by James Axler
Ryan felt the short hairs rising on the back of his neck as the single, pure voice of a woman came swelling with the old hymn again. The skinny preacher with crazed cowardly eyes told the boy they wouldn't stay.
Told him that the land they'd wanted Ч which the men had died for Ч was not meant for them. It was tainted with blood, and they were moving on. In the end the kid drew on the man in black, insisting that they bury his friends before they moved on, and grudgingly the settlers agreed. At the last, with the lines of "Amazing Grace" still ringing out, the boy dropped his blaster beside the graves and rode away.
"Though we are dead, ten thousand years," sang the woman; and all around the vid-house, Lauren's gang sang. Several people were weeping at the beauty and power of the film, well over a century from the past.
Ryan felt a prickling behind his own eyes.
"Son of a fucking bitch, ain't it," said a grizzled man behind him. "Always kind of lifts me. Makes me want to get out and ice the baron on my fucking ownsome."
The lights returned, making everyone blink. Ryan glanced around him, seeing the ragged army he was about to help. And he saw why the short piece of film was so important to Jak Lauren's people.
The battle appeared hopeless, against overwhelming odds. Yet the faded images, with the crackling sound track, typified the desperate lonely, struggles that were taking place all over Deathlands. Ryan was understanding it more and more. It was a natural process. Groups arose, some promoting only themselves, others trying to clean up the world. As he saw it, it wasn't enough just to worry about your own survival. Sometimes you had to stand up and fight for things you believed in.
It was that courage that Ryan saw in the ratlike teenager and his raggled army. "Time we talked."
"Sure. You four, and me and my five top chillers. That set with you?"
"Yeah. Want to know all 'bout the Baron Tourment. His ville. Where he lives. Where he'll keep prisoners. Sec men. Blasters. All that."
"And more," said J.B. "We know all that, we can get the plans made."
Ryan stood up, stretching. "Some food and drink. Need to be ready by dark."
Jak Lauren peeled back his lips in an icy grin. "Be dark in around five hours. Time for real good plan. We were lost, now we're found."
"Mebbe," said Ryan.
Chapter Twenty
The cellar door of the Best Western Snowy Egret inched open, then stopped. It opened a finger's-breadth more, then stopped again. The two women heard the deep resonant voice of Baron Tourment laughing quietly.
"Very good. Oh, very good."
Krysty wondered for an insane moment whether she could possibly take out the chieftain of Lafayette, realizing immediately that the butchering of the two guards had left her too drained even to wrestle a kitten.
"I am impressed, ladies. Fucking impressed. Oh, yes, I am."
Inside the room, it was almost silent. Just the hypnotic buzzing of a blowfly, conjured from nowhere to feast on the banquet of blood that poured from the mouth of the one sec man, the groin of the other. The baron's voice resonated from outside the room.
"Alain and Neal. Two of the best, if that roguish Mephisto is to be believed. Are you to be believed, Mephisto? Eh?"
"They were good. You sure they're chilled?"
"Can't you taste their souls fleeing from their useless carcasses? Such a sour, yet sweet flavor. No, they are dead, are they not, sluts?"
"Come and find out, cripple," taunted Krysty.
"Good." Baron Tourment sounded as if he were genuinely amused. "Two more on the account."
At last he appeared, his head bent to avoid the low ceiling, the white-suited sec boss at his elbow. Both men were holding M-16s. The baron's weapon was plated with gold, its stock studded with semiprecious stones. Mephisto's rifle was comparatively plain and uncluttered, except for the head of a red-eyed cockerel, done in opals and rubies.
Krysty and Lori, licking their dry lips, stood beside the tables.
"How did they chill 'em?" asked Mephisto.
Tourment shook his head. "Don't matter. It's the redhead. She's got some real power. They got careless. They got dead. End of that story."
He lifted the barrel of his blaster, covering both women. His eyes searched Krysty's, until she felt he was somehow trying to suck her soul from her body.
"Go fuck a dead shark," she said, trying to provoke him again.
"Perhaps I shall allow you that pleasure, girl," he replied. "Or, perhaps a live gator. See how your power works on that. But I feel your power is exhausted."
Krysty knew she was right: the massive baron was a doomie. But he wasn't able to see what she was thinking. Her mind was locked too tight for him to penetrate. She said nothing, staring him out.
"We should find out where they are," interrupted Mephisto. "Get after 'em 'fore dark. IfТn we wait, they could be anywhere."
Tourment sighed. "Such haste, my dear sec boss. If they are in league with the snow wolf, they will have gone to his skulking place in the vid-palace."
"Said we should have blown that apart."
"Only last week one of our swampwags was taken by the little bastard. The time is not ready yet." There was a snap in his voice that made Mephisto hastily step back.
Krysty could feel herself strengthening. She'd expended much more energy in destroying enemies far more powerful than the two sec men in the past, and hence her recovery would be quicker. Lori, at her side, stood straight and tall. Only the faintest trembling told Krysty how tense the young girl was.
"Enough of this. Come with us, and I'll show you what happens to anyone standing against the anger of Baron Tourment, high priest of Lafayette, lord of Mardy, night-stalker and spirit-raiser."
"And all round shit," completed Krysty, relishing his hesitant stumbling toward her on the creaking frames. She saw the finger whiten on the trigger of the pretty M-16. "Come," he said, gesturing with the gun. "See how the kin of the snow wolf, your friend, is treated."
Outside, there were a dozen armed sec men waiting to escort them through the echoing basement corridors of the large motel.
His head bent to avoid some of the painted metal pipes that festooned the ceilings, the baron led the way toward steep iron stairs. He negotiated them slowly and with obvious difficulty, leaning, on Mephisto to steady himself. Krysty whistled, tunelessly between her teeth at the delay.
* * *
Jak Lauren stalked around the auditorium, the tiny pieces of metal sewn into his clothes glinting in the overhead lamp so that at times he seemed to be wearing a suit of dancing lights. They'd been talking for an hour, not even stopping when bowls of hot stew were brought in from the kitchen of a nearby house.
The meat was a light pinkish-gray, tough and salty, in a broth with fresh vegetables. Finn devoured his and asked for more. Only when he'd nearly finished the second helping did he ask what it was.
The woman with the scar across her neck grinned, but no smile could ever light up her stony eyes. "What's your guess, Finnegan?"
"Some kind of bird. Or mebbe horse."
"Nope. It's gator meat. Killed this morning, so it's real fresh."
If she'd expected disgust from the fat gunman, she was disappointed. Finn laughed and held out the chipped dish for a third helping. "Day or so back one of them fuckers tried to fucking eat me, lady. Nice to know I'm getting my own back."
The albino joined in the laughter, clapping his approval of Finn's response. "Same way chill baron and all," he said.
"Not unless we get the details of this plan worked out," called Ryan. "We got a lot of pieces, and none of them stick together. You showed us the plan of the Best Western and told us how many men and what kind of weapons they got."
"And you showed us what you got," added J.B. "You sure you told us all?"
Jak stopped pacing and turned toward the slight figure of the Armorer. "Sure. Blasters. Ammo. Grens. Some high-ex but not much. Two flamers we captured when we got the swamp wag last week."
"There's that
gas-jelly, Jak," called a balding man with a drooping mustache.
"What?" snapped J.B. "How's that?"
"Yeah. Year or more back, three of us, one was Pa, near got jumped by sec men up near old highway. Hid in brush and found a war wag from before the winters. Army. Two smaller wags with it. Few blasters, fucked by water and rain. But in back was drums this gas-jelly."
"How many? How big?" asked J.B., glancing across at Ryan, who was searching, his memory for a long-forgotten piece of information.
"Twenty. All 'bout this high," he said, holding his hand about four feet, from the floor. "Opened one. Sticky. Fuck, was it sticky! Tried dipping a hunk of wood in it, and it burned like gas. But we couldn't see no use for it."
"Jelly that burns like gas," said J.B., turning to Ryan with a blissful smile. It was the happiest that Ryan had seen him in months. "Know what it is, Ryan?"
But it was Doc who replied. "I know, Mr. Dix."
"What?"
"It's napalm."
* * *
Baron Tourment led them onto a low concrete dock that jutted into an expanse of murky water. It faced west, toward a red sun that was sliding nearer the horizon, sinking behind bayous lined with stunted trees, their roots tangling above the brown slime.
The stone dock was mud-smeared, chipped and broken where it came in contact with the water. It stood about three feet above the swamp, on pilings of rusted iron. Several wide-bottomed metal canoes were tied to the pier. Across the water Krysty could make out the silhouette of a building, open on two sides, a stone table at its center. Her sight was exceedingly sharp, and she could see metal rings at each corner of the table and the thick stains that ran down from the top."
Sec guards ranged around them as they stood there in the cooling late afternoon, with the baron and Mephisto at their head.
"Now for you to meet an old friend, ladies. The father of your leader."
Krysty felt Lori stiffen, the word "Ryan" on her lips, and nudged her into silence. "Our leader?" she said.
"Jak Lauren, slut. The white wolf himself. We hold the coward's own father." Raising his voice and clapping his hands together, he ordered, "Bring him here. And the pitch."
The air filled with the tang of hot tar as four sec men struggled with an iron caldron that bubbled and smoked. Two others brought out a prisoner cuffed between them. He was short and frail, wearing only rags of cotton, with a pair of rubber sandals flapping on his feet.
"Father Lauren," said the baron. "Have you three met before?"
The man, who looked to be close to Doc's age, ignored the baron, staring stubbornly at his own feet. Lori shook her head and looked away. Krysty was puzzled. It seemed as though Tourment genuinely thought they knew each other. If it wasn't a trick, then what did he think was going on? She knew the leader of the other gang in West Lowellton, the snow wolf, was the bitter enemy of the baron. If he was called Jak Lauren, then this old man was his father. Why had the baron brought him out? What was he trying to prove?
There wasn't long to wait. Tourment gestured for Mephisto to approach. The sec boss sidled to the front of the group and drew a long, slim-bladed stiletto from a sheath at the back of his belt. He grinned as he showed it to the women.
"His son will be angry. I don't care," said Tourment. "I don't fear him. Or any of you. Even the man with one eye."
At a sign from his chief, one of the sec men stooped and picked up a paddle from the nearest canoe. He slapped it a few times on the water, the noise echoing across the lagoon until it faded. Tourment waved his hand again, and the man stopped.
"I decided this would be best. It will show you and the others what happens to those who stand against me, show the pack in Lowellton what awaits them. And I shall take some fucking delight in it. Start, dear Mephisto."
The sec boss moved in front of the old man, weaving the knife in his fingers. He glanced, around to make sure the pitcher of hot tar was ready and then bowed to the two women.
"Watch," he whispered to them.
* * *
J.B. removed his fedora and banged it against the back of one of the seats, raising a cloud of dust. "We're wasting fucking time," he said, his voice grim. "You're more like damned kids than men who want to fight." He looked around the old cinema at the faces of the gang, mocking them with obvious anger. "We got to go first. We got to have the best blasters. We got to drive the swampwag. We got to... mother-fucking stupes." He rubbed his eyes, showing his fatigue.
"He's right," said Ryan. "It's close to dark. We got us a good plan. One that might just work. And all we've done for the last hour is pick our asses and chew round and round and waste time."
Jak Lauren stood up and moved to join Ryan. "This is our ville, Ryan. Our enemy. Our battle."
"Then fucking fight it on your fucking own," spat Finnegan, shaking his head in disgust. "You're like fucking kids at a fucking game. It's my ball, so you can't fucking play.Ф
There was a burst of chattering and shouting angrily directed at Finn. But Ryan shouted louder than anyone and even considered firing a triple burst into the star-embossed ceiling.
"This is it," he called, when the noise died a little. "Our way or not at all. It's what we do and we do well. It's not up for argument. Get it?"
Lauren nodded. "Sure. Guess it's the only way. Your way."
"Sure. Now we can talk details. Just you and us and six of your best."
The kid sucked on his teeth. In that unguarded moment Ryan glimpsed the child of fourteen living inside the body of the trained killer. "Yeah. Not all of us are good with blasters. You see, Ryan, we all read an' write. Pa made sure of that. Years ago. And his Pa. There's men and women here with all the skills. They know 'lectrics, power, water, farming, crops, land... how to do all that. They all got a real skill."
"What's your skill, young fellow?" asked Doc Tanner.
The snow wolf didn't hesitate. "I'm the best at butchering men," he said.
* * *
Lori was doubled over on her knees, her skirt riding up to reveal her buttocks and attracting lustful glances from many of the sec men. She was vomiting copiously, threads of yellowish vomit dangling from her mouth, splattering on the concrete. Krysty stood close to her, watching what Mephisto was doing, determined not to give way and show any weakness.
First he had sliced off all the old man's fingers, one by one, first holding the wrist on one hand, then the other, to gain enough purchase to force the blade through the knuckle joints. Blood spurted, and the old man struggled and cried out, but the sec men were too strong for him. That was when Krysty saw the reason for the caldron of smoking pitch.
At a nod from Mephisto, the guards thrust their prisoner's hands into the scalding, sticky liquid. Instantly there came the hiss of steam and the smell of scorched flesh. Lauren's body stiffened, then went limp. Tar coated his wrists, sealing off the leaking stumps of his fingers so he didn't bleed to death.
"Bring him round. I want him conscious for all of this," said Baron Tourment quietly.
The nearest sec man slapped the old man hard across the face. A ringing round-arm, blow that jerked the skull on the thin neck. His cheeks swollen and bruised, Lauren jerked back to awareness. He started to moan; Tourment gripped him by the jaw.
"Listen to me. This is for your son and all his stupe killing. He'll hear of this and know what awaits him." He let go and looked at Krysty Wroth. "And this waits for you after our talk."
She ignored him.
Tourment extended a hand to Mephisto, who dropped the severed fingers of their captive into the huge pale palm. Ten pieces of bloodless meat, jointed, with chipped nails tipping, them. The baron smiled and walked to the edge of the dock, scattering the fingers on the surface of the water with a joyous gesture of release.
"First course, my pets," he called.
Krysty noticed that the front of the man's elegant breeches was swollen with a truly frightening erection; she looked, away. Mephisto, at a signal from the baron, picked up a large cleaver and ran a t
humb along the edge, like a lover caressing his mistress's body.
Fifty yards out into the Atchafalaya Swamp, there was a rippling of water. Then a long spade-shaped head protruded, eyes glittering under ridges of bone, the ferocious snout raised to the evening air.
* * *
"Do we all agree?" asked Ryan Cawdor, facing the entire West Lowellton street gang.
Nobody spoke: they all watched him with a sullen, grudging respect. "Well," said Doc Tanner. "They don't disagree, Ryan."
"We go midnight," said Jak Lauren. "Plan sounds good to me."
"Best we got," Ryan said. "It works, and you get to drain the swamps and build your windmills around dawn tomorrow."
"It don't work, and we get to dig us some graves," replied the boy, his wolfish eyes glittering.
* * *
Lori shook as though she was suffering from some dreadful ague. She held her head in her hands, her palms pressed hard against her ears to try to shut out the hideous mewing cries of the tortured old man. Krysty, her face set like marble, determined not to show the gloating baron and his sniggering sec boss any weakness, watched without flinching. She spoke only once.
"I'll never forget this. And I'll be there when the score is settled with you and your sick, stinking filth. I swear it by Gaia."
They laughed.
By then Father Lauren was close to death. Mephisto had hacked away at both feet, sawing them off at the ankles, again using the hot tar to curtail the bleeding and cauterize the wounds.
Out in the lagoon, the massive cayman waited patiently for each severed limb and bit of flesh. Its jaws, gaping wide enough to swallow a swampwag wheel, snapped at each white foot, gulped it down with no discernible effort or pleasure. Then the creature disappeared into the murk until only its eyes broke the scummy surface.
"Hands next, baron?" asked the sec boss, looking down in irritation at some specks of blood that dirtied his nice clean suit.
"Maybe his cock, Mephisto. Or his ears. Maybe his lips or nose. So many choices. Yes. Ears and then nose. No, wait. Be difficult to use the pitch on his face. That can come later. Hands next and then cock."