by James Axler
"So kind so long will ne'er rule long, 'tis said. Now you don't have a lot of choice," the freezie said, leaning up on one elbow.
"Nicely put, Richard," Doc observed, smiling appreciatively at Ginsberg. "By the three Kennedys! What is that towering inferno out back?"
Thick gray smoke had begun to billow around the back window, and they could all hear the crackling of flames.
Jak peered out. "Rainer burning garden shit. Big flames."
"And lots of smoke," Lori added, pushing the boy out of the way so that she could look out the open window.
"How does this feeding work, Baron?" J.B. asked. "How do they pick who gets... chilled?"
"The Motes do it. She throws a trance. Thrashes around and screams. Wriggles like a snake." Carla laughed bitterly. "Be double-funny if it wasn't all a way of removing opposition. Fat hag like her, pretending to be a snake! The one she picks gets driven out into the brush. Nowhere to go. No food or drink. Zombie and his brothers wait to make sure the chosen never comes back. Doesn't take those rattlers long to know when there's food to be had."
"Like stickies to an explosion or a fire," Ryan growled.
"When will the feeding be?" J.B. asked.
Carla answered him. "Probably around dusk tomorrow. It's a big production. They all shout and scream, and they light gas fires. See it for miles, lighting up the sky."
Edgar Brennan buried his head in his hands. "Perhaps if I was to leave Snakefish? I'm no use to anyone. I can't order anyone to do anything. Nobody listens to me anymore. They just want us to stop selling our gas so cheap. Everyone wants more jack. More power. It'll turn this little settlement into one of those villes with a gaudy house every block and a murder every night."
"You triple-feeb!" the Armorer exploded. "All you gotta do is borrow a blaster. Walk down the street and blow them away. We'll handle the Angels for you. But it's got to be you, Baron."
"John! Edgar can't..." Carla began, but J.B. turned on her.
"No, I knowhe can't. Course I know. I know the world, Carla. He's lost it. If Ryan and I walk down the street and chill the Motes it won't help him, because we'll move on. We always move on. And then the baron here might have a few good days. But there'll be another Mote. And another. Carla, there'll always be another Mote. It has to come from inside!"
Ryan could hardly remember J.B. ever making a more emotional speech. Carla Petersen was looking at him, questioning.
"He's right, lady. Ace on the line all the way. You don't like it. You want some handsome hero with flashing teeth and a blaster that kills sec men with every round. You want someone to come in and open all the doors."
"It's not us you want, Carla," Ryan continued. "That's not the way. Now, I've had it right up to here with you and the baron. I'm getting out with my friends before any of us get to buy the farm. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is."
There was an uncomfortable hush in the bedroom, with nobody prepared to meet anyone else's eyes. Lori broke the quiet.
"Someone outside," she said.
"Where?"
"Heard someone. But I can't seeing because of all the heavy smoking."
Ruby Rainer's bonfire was roaring away, sending a great pillar of roiling gray smoke into the calm morning air.
"Can't see anyone," Krysty said, coughing and spluttering as some of the smoke became sucked into the crowded room. The main window of Doc and Lori's bedroom opened onto the street, but the fire was at the rear of the large house, overlooking a rough garden with a dual privy. Beyond that was a deep draw that ran parallel with Main Street, vanishing into the thick brush of the desert.
"Close the window," Doc demanded. "Smoke's bad for my asthma and I don't desire another of my nasal eructations."
"What?" Carla said.
"Nosebleeds," Doc replied.
The conversation flagged and faded away. After another ten minutes or so Carla Petersen suggested to Baron Edgar that they should be going.
"Lots to do," she said. "Day's still young. Norman wants us both to go out and check where they found their snake dead. His idea is to keep on putting pressure on Edgar as baron until the string stretches too far and snaps."
"Guess I'm not ready to snap yet," the little man protested, sliding back onto his feet from the chair.
"Do well to visit Dern and lay out some jack on a blaster," J.B. suggested.
"No."
"Edgar," Carla begged, "please. Why not take John's advice? He and Ryan and the others know what they're talking about."
The chubby face managed a smile. And a strange kind of dignity. "Guess not. Thanks for the thought, Mr. Dix. But the day I need to pull out a blaster to defend what I believe in, then that's the day I've lost it all. You can't convince folks to goodness with a loaded gun."
With that he bowed to the others and left the room, followed by Carla Petersen. The door closed quietly behind them.
J.B. punched his right fist into his left hand. "Dark night! You might not be able to convince folks with a blaster, but you can sure as rad blast save your skin with one!"
"I can see his point," Rick said. "Remember that I believe in peace, as well. Back in my time there was a lot of folks who figured it was better to live on your knees than die on your feet."
"You believed that?" Ryan asked, unable to conceal his surprise.
"No, of course not. But I always thought that any problem could eventually be sorted out by talking. Rather than a finger on a red button somewhere beneath the prairies of Kansas."
The view from the rear window was still obscured by the turmoil of smoke from the garden bonfire.
Krysty, standing by Ryan, glanced toward the window. The one-eyed man felt her start, but her voice, when she spoke, was calm and measured.
"Don't anybody turn and stare, but we got us a stickle hanging on the glass, looking in at us."
Lori immediately turned and stared.
And screamed.
Chapter Twenty-Five
One hand was holding the wooden wall of the house, the other flattened against the central pane of glass in the window, showing the white circles of the suckers on fingers and palm. The face was pressed flat, glowering at the seven companions.
The tiny insensate eyes, blank and lacking any spark of humanity, gazed unblinkingly in, and the mouth sagged open, revealing the lines of saw-edged teeth and the small, leathery tongue. Smoke from outside wreathed around the mutated monstrosity, making it appear, truly, like some creature from the depths of hell.
At Lori's shriek, the creature opened its mouth still farther and rattled the casement with its fist. A thick, bloody drool hung from the lips, dripping onto its naked chest.
"Mine." Ryan drew his SIG-Sauer and squeezed the trigger in a single, lethal movement.
The 9 mm bullet exploded through the glass, driving dozens of keen-edged splinters into the rubbery flesh of the stickie's face and neck. The full-metal-jacket round hit precisely where Ryan had aimed it — into the cavern of the gaping jaws, chipping teeth as it went, slicing the tongue into ribbons of oozing flesh, carrying on through the back of the throat. The slug angled off the spine and exited through the second cervical vertebra in a burst of pink spray.
The stickie went over backward, its one hand contracting, sucking out the pane of glass it had been holding. Everyone heard the crash as it landed near the back door of the house — followed by a shrill scream from Ruby Rainer, who'd just walked out of the house and had nearly been struck by the flailing corpse.
"Attracted by the smoke," Ryan guessed, holstering his warm gun. "Should do something. Bad news when start coming into a ville like that in the middle of the morning. Should do something."
* * *
Zombie arrived an hour or so later, with Riddler and Harlekin.
"Reverend sent us t'ask you 'bout stickies," Zombie informed Ryan.
"Yeah?"
"You know all 'bout them," Riddler continued. "We seen that from the way you chilled them out in the desert."
"Told yo
u. I've fought them before. But stickies aren't all the same. Just got some patterns in common. Like the way they get attracted by flames and by big explosions."
"Yeah. Reverend Mote said to come and ask if you figured they might attack Snakefish. Gang of 'em in the ville?"
"Mebbe."
"Worth going out t'look for their nest, Ryan?" Riddler queried.
Ryan grinned at the fat biker, amused by his enthusiasm to go out after the murderous muties.
"Mebbe. Can't you get the Baron's nephew to go up in his plane and look for them for you? Be great for a recce."
The three Last Heroes looked uncomfortably at one another. Harlekin answered. He'd had a bad accident some time in his past that had left him with a mess of scars around his mouth, and most of his upper lip was completely missing. His speech was blurred and sibilant.
"Fat boy wouldn't help Mote. He'd help the fugging ville and his dwarf uncle, but not the reverend. We could find the stickies' nest if we had someone along to tell us what to do."
"No."
Riddler looked around the room. "Could be better if you was to help, Ryan."
"No."
Zombie hissed between his teeth. "Reverend Mote said he wouldn't come. Said to tell you that the stickie in the ville has changed things. Said to tell you the feeding wouldn't be tomorrow dusk. Said to tell you it'd be today dusk."
"Answer's still the same," Ryan replied.
"What?"
"No."
* * *
The bottom tip of the sun had fallen out of sight over the western horizon. The whole of the ville was gathered on the edge of the desert, near where the highway ran out into oblivion. Men, women and children stood huddled together, an air of expectant tension almost visible in the atmosphere. There was very little conversation.
It was cool and most folks wore jackets or shawls. Ryan and all of his party were warmly wrapped against the evening chill. Rick leaned heavily on his cane, shivering, his face pale and sweating.
On the way there, Ryan had found himself jostled in the back. Whirling around he'd been surprised to see the huge bulk of Riddler. But the Angel was wearing a long wool sweater over his colors, trying to make himself insignificant.
"Wanted a word, Ryan."
"Yeah?"
"I owe you. That's why. But I could be in deep shit if Zombie or the Motes knew I'd spoken to you 'bout it."
"About what?"
Riddler had looked cautiously around. But in the throng, with everyone moving quickly toward the site of the feeding, nobody seemed to be taking any notice of him.
"The feeding."
Ryan was becoming exasperated. "Fireblast! Tell it. It'll be night before you finish telling me what it is."
"Sure. Yeah. You're right, Ryan. Course y'are. It's that I heard talk 'bout who's gonna get picked for the feeding."
"Me?"
"No."
"One of us?"
"No. Mote's scared 'bout the blasters you carry. Won't cross you face-on, but if he had the chance to back-shoot, well, could be different. You know what I'm saying?"
"Sure, Riddler. But if it's not one of us, then who is it?"
"Reverend Mother Marianne likes to settle up scores, pay debts. That's what'll happen here. It don't pay to..."
"Who?" Ryan muttered.
"Can't tell you."
"Then why, for?.."
"Warn you, Ryan. You did good with me."
"But yousaved mylife, Riddler," Ryan insisted. "How come you figure you owe me?"
"No. You chilled most of the stickies. I'd have been dead meat in a muties' pot if you hadn't been there. So, I'll pay some."
"Quickly!"
"Sure. Keep out of it. That's my word and that's my fucking warning. Who she picks... stand away. Or there'll be some serious blooding. Most of the Heroes got sawed-offs. They'll be watching close."
"So it's the baron?"
"No, not him. Not yet. Not open. But can't say anything more, Ryan. They'll have my balls if they... Just don't interfere!"
"Okay, I got you," Ryan said quietly. "Thanks, Riddler. I still owe you."
There had been a quick squeeze of the hand and then the big man had contrived to vanish into the crowd, reappearing a couple of minutes later with his brothers — and with a cut-down 12-gauge scattergun in his arms.
Baron Brennan arrived several minutes later, driving from the ville in a small passenger wag, with Carla Petersen in the front seat with him. His brother, Rufus, was in the rear seat with Layton, who was still in the leather flying suit. None of them spoke to anyone in the crowd, but Carla and the baron nodded to Ryan and his friends.
There was an almost tangible withdrawing of the other people from the baron, as if everyone knew that he carried the taint of some nameless disease and would contaminate them by even the slightest touch.
At last, signaled by Zombie firing his shotgun into the dark sky, the Motes themselves appeared among their congregation.
Both Norman and Joshua were carrying small drums — slung across their shoulders — which they immediately began to beat in a slow, driving rhythm that duplicated the beating of a heart.
Marianne Mote was dressed completely in scarlet. A long gown of silk, flowed down to her chubby ankles, and she was shod in a pair of high-heeled shoes that she could barely control on the rough ground. She was heavily made-up, like an aged doll, and she carried a long whip of silver leather in her right hand. The dress was cut so low in front that her breasts swelled against the thin material and seemed about to break for freedom.
At a sign from Norman, a pair of the Last Heroes strode in a half circle in front of the gathering, setting light to a series of gasoline fires. They immediately flared and roared, surrounding everyone in a ring of flame, giving the illusion that their only line of escape would be the dark desert behind them. Where the snakes dwelled.
* * *
One thing that the Motes were extremely good at was whipping up the frenzy of a mob, repeating their exhortations to worship the worms of the desert, crying out in unison for divine intervention to point the finger at the guilty person in the ville who was responsible for the spate of bad luck.
"Use me as the oracle of Thy vengeance!" Marianne screamed, arms waving, the thin material of her dress dancing about her.
Ryan and the others huddled in a tight group, halfway back through the crowd. The Brennans and Carla Petersen, as befitted their nominal status in Snakefish, stood near the front.
The Last Heroes stayed ranged in a semicircle, eyes raking the congregation.
The yelling and praying grew louder and louder. And the fires, topped up from jerricans of gas, flamed and roared. Deep shadows skipped over the watching, wide-eyed faces. Standing with his back to the blackness of the desert, Ryan felt himself becoming nervous, feeling his spine tighten at the thought of the giant reptiles he knew were stirring in the wilderness behind him.
"Got a real bad feel about this one, lover," Krysty whispered.
"Me too." He'd brought the G-12 caseless, holding it casually under his arm, finger close to the trigger of the sophisticated blaster.
"The Spirit of the Worm comes upon me!" Marianne screamed, closing her eyes, pirouetting around in the orange light of the fires, smoke swirling about her, giving her a demonic look.
"Here we go," J.B. muttered.
The middle-aged woman faked her fit of religious frenzy quite skillfully. Ryan doubted it would have worked so well in the cold light of morning. But here, in the manipulated, drum-beating atmosphere of fervor, in the bizarre light of the bonfires, it was clearly working well enough.
Cries erupted from the crowd, calling on the snakes to witness and help. Amens, hallelujahs and hosannas rose from all, throughout the expectant congregation.
Marianne didn't stint herself in her performance. She thrashed around in the dust, dropping her whip, scooping up handfuls of pale sand and throwing them over herself. Her hair became disarrayed, her makeup covered in a mask of dirt, her rolling
eyes winking dementedly out at the world. Her dress rucked up as she fell and kicked, revealing once again that she wore no panties.
Ryan turned to the Armorer, but J.B. had slipped away from his side. It was just possible to see the jaunty fedora, perched on top of his head, moving purposefully toward the front of the crowd.
"Krysty, Jak. Follow me. Don't do anything until I give the word."
Ryan's gut feeling told him that J.B. had guessed who had been chosen for the feeding.
"Show us the evil, show us! The Worm protects us all. The Worm is the power. The Worm is the way and the light!" Marianne's voice was straining ever louder. "Yes, oh yes! I can feel the spirit moving in me! Hallelujah, brothers and sisters! The word is coming to me!"
Marianne rolled over and over, legs kicking, her body caked in dust.
Ryan started after J.B., but the Armorer was nearly at the front, close by the Brennans and Carla.
Helped by her husband and son, Marianne staggered to her feet, beginning to spin around, arm outstretched, finger pointing at the congregation, her body a black shape against the brightness of the ring of fires. She spun faster and faster, the skirt of the dress flying out around her, like a child's top. Her face blank, her eyes staring wildly. Her finger accusing.
And the chanting began, led by Norman Mote, picked up by his son, Joshua, carried by the group of eight Last Heroes, racing through the crowd like a flash fire in a dry summer, swelling all around Ryan and the others.
"A feeding! A feeding! A feeding! A feeding!" Louder and louder, like the pulse of a raging and insensate heart.
Fists were punching the air, in unison, pounding the beat of the cry: "the feeding." A thousand voices raised together. The piping tones of little children and the trembling sound of the aged. It rose around Ryan, deafening him.
Marianne Mote stopped.
Immediately the yells began to fade away, until there was only the stillness of the night and a gasping intake of breath as everyone realized that the woman's finger pointed, rock steady, straight at the figure of Carla Petersen.
"Gaia!"
The Heroes began to move forward, stopping when a slight figure stepped from the front row and stood between them and Carla.