"A gift."
J.B. reached into the crate and pulled out a belt of .50-caliber rounds for the P-39's machine blasters. The belt and shells still had an oily sheen on them. He pulled the belt from the crate and began walking the length of the loading dock until the end of the belt appeared and he could see both ends clearly. Then he placed the belt on the floor and began pacing out its length. It took him nine steps to get from one end to the other. "The whole nine yards," he said with a gleeful smile.
Doc gave him a confused look. "I am afraid I do not understand."
"The belt is twenty-seven feet long and full of ammunition. It's as much as you can load into one of these machine blasters. In the Pacific Arena in World War II, pilots would use the expression 'I gave him the whole nine yards' to say that they used up all their ammunition against the enemy."
"How do you know that?" Clarissa asked. She'd come over to join J.B. and Doc, along with Dean.
Doc turned to the woman and said, "There isn't anything having to do with blasters and bullets that J.B. does not know about. Even the most insignificant and trivial bits of information are stored within his brain, sometimes to the exclusion of other, more valuable bits…as we have just been witness to."
"It also means," J.B. said, realizing Doc was just having some fun, "that we'll be able to use two of the machine blasters rescuing Ryan, Krysty and Mildred."
"And my sister," Clarissa added quickly.
"Yes." J.B. nodded. "And your sister."
That seemed to please her to no end.
"Now that we've got the ammunition," J.B. said, "let's see if we can get the old bird to give up the blasters."
KRYSTY ATE her breakfast in her room under the watchful eye of a young sec man who looked harmless enough. His gaze never wavered from her body the whole time she was eating, and Krysty couldn't be sure if he was doing his job or simply getting an eyeful.
She decided that if he was enamored with her, then maybe she could use that to her advantage.
"That's a nice blaster you've got there," she lied. It looked like a Smith & Wesson Model 18, but the different metal shadings betrayed its status as a remade. It was a .22 rimfire that wasn't good for much more than plinking cans off fence posts, but the young sec man seemed proud of it.
"Thanks," he answered. "It's been a friend to me."
"I had a Smith & Wesson myself," she said, unzipping the front of her jumpsuit, as if she were warm.
"Really?"
"Yes, a .38-caliber Model 640."
"Wow, that's a big gun for a…"
"For a what?" she asked. "For a woman?"
"For such a pretty one, at least."
"A woman's got to protect herself. There are a lot of bad people out in the Deathlands."
"I've seen a few of them."
"But when they brought me here, they took my blaster from me." Krysty drew the zipper a little lower, exposing her full breasts enclosed in a lacy bra. "I know I can't ever have it back, but I've been wondering what they might have done with it."
"Oh, it's likely in the armory with the others," the sec man said, licking his lips like a dog. "They brought all the outlanders' blasters down there. I've seen some of them. Quality stuff."
"The other sec men haven't taken them for themselves yet?" Krysty said breathlessly.
"No." He shook his head. "Everything that comes into the farm like that belongs to the baron. He'll probably have a shooting contest in a few days to see who deserves to have the best blasters. Then the rest of us will upgrade with blasters being used by more senior sec men." He looked at his remade .22. "Maybe I'll have to give up my crippler for a man-stopper."
"Where is the armory?"
"Down in the basement of this building. It's right next door to the nursery."
"And who has keys to it?"
"Baron Fox, of course."
"Of course."
"Sec chief Grundwold does, too. And the armory's quartermaster, of course."
"No one else has a key?"
"There might be a few others." He shrugged. "The lock's mostly to keep people from wandering into the room by mistake. The door's not all that strong, so if someone really wanted to get in, all they'd have to do is break down the door."
Krysty nodded, sat up straight in her chair and began zipping up her top. "That was a great breakfast," she said, smiling. "But the company was best of all. Will you be bringing my lunch?"
"I could try and get the duty if you like."
"Oh, yes, I'd like that very much."
"Consider it done."
"See you then."
The young sec man smiled as he lingered in the room, finally bumping into the door frame on his way out.
REMOVING THE 37 mm cannon from the nose of the P-39 was proving more difficult than J.B. had thought it would be. The engine was behind the pilot's seat and drove the propeller by way of a long extension shaft. That allowed the nose of the aircraft to house the cannon, firing directly through the propeller hub, along with a pair of .50-caliber machine blasters sitting in the top part of the nose. The blasters had been easy to take out, but the gearing and shaft driving the engine proved to be an obstacle to the removal of the cannon.
"How's it coming, J.B.?" Doc asked.
"I don't think we're going to be raiding the farm tonight, Doc."
"Stubborn," Jak observed, coming up alongside Doc.
"That's a good word for it."
Doc rested an arm on the plane's wing. "Is there anything we can do to help?"
"Something to eat would be nice. And a warm cup of coffee sub."
Doc, Jak and Dean all turned to look at Clarissa.
"Are you boys good with those blasters?"
Doc sighed. "Must you ask?"
"Okay, then, do you like fish?"
"Haven't had any for a while," J.B. said.
"Well, there's a spot below the falls where you might be able to shoot some for dinner."
"Shooting fish in a barrel?" Doc asked.
"Something like that."
"Doc stays with me," J.B. commanded. "You two go with her. We'll need enough to get us through today and tomorrow."
Jak and Dean followed Clarissa out of the underground garage.
"And Jak…" J.B. called out.
The albino turned.
"I don't want to hear anything about the ones that got away."
Jak unholstered his .357 Magnum Colt Python. "No worry. Fish not escape."
WITHOUT PURVIS LOOKING over the crew, work in the orchards was almost pleasant for Ryan and Brody. They were pulling weeds again, but no one was pushing them hard, since most everyone's thoughts were on the afternoon's contest.
At morning break, an older man approached Ryan, standing over him and Brody as they drank some much needed water.
"I know what you did to Purvis," the old man said.
Ryan was cautious. "He a friend of yours?"
"No, sir! He was no friend of anyone on this crew, especially the women."
"So I gathered."
Brody was growing suspicious of the old man. "You got something to say, old-timer?"
"Only this." He paused and licked his lips with his tongue. "The women, them over there—"
Ryan looked to where the old man was pointing and saw six women huddled together in a circle. Two of the women waved at him. Ryan waved back.
"They're grateful for what you done, and they want you to know they'll be cheering for you today."
"Thank you," Ryan said.
"And they wanted me to give you this." He held out his fist, turned his fingers over to catch the sun, then opened his hand. In his palm, a shiny bit of metal glinted in the morning sunlight.
"Brass knuckles," Brody said.
"I've been keeping them in case Purvis ever wanted to roll me. I wouldn't have stopped him, but I might have at least broken his nose." The old man laughed then, a dry, wheezing sort of laugh.
"Weapons like this are allowed?" Ryan asked, taking the brass knuckles
from the old man and slipping them over the fingers of his right hand.
Brody nodded. "The others will be trying to bring everything they can in with them, too, from spikes to knife blades."
"What about the sec men?"
"They'll be looking the other way."
Ryan nodded, pressing his brass-ringed fist into the palm of his left hand. It would certainly do some damage, and it was comfortable enough that he could still hold a sword or club in his right hand while the knuckles were on his fingers. "Thank you, to you and the ladies."
"No, thank you ," the old man said. "Today's been almost like a holiday without that bastard Purvis around. So even if you get chilled in the arena, you've already done us a good deed."
"You're welcome," Ryan said. "I guess."
CLARISSA BROUGHT Jak and Doc down to the river where the water ran fast in a swirling froth of water and foam.
"There are fish here?" Jak asked.
"Not here." Clarissa gestured across the river. "There's a whirlpool on the other side. With the lower water level, the fish get trapped inside it, swirling around and around. We've tried to catch them all sorts of ways, with our bare hands and with sharpened sticks, but the fish are too fast."
They began walking across the river, the water being just low enough for them to be able to make it on foot—if they were careful.
"And we're supposed to shoot them?" Dean asked.
"Do you see any other food around?" Clarissa responded with her own question.
"No, but I—"
Suddenly Dean's voice was gone as he slipped on the rocks and fell under the water.
"Dean!" Clarissa shouted.
He was hanging on to a jutting rock with both hands, the flow of water trying to push him downstream. "I can't pull myself up," he said, swallowing a mouthful of water in the process.
Jak took off his coat and extended his left hand to Clarissa. "Grab hand!"
She took it.
He then extended his arms and took one sleeve of his jacket in his right hand. He swung the jacket toward Dean so the other sleeve fell near the rock he was clutching.
Dean reached for the jacket, which was fluttering in the flow of water, but when he let go of the rock with one hand, he was nearly swept away by the river. He was forced to grab hold again with two hands.
"Jak, look!" Clarissa screamed.
Jak glanced downstream and saw what looked like rocks moving against the flow. "What is it?"
"A mutie fish," she shouted. "A big one, muskie or salmon, maybe even a mutie sturgeon."
The fish was getting closer, its huge mouth open wide to catch everything the river sent its way. It scooped up dead fish and other refuse without ever having to move more than a few dozen feet left or right. If Dean let go, he'd be swept away by the water into the fish's belly in seconds.
"Hang on, Dean!" Clarissa shouted.
Jak kept trying to work his jacket into position, but he was short by a couple of feet.
"Give me pants," he said.
Without hesitation, Clarissa slid off her pants, stepped out of them and tied one of the legs to Jak's jacket sleeve. Then she held Jak's arm while he tried reaching Dean.
This time the pant leg landed over Dean's hands. With a quick movement of his right hand, the boy grabbed the pant leg. Then, with it securely wrapped around his wrist, he let go of the rock.
"Pull!" Jak said, straining against the current.
"Jak, the fish!"
The albino teen looked past Dean. The fish was swimming against the current toward their fallen friend, as if Dean were bait at the end of a line. They continued to reel him in, but they couldn't pull fast enough. With a mighty flip of its tail the fish lunged forward, its upper lip brushing up against Dean's boots.
"Hurry up!" Dean yelled.
The fish kept coming, and Jak realized that even after they pulled Dean in, the mutie fish would still be able to move upstream against the current with its belly against the bottom and water flowing through its gills to breathe.
The shallow rapids weren't any protection against this fish. They were all in danger.
"Take jacket," Jak said, handing the sleeve to Clarissa so she could hold on to it with him while he pulled his .357 Colt Python from its holster.
Dean, seeing the big six-inch barrel of Jak's blaster pointed in his direction, ducked his head, plunging it under the water to get it out of the way.
Jak fired off two rounds that smashed into the fish's great head. The powerful rounds punched holes in its skull and tore big bloody swaths through its soft body. Chunks of blood, brain and meaty flesh exploded out the sides of its body. But it was still moving for Dean. Jak squeezed off another two rounds, catching the fish in one of its eyes with the first shot and blowing away the entire left side of its mouth with the other.
Blood began to turn the river around the fish a pinkish red, and it began to lose the battle with the current and slowly started to float away.
With the danger of the fish now gone, Clarissa and Jak were able to quickly pull Dean to safety.
"I've done a lot of things in the time I've been with Dad," Dean commented, when he was back on his feet and squeezing water out of his clothes. "But I never thought I'd be used as fish bait."
Jak stood in silence, watching the big fish float downriver, toward the lake. "Fish getting away. Not tell J.B."
Clarissa began putting on her sodden pants. "Well, we can always try the whirlpool. That was the plan in the beginning anyway."
But then the fish was caught by an eddy in the river, and it turned sideways against the current. As if by design, it washed up on the north shore, across the river from Whirlpool Point. They'd be able to cut as many steaks as they wanted out of the fish, and the carcass would feed Clarissa's mutie clan for days to come.
"Hot pipe!" Dean exclaimed. "We'll tell J.B. all about it. He won't believe a word of it, but we can tell him."
They hurried across the river.
"WHERE'S THE FISH?" J.B. asked when the door to the underground garage rolled up and Jak, Clarissa and Dean slid under the bottom gap.
"Floating in the river," Dean answered.
Doc rubbed his empty stomach. "Are you saying that you did not chill a single fish?"
"Chilled one fish," Jak said, a burlap sack slung over his shoulder.
"Just one," J.B. said, working to loosen something in the cockpit of the P-39. "Don't tell me. All the rest got away, right?"
"Nope." Dean smiled. "After Jak chilled that one fish, it floated downriver and we didn't need to chill any more."
"Washed up on shore," Jak said, dropping the sack at Doc's feet.
"But a half-ton fish was too big to bring back here," Clarissa said, "so we decided to bring back fifty pounds of fish steaks instead. Hope that's enough."
Doc was speechless for a moment, then asked, "What sort of fish?"
Clarissa held up one of the neatly cut slabs. "Sturgeon."
"Is that good eating?"
"No worry," Jak said, "When finished, taste like chicken."
BRODY REJOINED the crew later in the afternoon. "I bet all the jack I had on you at ten to one," he told Ryan. "You're sitting at eight to one now."
"What about you?" Ryan asked.
"Me," Brody shrugged. "Something like twenty-five to one, but that's just being kind. No one's put any jack on me, not even me. Come to think of it, nobody's put any jack on you except for the people in this crew. They've all bet on you."
A sec man approached them from behind. Ryan's muscles tensed, ready to strike the man or his blaster if the situation required it.
"All right, you two, your work is over for today," the sec man said. "Catch a ride on the wag back to your quarters. The baron wants you rested up for tonight's entertainment."
The two men stopped pulling weeds and headed for the wag.
Ryan didn't like to chill anything for sport, but it appeared he wouldn't be having any choice in the matter this time around.
; Chapter Twenty-Two
Baron Fox sat back in his chair behind his desk, looking through the pages of another one of his tattered predark skin mags.
"Nineteen have signed up for the contest, Baron," Norman Bauer said after waiting several minutes for Baron Fox to finish with his mag.
The baron didn't lift his eyes from the page. "Who is favored?"
"Mog. One to four."
The baron nodded. "Who's got the best odds next after Mog?"
"The one-eyed outlander," Bauer reported. "Eight to one."
That seemed to catch the baron's interest. "The outlander has signed up to save his woman, has he? Oh, that's precious."
"From what the sec men tell me, this one-eye is a very dangerous man."
"Really?"
"We can't prove it, since none of the slaves will come forward, but the talk is that the one-eye must have chilled Purvis in the shower his first day in the orchards."
Baron Fox put aside his mag. "In the shower?"
"Everyone says Purvis slipped on some soap, but he and the one-eye were the last ones in the showers."
"He chilled Purvis in the shower, with his bare hands?"
"Smashed his head on the tiles, it would seem."
The baron was excited by the thought of it.
"Tell Mog's crew," he said at last. "A week free of work for the man who chills the one-eye."
THERE WAS A KNOCK on the door to the nursery.
"Come," Mildred said. She was watching over Jasmine, making sure the woman was comfortable. She was still experiencing afterpains in the abdomen and was showing a bloody vaginal discharge. The latter was beginning to clear up, but the pains were still as sharp as ever. And then there was the depression that followed delivery, made worse by the absence of the newborn child.
A sec man entered the nursery first, followed by Krysty Wroth.
"Krysty!" Mildred said warmly. "What brings you here?"
"The baron," she answered. "He wants me to get checked out to make sure I'm healthy for the winner."
Axler, James - Deathlands 61 - Skydark Spawn Page 14