by Dark E
"There you go again, Ryan, showing off your so-called heritage," a voice said with a sneer. It was a familiar voice that had much of the cadence and timbre of his own, but pitched higher and dripping with thinly veiled envy and hate. "It's time I took a more active role in your future status as a member of the House of Cawdor."
Somehow, while Ryan had been examining his injuries, the drawbridge had managed to come whispering down without his noticing. Concentration was a good thing to possess, but shutting out his surroundings would be the death of him yet. He had already decided the wounds and bruises were superficial, but now they were completely forgotten as he took in the sight revealed by the dropped drawbridge.
Harvey Cawdor loomed before him in all of his terrible crooked glory.
"Hello, Brother. Time to die," Harvey said, and suddenly Ryan was a child again, a boy of fifteen, lost and injured in the cold, betrayed by the very blood he shared with his brother. There would be no pleading of familial ties for mercy in this battle challenge.
The same brother who'd overseen the murder of their father wasn't the sort to grow misty-eyed over family.
Harvey was grotesquely fat, poured into the finest silken robes his subjects could buy with a half-crown studded with jewels atop his lumpen potato head. Hanging at the sides of his jiggling hips were twin Colt pistols of shining metal in tooled holsters crafted by the finest leathersmiths in Deathlands and paid for with money smeared in blood.
But fat, evil Harvey hadn't drawn either of the small-caliber blasters.
In bis right hand, he held a blade, double-edged with a sharp point.
Ryan felt his left eye start to throb, pulsating in time with his heartbeat, a pulse that was increasing in speed. His legs felt leaden, paralyzed with fear.
He knew he wasn't afraid of his brother. What terrified this younger Ryan was the knowledge of what Harvey was about to do. Despite the location being different, despite the circumstances in this mat-trans-induced dream being reconfigured from the fragments Ryan held in his adult memory, the outcome was going to be exactly the same.
"End of the road, you little bastard," Harvey said, leering confidently down at his younger sibling.
"Go ahead. Do it, you fat butcher," Ryan snarled, his lips curling from his teeth as he spoke.
The blade came up, then down, the needle point directed at Ryan's left eye.
It was the last thing the eye ever saw. After the eye burst and the boy felt wet blood and fluid run down his cheek, Harvey pulled the blade free and went for the other side of Ryan's face, trying to blind him but instead plunging into his right cheek and cutting down, peeling back the flesh from the bone and causing a jet of blue blood to spray outward, joining the other torrent from the ruined eye.
Blinded by blue, Ryan screamed. The sound was horrible and exposed, revealing to his corrupt brother just how much the injury and the betrayal had cost- in both body and still maturing soul. He screamed again in agony, hoping the pain might stop but knowing despite his efforts, the scars would remain with him to his dying day.
KRYSTY WAS DREAMING. She was singing a predark country tune in a dump of a jolt-and-alcohol bar made of dirty tar paper and aluminum siding, on the outskirts of the tiny ville known as Hazelwood, fifty or so miles outside of Harmony. Hazelwood was the kind of place a man loyal to his wife and family traveled to if he wanted an anonymous night out with the boys...or the girls. No questions asked.
The song was a classic about cheating hearts and being weak and she sang it well, but the watchers in the smoky audience sipping at their watery drinks weren't there for the music.
They were there to ogle Krysty.
Her current attire left nothing to the imagination.
She was completely nude from neck to knees. The only articles of clothing on her voluptuous body were a silly-looking shiny white cowboy hat with a silver star-burst pinned to the wide white brim perched precariously on top of her crimson hair, and her well-worn blue cowboy boots with the chiseled silver points on the toes, and the silver spread-wing falcons on the front.
"Shake it, honey," a voice called from the audience. "Show us you mean it!"
Krysty ignored the man's comment and kept singing, holding the old-style microphone to her lips in both hands. Behind her, a backup band consisting of an amplified electric guitar and a simple trap drum kit provided accompaniment. Vocals and music both came from a few old, black Vox amplifiers, powered by a portable gasoline generator that chugged contentedly to itself outside the bar.
Why she was singing this particular song, one her Uncle Tyas had a particular fondness for, made perfect sense to her. She knew all the lyrics and had always enjoyed the tune. Why she was nude was another matter entirely, and as she finished the last verse of the Hank Williams classic she decided she'd better get around to investigating her current situation.
"I never knew you had such a pretty voice," Ryan
Cawdor said from where he was sitting with the polished candy-apple sun-burst Les Paul electric guitar.
"I never knew you played guitar," Krysty retorted.
"I'll let you in on a secret-I don't," Ryan said with conviction, and gave her a saucy wink with his right blue eye.
"I don't play drums, either," J. B. Dix added, spinning the drumsticks between his fingers in an elaborate display of showmanship before bringing them down on the snare to snap off a rim shot, accenting his words.
Things were getting so silly, Krysty decided to play along for a moment. "Mind telling me what happened to my clothes?" she asked.
"You'll get them back after the last song set," Ryan told her with a leer on his lips. "Until then, you might as well go ahead and get busy-there's at least thirty guys in here waiting for a chance to hump you blue. After I have my turn."
The boldness of the statement caused Krysty to burst into disbelieving laughter. "Well, they're in for a triple-long wait. And so are you, asshole."
"You gonna let her get away with talking to you like that?" J.B. asked loudly from behind the drums. "Mildred tries giving me shit and I shut her up quick."
"How so?"
J.B. grinned and licked his lips. "I give her a mouthful."
Ryan, who was not Ryan, she knew that now, turned back to face Krysty. "How's that sound, you curvy piece of ass? You hungry?" he asked lazily, patting his crotch. "Got something for you before you open up that pretty mouth to sing us another tune."
Angry, her face flushing as red as her now undulating hair, Krysty gave a series of retorts about what he could do with his manhood. After she'd run out of suggestions, the raven-haired man stood, still smiling, but the single eye narrowed and the long scar down the other side of his face pulsed with pent-up fury.
Krysty Wroth was so nonplussed by what happened next that she stood perfectly still and slack-jawed and allowed it to occur without protest.
Ryan Cawdor drew back his right arm and slapped her.
Her head snapped back, pulling her neck taut as she staggered, her boot heels leaving the ground as she fell off the slight incline of the elevated stage, falling bare-assed onto the grit of the earthen floor of the bar. A whoop of excitement went up from the watching crowd as Krysty struggled to get to her feet, but her progress was halted by the man who appeared to be her lover as he leaped from the stage and landed on top of her, pinning her arms to the ground up over her head.
Ryan (not Ryan) leaned in close, and she could smell the stink of his breath, a mix of gasoline and motor oil. A long tongue slithered out of his mouth, and he licked her from cheek to forehead. "Damn, you taste good," he said.
Pulling one of her arms free, Krysty went for the nearest part of her attacker's body with her fingers. As she tore at her tormentor's face, scratching long furrows into his cheeks with her fingernails, Krysty was surprised at the absence of blood. One of her nails broke, splitting down to the soft underside, but she didn't even notice the pain as she continued to struggle, concentrating on ripping new gashes into the countenance of the man w
ho'd willingly offered up his life to save her own countless times. She felt her heart stop as a glint of polished blue steel peeked out, shining from underneath the epidermal layer.
Still no blood, only warm flesh that was starting to feel more and more like cold, alien rubber, or even discarded chewing gum as she continued to scrape at her attacker's face.
The worn eye patch fell away and behind it lurked not an empty eye socket, but a piercing narrow beam of blue light that started to grow in intensity even as she gaped in a mix of terror and curiosity. With a final effort of strength forced from her very soul, she pulled at the mask and tore away the outer shell.
Cort Strasser, a.k.a. Skullface, leaned over her, revealed before her disbelieving eyes.
"No way," she said in a whisper.
"Way," he snarled back, and his face, his words, were blue.
JAK WAS DREAMING. In his mind's eye he was sleeping next to Christina, his wife, who in so many ways was as much a child as Jak Lauren himself, despite her being the older of the pair. In the adjoining room, Jenny, their little girl, also slept. The family of three were in a ranch house, a sprawling mass of clay and wood located in the most desolate part of New Mexico the young man had been able to find.
They were at peace and until that moment, their night terrors had been held at bay.
The following day, there was much to be done, including beginning a lengthy repair job on the ranch house roof, but after growing up in the swamplands of Louisiana, Jak was no stranger to hard work and hot sun. He'd given up wandering Deathlands with Ryan Cawdor to settle down in an attempt to have what might be called a normal life. Jak owed the one-eyed man his life and felt a strong loyalty to him, but he also knew if he were to find peace he would have to abandon Ryan's companionship in exchange for love and family.
Jak knew that would entail a struggle, for such peace was hard to find for people of his heritage and skin color. Jak was an albino, and albinos weren't normal, nor considered of a kind with man. Albinos were marked as mutants, and while the mutant breeds might eventually lay claim to the remains of the civilized world, Jak wanted no part of such a plan.
Until Christina was stolen from his bed. Until Jenny was taken away.
The unspoken message left in their stead was, No Peace.
In Jenny's small bunk bed were rose petals. In his own, ashes and dust. Jak crushed them together and rubbed them down both sides of his stark white face, streaking his cheeks with long dusky lines of war paint mixed with his own tears and sweat. The albino had grown up listening to late-night talk of magic among the oldies in his community, and had heard many tales of the avenging dead and the terrible price paid for want of retribution.
Damn the price, he decided.
The fury sang in Jak's blood. Such an affront was to invite his full vengeance, and as he suited up in the formfitting lightweight battle armor he'd never worn before, advanced riot gear rescued from af locker deep underground in an already forgotten military redoubt, he knew it was only the beginning of a very long night.
He chose to abandon his more familiar fighting tools, his leaf-bladed throwing knives, his mighty Colt Python, deciding, instead, to rely on his wits and fighting skills, and the mysterious rune-inscribed midnight blue blade he kept hidden from prying eyes.
Christina had thought him silly for hanging on to the oversized weapon, which dated back thousands of predark years.
"You're too small a man, Jak, to hoist such a blade," she had said, unable to lift it herself using both hands. It fell to the well-worn boards of the front porch of their home with a muffled clatter.
"You say I'm small?" he retorted, reaching down and easily retrieving the weapon.
"No," she answered. "You're plenty big enough for me."
"Hate people call me small," he said, wiping away the stray particles of grit that had adhered to the surface of the sword when it dropped.
"I never said that and I never would say that," Christina said firmly. "But there's something dark and unholy and evil about that blade, and I wish you'd put it away."
"Okay," he had said and gave her an elfish smile. "Blade gone. Won't see it again."
Now she was gone, and the sword had reappeared.
The jewels encrusted in the hilt of the blade felt cool against his pale white hands as he hefted the weapon high over his head, cool and comforting, like they belonged there as part of him.
"No peace?" Jak whispered in a voice that was no longer his own. "So be it."
Alone in the world, he saddled his great steed and rode west, following the trail of the ones who'd taken his wife and child. It wasn't as hard as it might have seemed, since no care had been taken to cover their tracks. Even when Jak thought he was lost, the sword sheathed at his hip would act as a sullen guide, pulling him back on course, the deep blue of the metal attracted by some hidden magnet.
Once his horse was spooked by a hissing rattler and Jak fell from the saddle as the equine reared in fright. The armor he'd taken from the closet and now wore protected him from the impact of the fall as he landed heavily on the rocky sand. Transport was go- ing to be another matter, since his steed ran past, frightened, leaving Jak alone with his thoughts.
(Not alone.)
A rattler slithered close, warily keeping the coils of its body out of reach of Jak's blade. The unmistakable cluttering of the rattle at the end of the snake's tail provided accompaniment to the reptile's sinuous movements.
"What? Thought heard-"
(Not alone.)
"Hear you...in head," Jak said softly.
(Yes.)
"Where are they?"
(Not safe not yet no one is safe not yet.)
"Not safe?"
(No one, not even you.)
And the rattler started to grow in height and bulk, a combination of inflating and expanding, stretching and elongating, pulsating and reaching that raised it to a height of thirty feet.
(You die now, you die.)
"No. You do," Jak replied, and leaped to one side as the massive head of the reptile came striking down, incredibly fast. White fangs bit into tan sand and stone, and the entire landscape seemed to rock from the impact. Jak was once again sent tumbling, but this time he was expecting the fall and he quickly rolled and regained his footing.
The serpent, momentarily dazed by the missed strike, didn't bring up its huge head, but instead kept it close to the ground as undulating coils pushed it toward the waiting Jak. Hurtling like an air-to-surface missile, the head picked up speed and came directly for its intended target like a launched arrow from a bow, and again, the agile albino was able to sidestep the attack.
Even as he avoided being struck, Jak released his own offensive, bringing his sword above his head in preparation.
As he swung the sword down in an elegant reaching arc, the entire blade seemed to glow with a translucent blue, and before he could react to the appearance of the unexpected light the blue grew past the weapon and crawled up his arm and across his shoulder and up and down his body, coating him in blue, obscuring his sight, his mouth, his mind.
(No peace.)
"Peace," Jak said.
The oversized head of the rattler was sliced off neatly and a spray of blue blood squirted outward, lifeblood as blue rain pouring through the halo of blue light surrounding Jak, and he was frozen in place in the dark of the desert, alone and helpless.
Helpless in blue.
MILDRED WAS DREAMING. She was wearing a Greek toga or some sort of filmy outer garment that rippled around her body. She was adrift in blue. Ice blue. Icy cold. Her keen physician's mind reminded her that Greek for icy cold was kryos, the study of cry-onics, the preservation of the living dead. The only part of her body that seemed to be work- ing was her eyes, so she looked around frantically, managing to catch a glimpse of herself in a mirror. Again, she was blue-lips, face, hair. All blue. Then, she heard a voice. Dr. Victoria Blue's voice. The voice of her colleague and friend. They were active in the cryo program together.<
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Mildred was confused. Why was Victoria looking down at her with a strained, sad smile?
"The cyst!" Mildred wanted to scream, and immediately she knew she was in for abdominal surgery on an ovarian cyst, or rather, what they believed to be a cyst. It was December 28 of the year 2000-on the cusp of the new year.
"We're losing her!" Victoria said. "There's no other way. The cryo process is experimental, but we'll have to make the attempt."
Mildred blinked, and the bedroom was gone, replaced by the neutral blue tones of a hospital ward. The walls were whipping past her, faster and faster. She tried to speak, but found her voice missing. She still couldn't move. She looked down her prone body and saw her bare feet at the bottom of the gurney. Mildred tried to wiggle her toes. They stayed frozen. Then, she noticed her feet and her toes were blue as the twin doors looming up in front of her parted like stage curtains, and she was inside, and through.