Ryan managed to get his right arm free. That freed up space for a breath, and to wriggle his left arm from the giant's viselike grip. Now with both hands free, Ryan jabbed a finger into one of Mog's eyes. The big man turned away quickly, though, and instead of his eye, Ryan found himself trying to poke a hole through the hard bone of Mog's skull.
The crowd was beginning to shout "Mog! Mog! Mog!"
Ryan took another breath, perhaps his last, then reared back with both hands and boxed Mog's ears as hard as he could.
Immediately the man's grip loosened.
Ryan gulped at the sweet, sweet air as it rushed into his open mouth and down into his needy lungs.
But Mog didn't let go.
So Ryan boxed his ears again.
Mog stumbled, then finally released Ryan, putting his hands to his ears as if it might do something to ease the ringing pain.
When Ryan hit the ground, another bolt of pain slashed through his body. He rose slowly, his eye always on the big man.
Mog was still stumbling, trying to keep his balance when all the balancing mechanisms inside his head had been scrambled. But as the seconds passed, the giant was recovering, shaking off the pain and noise inside his head, and readying himself to fight again.
Ryan knew he couldn't get in close to the man and survive. His only chance was lightning-fast attacks, darting in and striking a blow, then moving back just as quickly to a safe distance.
And with such a tactic, Ryan had to choose a target that was most vulnerable so his efforts would have the greatest effect. With that in mind, Ryan looked at Mog's dangling penis and testicles and knew exactly what he had to do.
Without another moment's hesitation, Ryan stepped forward and launched a kick into the soft flesh between the big man's legs. There was a satisfying smack of flesh on flesh, and then Ryan could feel his foot come up against the man's pelvic bone.
After the kick was delivered, Ryan pulled back, only to see Mog double over in pain. Vomit and drool leaked out of the side of his mouth, and he seemed to be struggling to catch his breath.
This was Ryan's chance to finish off the big man. But his earlier idea of removing the weapons from the ring had been slightly premature. Without a knife or sword, he'd be hard-pressed to chill the giant with just his bare hands. Mog had enough strength to brush Ryan aside if he tried to smash his head on the ground or tried to strangle him with a choke hold.
He needed a weapon.
Even a chain would be of some help.
Ryan looked to the edge of the circle and had an idea. He'd thrown all of the weapons out of the circle, so they couldn't be used against him, but what about the circle itself?
Ryan stepped up to one of the posts that staked out the perimeter of the circle and undid the chain connected to it. Then he went two posts over and undid the chain there, leaving a single post with chains on either side of it.
He pulled the post out of the ground, turned the pointed end toward Mog and charged across the circle.
Mog's eyes opened wide. He was still in pain, and still unable to stand upright. He turned to the right and brushed aside Ryan's thrust with his left hand.
The crowd was cheering on Mog. He had been their champion for a long, long time, and he was showing he had the strength and ability to take a beating and survive the circle. Ryan realized that if he didn't deliver the final blow soon, the big man would have had time enough to recover from his injuries.
When that happened, he'd be like a bear awakened from a deep sleep, fireblast mad and looking for payback.
Ryan turned the post around and held it by the pointed end, leaving the blunt end with the chains exposed. Then he spun the post over his head so centrifugal force would extend the chains to their full length. The post was four feet long, and the chains measured another six, giving Ryan a reach of more than ten feet. But more importantly, the chains were whipping around at lightning speed and when they struck something soft—like the back of Mog's legs— it would feel like a hammer blow.
So Ryan swung the post close to the ground and caught the stumbling Mog around the ankles. The chain cut through the big man's Achilles tendon, then swept him completely off his feet. Blood began to spurt from the wound as the length of chain wrapped itself around his leg, binding him like a slave in heavy leg irons.
Ryan jerked the post back and forth, twisting and turning Mog's leg in a number of unnatural directions. The big man screamed, and the deep bass howl of pain silenced the spectators as they wondered if their champion might fall, or even worse, be chilled, at the hands of the outlander.
Ryan unwound the chain, leaving behind an angry red wound and a ruined foot that seemed to hang from his leg by a string.
"Leave the ring and I won't chill you," Ryan said.
"Fuck you, One-eye!"
Ryan raised the post over his head and threw the pointed end to the ground between Mog's legs, tearing apart the man's scrotum.
Blood spurted up from the wound.
Ryan could feel the giant's scream in the pit of his stomach.
"Last chance to live," Ryan said.
"Fuck you!"
Ryan pulled the post from the ground and brought it down again, harder this time, piercing Mog's throat and smashing apart his neck.
The dying man gurgled a few wet and bloody words, then fell silent.
The crowd for the most part was left stunned, except for Ryan's crew, who had bet heavily on the one-eyed man and won.
Ryan looked up at Krysty, who was smiling, as much in relief as joy. "Well done, lover," she said, mouthing the words slowly so Ryan could understand.
Ryan nodded at Krysty, then slowly headed to where his clothes lay in a heap. His ribs were on fire, and the cut on his arm stung from the sweat and dirt that was running into the wound. He needed to get dressed as quickly as possible to have some place to hide his panga if he wanted to leave the circle with it in his possession. When he put on his shirt, he made sure the big blade was concealed within it. Then when he slipped into his pants, he was able to slide the long knife into the rear of his waistband. It wasn't the best place for the knife, but hopefully it would be hidden well enough to get it past the sec men.
By the time he was fully dressed, the sec chief had come down from the stage and had entered the circle, holding Krysty's arm and leading her like a horse.
Up on the stage, the baron raised his hand and addressed the crowd. "You've done well, one-eye," he proclaimed. "You've defeated our champion, and provided us with some of the best entertainment we've had in months."
"I don't chill people for sport," Ryan muttered.
"Can it, one-eye," Grundwold advised Ryan under his breath. "You cross the baron now and you'll be full of blaster holes before you take a step. Keep your mouth shut and you get to spend the night with pretty little red here."
Ryan looked at Krysty, saw her smile, and steeled himself from saying or doing any more.
"And now," the baron said, "as the winner of our little contest, you shall have a prize like no other."
"To the victor goes the spoils!" the crowd cried out.
"A rutting mate of exquisite beauty. You will create offspring of exceptional quality and when you do, all will be taken care of, and you will yet again be rewarded for your service to your baron."
The crowd rose to their feet and began chanting. "Baron Fox relieves the burden! Baron Fox relieves the burden!"
Ryan thought of Dean, about having to turn him over to a complete stranger as some sort of prize, or product made in a factory or mill, and his blood began to boil.
Krysty, sensing Ryan's anger beginning to build, cautioned him. "Easy, lover," she said to Ryan as Sec Chief Grundwold presented her to Ryan as his prize. "This is not the time for it."
Ryan nodded. Krysty, of course, was right.
"We can chill the baron tomorrow," she whispered in his ear. "Tonight is for us."
She kissed him then, her tongue darting into his mouth and probing deeply. Ryan retur
ned the kiss, holding Krysty in his arms as tightly as his aching ribs allowed.
The crowd roared in approval.
Even the baron seemed pleased.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Night had fallen.
The underground garage remained illuminated by a few naked bulbs and smelled of cooked fish, machine oil and sweating bodies.
J.B. had finished arming the wag. It had .50-caliber blasters at the northwest and southeast corners of its cargo bed. Instead of fixing the 37 mm cannon to the side of the wag as he'd intended, the Armorer had to bolt it onto the hood of the wag. But in order to allow the huge blaster enough room, the wag's windshield and rear window had to be removed, which allowed the breech of the cannon to sit in the cargo area where it could be reloaded with shells.
Jak and Dean would man the fifties while Doc's job would be loading the cannon. That left J.B. the job of driving the wag, and, more importantly, aiming the cannon. Clarissa would ride up front bearing smaller arms. It would be her task to protect J.B. from any threat from close range. The Armorer would have his Uzi within reach, but his attention would be focused on driving and positioning the cannon.
"I must say, John Barrymore, that this time you have outdone even yourself. You've turned this wag into an awesome fighting vehicle, and you are to be commended."
"Feeling better, Doc?"
"Yes, I am. The comforting ministrations of the young woman, Clarissa, did much to calm my nerves and rejuvenate my spirits. In a way I was reminded of my dear Emily. Why, it was almost worth catching cold just to have her make a fuss over me."
The time traveler was beginning to ramble.
J.B. grabbed his arm and gave it a firm shake. "Doc!"
Doc stopped talking and his body shuddered slightly, as if he'd just been awakened from a dream. "Yes," he said sharply.
"Get some rest. Mildred, Krysty and Ryan, they're waiting for us. We leave at first light."
"Yes, of course. Some rest might do me some good."
MILDRED SAT on the cot she'd set up in the nursery and let out a long sigh.
She had sewn up Foghat's arm as best she could, set it in a splint so he wouldn't tear the stitches and given him something for the pain. Then she'd fixed up Brody's leg and wheeled him over so he could spend some quiet time with Jasmine. After that, she'd watched over both of them for a few hours to make sure infection or any other complications didn't set in.
Now with the lights in the nursery turned down and her charges asleep for the night, Mildred lay down and rested for the first time all day.
The moment her head hit the pillow she was asleep, and dreaming of her days as an young intern.
THE FIRE ON THE BEACH had been put out for the night, and guards were posted on the edge of the marauders' camp. In the morning they would travel north to the falls. In the evening they would take up positions around a farm there. And during the night they would break into the complex and take men and women to breed with to insure the survival of Reichel ville.
Some of them wouldn't be making the journey home, and the mood in the camp was somber.
"Rhonda!" sec chief Ganley whispered when he saw the young woman approaching. He'd been lying on his back, staring up at the stars unable to sleep. "Unable to sleep, too?" he asked her.
Rhonda nodded.
"Scared?"
Again she nodded.
"Me, too."
She looked surprised.
"Do you want to talk about it?" the sec chief asked.
"No."
"Then what do you want?"
"For you to hold me."
The sec chief took her in his arms, their shared body heat keeping them warm through the night.
THE BIG CLAWFOOT BATHTUB in Krysty's room was full of hot, steaming water. Ryan lay back in the tub, his arms stretched out over the sides, his body's energy depleted and close to exhaustion. Krysty ran a soapy sponge across Ryan's chest, cleaning away the afternoon's blood and grime.
Ryan's ribs still ached, but now that he'd had some time to rest, the pain had ebbed to a level he could tolerate. The cut on his shoulder had also cleaned up well, the wound having looked far worse than it really was.
Krysty squeezed the sponge and let the water flow over Ryan's broad, muscular shoulders, then she guided it down his chest and over his stomach toward the water.
Ryan flinched the moment the sponge traced a line over his aching ribs.
"Sore, lover?"
"A bit tender is all, but I'll manage."
Krysty kept her hand under the water, but let go of the sponge and let it float to the surface.
Ryan could feel her fingers caressing him between his legs. He quickly responded by growing hard.
"I thought you were tired, lover."
"I am."
"But not too tired?"
"Never too tired for that," Ryan said.
"I can see that. Or should I say, I can feel it."
Ryan reached up and cupped one of Krysty's full breasts. She moved closer to him, bringing the nipple close to his mouth. Ryan responded by taking it between his lips and sucking until it condensed into a rosy nub of flesh.
"Oh, lover," Krysty whispered, continuing to stroke Ryan beneath the water.
"To the victor go the spoils," Ryan said. Krysty joined him in the tub. They made love long into the night.
Chapter Thirty
J.B. had roused the group before the sun rose, and they spent the first hour of the day just getting the wag started. After having sat in the garage for several months, the wag's battery had run down and was without power. So instead of using the wag's starter motor, the group had to push the wag while J.B. used the clutch to put the vehicle in gear. After a half hour of trying, it seemed the engine was never going to start, but then it coughed once.
Spurred on by that success, they tried again and again, cough turning into sputter and then finally into a shaky rumble.
And then the engine roared to life.
J.B. wasted no time getting everyone on the wag and moving. The exhaust fumes had a foul smell to them, and the less they had to breathe them in the better.
The group pulled the wag out of the underground garage just as dawn broke over the horizon. The sky was a dazzling shade of orange, and the cloud cover that had been hanging over them the past two days was now all but gone.
They left the garage and soon turned onto Niagara Falls Boulevard. With an open road in good condition in front of him, J.B. opened up the throttle and the rumbling noise from the engine smoothed out into a loud but regular hum.
They drove several blocks along the boulevard until they found the remains of a building that suited their needs. J.B. stopped the wag about a city block from a deserted and crumbling bank building on Pine Avenue, keeping the engine running in the hopes that it would recharge the wag's battery. The east wall of the bank building was made of bricks and painted white, and would provide an excellent test target for the 37 mm cannon.
J.B. judged the distance to be about one hundred yards, well within the range of the cannon and the .50 calibers, but a tough distance to cover with small-arms fire, especially from remades like those used by the farm's sec men.
"Put a round in!" J.B. ordered.
In the back of the wag, Doc loaded one of the better shells into the cannon's breech. They had decided to try the shells in the order of the ones in best condition first, because if the cannon didn't fire the best quality shells, it probably wouldn't fire at all.
"Ready!"
J.B. paused a moment, knowing that the cannon barrel could just as easily blow apart as fire the shell. At least if the barrel exploded, he'd be chilled instantly.
J.B. pulled the cord he'd fashioned into a makeshift trigger, and the cannon boomed.
The cannon's recoil pushed the wag back about two feet, despite J.B.'s firm pressure on the brake pedal.
There was a brief moment of silence, and then the cannon shell struck the side of the building, punching a wag-tire-sized
hole in the brickwork ten feet off the ground and almost directly in front of the wag.
"Hot pipe!" Dean exclaimed.
"Hot pipe, indeed," Doc echoed.
"Well, at least we know the cannon works," J.B. said, a broad grin on his face. "Now we've got to get it to the farm so we can use it on some live targets."
"Excuse me, John Barrymore," Doc said, kneeling so he could talk to J.B. through the open window at the back of the wag's cab. "But I am not sure that the bridge we crossed the other day is stable enough to support the weight of this wag."
J.B. nodded in agreement. "And the other one we saw didn't look too sturdy, either."
"So close and yet so far," Doc muttered.
"There's another bridge," Clarissa said. "South of here."
"How far?" J.B. asked, shifting the wag into gear.
"Ten or fifteen miles. It crosses the river upstream at Buffalo."
"What's the bridge like there?"
"It's pretty rusty," she said, "but it's complete. You'd be able to drive the wag over it no problem."
That settled it for J.B. The fuel they had in the wag was old, but they had a tankful of it and they wouldn't be needing more than a quarter of a tank to drive the thirty mile round trip to the farm. Sure, it would take longer, but they'd have to wait until dark once they arrived anyway, and it was better to spend some time traveling the better route than risk breaking an axle or puncturing a tire trying to cross the ruined remains of the Rainbow and Whirlpool bridges.
"All right, that's the way we'll take." J.B. let out the clutch and the wag lurched forward. "What's the name of this bridge, anyway?"
"It's called the Peace Bridge."
Jak smiled.
Doc laughed out loud.
SEC CHIEF GANLEY instructed a team to cover the boats with weeds and tree branches so they'd be hidden while they were away. He had considered leaving behind two men to guard them, but quickly dismissed the idea, knowing they'd need all hands to help with the raid.
They headed north on foot, moving quickly through overgrown forests and across the weed-choked flatlands. He got the feeling that the entire area had been farmland during predark times, but nothing had grown there since the nukecaust, except for weeds and muties.
Axler, James - Deathlands 61 - Skydark Spawn Page 18