cade had taken things like that his whole life. That was pretty much all he did, was take things. Take and take, soak up punishment like a man on the ropes in the final round. In the desert, they'd said Cade was made of stone. Cade was a rock.

  If you hit it hard enough, a rock would crack.

  Cade suddenly decided he was going to rip his hands free.

  Hell with it. It'd hurt like the devil, but it'd be worth it. He'd like as not never use his hands again, but he'd be able to sit up at least, get out of the damn sun. Get some water. Ruined hands - he could take that. Cade could tough it out. Just a matter of gritting his teeth, flexing and...

  Semper Gumby.

  Cade blinked, and turned his head. Fuel-Air was sitting a ways away. He had some dip in a can and he was chewing on a wad of it.

  Stay flexible, dog. Semper Gumby, you know? This ain't something you can tough out, man. Gotta adjust yourself. Go with the flow.

  Cade blinked, and then breathed in, counted to ten, and breathed out, letting his head rest against the cold concrete. He was pissed off with Fuel-Air - he was always pissed off with Fuel-Air - but he was more pissed off with himself. He'd near as dammit persuaded himself to tear his hands to pieces, and for what? Nothing he wouldn't get later. There'd come a time when he'd need to make that choice, but that time wasn't yet. Not by a long shot. Fuel-Air was right.

  Goddamn Fuel-Air.

  "You said to man up?"

  Shit, dog, you gonna hold me to everything I fuckin' say? I told you fuckin' ages ago, ass. Circumstances have fuckin' changed. You gotta adapt your strategy, you know? This is some ungrateful-ass shit right here, bitch. Fuckin' ingrate pussy. I'm spending my fuckin' Sunday keeping your sorry ass company and you're acting like a whiny bitch. I'm fuckin' ashamed of you, dog. He spat. I ain't spittin' in your mouth either, dude. You know you were gonna ask.

  Cade rolled his eyes. "Didn't know it was Sunday already."

  Every day's fuckin' Sunday here, dog, like in that emo-ass song. You're in God's country, ain't you been told? He laughed, a little snort, then spat another thick wad of tobacco-spit onto the road. Then he wiped his nose on his sleeve and carried on talking.

  Fuel-Air never could shut the hell up.

  So it's like I was saying, man, this Reverend dude, he loves your ass. All this shit right here is some kind of Man Called Horse ritual shit, dog. He's testing your ass, 'cause you're so goddamn perfect. Shit, you saw those dumb assholes in the bar, and if you hadn't been such a bitch and let them nail you down, you could've taken those baseball bat wielding motherfuckers easy. You're one deadly-ass motherfucker, dog.

  Cade shot Fuel-Air a look, then rolled his eyes again. Kid wasn't worth the spit it'd take to hold up his end of the conversation.

  Fine, be that way. Point I'm trying to raise is that you're a motherfuckin' stone-ass killer, dog. That's some fuckin' useful-ass shit right there. Fuckin' Pastor ain't got one motherfucker in his army who could fuck shit up good as you. Why'd you think he didn't kill you? Hell, he didn't even nail your damn legs - 'cause he needs you to walk for him later. Shit, I figure the only reason he ain't put you to work right away is that maybe he's worried you're not as stone-cold a motherfucker as he figures. Maybe you're gonna fold or betray him or some shit. So he puts you in the jackpot, dog, gives you the fuckin' Passion Of The Christ shit, see if you make it. If you're dead, fuck it - you ain't no problem no more and he gets his bone on from nailin' you up. Probably let you rot out here, make a roadsign out of ya. This way to fuckin' Albuquerque. Helter Skelter. But if you make it, he knows he's got a fuckin' gold mine.

  "Might kill him." Cade was considering it.

  What, after days with no food and water and big fuckin' holes in your hands? I ain't sayin' you couldn't, but he could probably get his hundred motherfuckers to kick your ass all over again, only this time they'd cut your head off and shit. Or maybe he'd just keep doin' this shit over and over. Up to you, dog.

  Cade nodded. Fuel-Air made some sense. That worried him. That, and something else dancing in the back of his mind. He closed his eyes, bre
athing in through cracked lips, then breathing out.

  There was no getting around it. He'd have to say something.

  "You're dead, Fuel-Air."

  Fuck you. What are you, Bruce Willis now? Fuck you, bitch. You don't get rid of me that easy.

  He heard the kid snicker, and spit. Cade felt it landing on his cheek.

  No, that wasn't spit.

  It was raining.

  Cade relaxed as the drops fell faster and faster, hitting his cracked, parched lips. He saw the flash of the lightning through his closed eyelids, then heard the thunder boom overhead. The storm had come out of nowhere.

  When he opened his eyes, Fuel-Air was gone.

  Time passed.

  At first, Cade lay there, his mouth open, drinking in the rainwater, refreshing himself and quenching that terrible thirst that had built up over the past couple of days. But after a spell, the rain wasn't refreshing or soothing. It was just rain. And it kept on. And on.

  The sun had sunk below the horizon again. Cade knew better than to miss that burning heat, but all the same, when he tried to bring it to his mind, he couldn't remember the way his skin had seared and his throat had seemed to scrape like a match lighting every time he swallowed. He just remembered he'd been warm and dry, and now he was wet and cold.

  Scratch that. He was freezing. His bones were freezing inside him and he could feel every drop of rain chilling him colder yet, like meat in a locker. Cade was probably the toughest, meanest, most ornery son of a bitch you could ever hope to meet, but he was a man for all that, a human being, and he was getting pretty close to his breaking point. He let his mind spin, looking for distractions, looking for something to keep him from that rain, that chilling ice rain, the ice storm beating down upon him harder with every second that passed, pooling in the bloody scar on his chest and the holes in his hands, so the itching and the pain came in icy waves, something to keep him from coming back and back and back to that, over and over...