by James Axler
“Don’t thank me yet.”
“I know you’ll save my arm,” he said before the morphine finally put him under.
Mildred sighed. “I wish I was as confident as he is.”
JAK GRABBED the barrel of the .50 caliber and helped J.B. lift it into place on the back of the transport wag they would be using to free Ryan, Krysty and Mildred.
The Armorer had fit two of the P-39’s blasters with makeshift pivots and was mounting them on the front-left and rear-right positions of the wag’s open cargo area.
The two eased the blaster into position, and J.B. locked it in place with a single horizontal bolt and a cotter pin.
“Short bursts,” Jak said. “Two, three seconds, not more.”
“That’s right. Anything longer and you’re wasting ammo.” J.B. took hold of the blaster handles he’d made from a bale of heavy-gauge steel wire he’d found on one of the loading docks and tested the movement of the gun. To his delight, it swung easily in both directions. “Should give a good range of fire. Pretty much a complete circle.”
“Test in morning?” Jak asked.
J.B. nodded. “I’m sure the .50 calibers will fire without a glitch, but I’m not so sure about the cannon.”
“Although I’m more than two centuries old, I never thought I would live long enough to see the day when John Barrymore Dix was unsure about anything to do with weaponry.” Doc had wandered up to the wag and was standing by the rear wheels, looking up at J.B. and Jak with a delightful grin on his face.
“Mebbe Mildred right,” Jak said.
“About what?” J.B. asked.
“Your dream.”
J.B. was silent. Being reminded about his dream sent a chill down his spine. The .50-caliber design had been tried and tested for years. The cannon was another matter entirely, since it had probably had a few reliability problems during its lifetime, even when it was new. He’d done everything he could to make sure it was working properly, but there was still a chance it could fail when they needed it most.
But while the Armorer had some reservations about the cannon, Dr. Theophilus Algernon Tanner had none whatsoever.
“Of course the cannon will fire, John Barrymore. Not only will it fire, but it will fire magnificently…stupendously. It will cut a swath of destruction through the farm, unleashing a little bit of hellfire from its angry maw with each deadly round.”
Doc had his swordstick raised in the air and although they were underground, he seemed to be standing in the path of some strange breeze that blew back his white hair and made him look like a wild-eyed doomsayer atop a mountain.
“Thunder will roll, the earth will shake and barons and sec men will cower in fear at the mere sight of this infernal blaster.” There was a strange shine in Doc’s eyes, and his body was beginning to shake and tremble uncontrollably.
Jak signaled to Clarissa to come to Doc’s aid. She came running, and when she reached Doc’s side, she took his arm and led him to a nearby pile of crates where he could sit and rest, while whatever it was that was affecting him ran its course.
“He’ll be all right,” J.B. said.
“Not worried Doc,” Jak replied. “Worried Ryan and others.”
“If I know Ryan Cawdor, he’s probably sitting back and enjoying his time on that farm. Who knows, after we break in, he might not even want to leave.”
The two men laughed.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ryan moved into the middle of the circle.
Mog stood facing him, his body somewhat grimy, but not nearly as bloody as Ryan’s. “Just you and me, One-eye! Just like I figured.”
Ryan had suspected it might come down to the two of them, but he wasn’t about to give the mountain of a man any compliments. “Really. I thought you’d be chilled a long time ago.”
“Mog always wins. And I’m going to feel good between Red’s legs.”
Ryan looked up at Krysty.
She was leaning to the side, trying to distance herself from the baron, who was now fully occupied with the woman servicing him. Her head continued to move up and down between his legs, but he now had firm hold of her hair, forcefully guiding her head in the movement and rhythms he wanted. The girl looked limp and lifeless now, as if she were either unconscious or dead.
Baron Fox either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care.
Ryan looked back over at Mog.
Mog flashed Ryan a gap-toothed smile. “If she’s used to having you, One-eye, then she’ll be thrilled to have a real man for a change.” Mog reached down between his legs and scooped up his genitals in his hand. Ryan had paid little attention before, but now that the man was making a point of putting them on display, he couldn’t help but notice how big they were. Like the parts of the rest of his body, Mog’s penis and testicles were enormous, and it was no wonder he enjoyed the status of the farm’s alpha male.
But while such equipment made for an impressive sight, it did nothing to give him an advantage within the circle. If anything, he was at a bit of a disadvantage having his equipment swinging freely, and vulnerable to attack. Ryan was seriously considering exploiting this advantage, since his panga was the right weapon for the job.
“She’d never have you, stupe,” Ryan said. “I either chill you in the circle, or she’ll chill you the moment you two are alone.”
Mog looked up at Krysty, considering Ryan’s words.
At that moment Grundwold entered the circle and approached the two combatants. “If one of you wants to leave the circle now, you can do it, no shame. It’s been a good show.”
“Nobody’s walking out of the circle, Grundwold,” Mog said. “Let’s get it going.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Ryan agreed.
Grundwold nodded and left the circle, climbing onto the stage and calling out, “Fight!”
Ryan was caught momentarily off guard by Mog, who threw a pike at Ryan as if it were a spear, the second after the sec chief gave the call to fight. The long weapon glanced off Ryan’s body, but not before the pointed tip broke the flesh on his right shoulder and blood began to flow freely down his arm.
Ryan countered by picking up the pike and throwing it out of the circle.
The crowd cheered.
Then Ryan gathered the rest of the weapons in the circle and threw them all out, as well.
The crowd roared in delight.
Now all that was left was Ryan’s panga, which he picked up and moved just outside the circle, as well, next to the pile of his clothes.
“You think you can chill me with your bare hands, One-eye?” Mog laughed.
“No,” Ryan said, running toward Mog and leaping into the air. He hit the giant in the chest with the balls of both feet. There was a loud whoosh as the air came out of Mog’s chest.
After delivering the kick, Ryan fell heavily to the ground, landing hard on his side.
Mog stumbled backward a few steps, tripped over his own feet and landed heavily on his ass.
There was laughter from the crowd.
“Shut up!” he roared. “All of you.”
The laughter died down, but not completely.
Ryan circled the big man, looking for another weakness. He was big and powerful, likely able to crush Ryan’s ribs with a bear hug or able to suffocate him. Ryan had been lucky to knock him over by hitting him so high up and knew that the next blow would have to be different, since Mog would never fall victim to the same attack twice.
“You move fast, One-eye. But is it fast enough?”
Ryan didn’t waste his breath answering.
He had moved to the right, looking to take Mog down once more. He darted in close and tried to sweep his right leg around to take out one of the big man’s giant tree-trunk legs. He struck him in the calf with his foot, but the leg didn’t give way.
Mog reached down and managed to catch Ryan’s leg in his hands.
Ryan desperately tried to scramble away out of his reach, but Mog was able to reel him in, and in seconds he had his huge a
rms around Ryan’s body and was pulling him ever closer.
The one-eyed man gasped for breath as Mog began to squeeze the life out of him. Ryan struggled to free himself, but his efforts only used up more air and tightened the grip the giant had on his body.
Mog continued to squeeze.
Something snapped in Ryan’s torso, and a lance of pain shot through his chest. And then the world seemed to be getting dark around the edges.
He thought of Krysty and Dean first, almost simultaneously, and after that came thoughts of J.B. and Doc and Jak, and then images of the chilling he’d done over the years. Trader came next, as if the man were waiting for him somewhere up the road. Lush green fields, a home that was his and a family…Krysty and Dean out on the porch of their home, looking for him. Looking, looking, looking.
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!” th
e 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 returned 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.”