by John Gregory
booze that spiraled down into his gut. Not yet quenched, he knocked the tin shot against the counter again to get the bartender’s attention.
“Who owns the dust-kicker outside?”
“Why do you wanna know?”
“Just serve me another splash of that snake juice and answer the question.”
“That’d be Dax. Center table. The big guy. Don’t be starting any trouble,” the bar-keep said, refilling Thorne’s cup before walking off.
Dax was indeed a big guy. Like Thorne, he stood nearly seven feet tall, but Dax had a heftier frame. His skin was pitch black, which gave the white of his eyes a striking contrast, and his head was bald and polished with great care. He broke out with a loud attention-getting laugh.
Thorne downed his double-shot of whiskey and walked over to the card table. With no empty chairs, he grabbed one of the players by the shoulder and threw him aside without warning. He eyed the other players as he joined the roundtable. They looked up at Thorne, but apparently they had to no attachment to the recently ejected member and made no action to defend him. Picking up the hand of cards dealt already, he glanced them over and tossed two away. Dax offered some money to the pot and the others followed suit. An hour and a half later, the game was right where Thorne wanted it: between Dax and himself.
“You ready to make a real wager?”
“What do you got in mind?” asked the biker.
“How good’s your bike run?”
Dax bellowed out a laugh. “You crazy? And what do you got?”
Thorne held the relic out and set it on the table.
“What is it,” Dax asked in between laughs. “What could it be in your potato sack?”
“Worth more than your dust-kicker, for sure.”
Dax stopped laughing. “What is it is what I asked.”
“It’s an artifact is all I can say. But I’ll tell you what; you find it ain’t worth that dust-kicker outside, bet’s off. That’s plenty fair, ain’t it?” Thorne said.
Dax tried to cut down Thorne with his eyes, his fingers rapping at the table in a tense rhythm, a growing suspense that was felt in the space between the two men.
“Alright, deal then,” Dax said, shaking his head and slamming his keys on the table.
The gang at the table watched on as unblinking witnesses to the event. For them, whoever won, chances were, the game was ending in bloodshed. Dax ran a hand over his sweaty head, tarnishing its surface. He lifted his tin mug and slowly brought it up to his mouth, taking a couple of quick swigs while he eyed the back of Thorne’s hand, then he went back to rapping his meaty fingers against the table.
“You gonna show us what’s under your skirt,” asked Thorne.
“Straight flush,” Dax grinned, laying out his cards on the table.
“Royal flush,” Thorne said immediately, cutting short Dax and his moment of glory.
“What? That ain’t right. You’re a goddamn cheat is what that is!”
“It’s just how the game goes. We had a deal now, don’t go getting sour on me.”
“I don’t deal with cheats, you cyborg freak.”
Thorne laughed at him. “Of course you do, if you’re living in this world. You gonna give me those keys or what now?”
“I ain’t giving you shit.”
The response was more or less a cue and Thorne took it, standing up and slamming his fists on the edge of the round table, snapping it loose from its center post and hoisting the opposite end into the air. The see-saw connected just under Dax’s chin, knocking him backwards off his seat. The keys to the dust-kicker went flying as well. Thorne followed them with his eyes and plucked the opportunity right out of the air. He stopped and eyed the other card-players again, but none of them was looking to get involved in the dispute.
Thorne turned and started for the door when suddenly Dax lunged all of his mass forward and the two giants went crashing into a far wall. Thorne responded by burying his metal fist into his opponet’s side, breaking two ribs and taking out the brute’s supply of air. It sent the bald-headed biker stammering back, but he regained himself and rushed forward again, this time with a knife, keeping Thorne cornered by a frenzied onslaught.
The two had gained the attention of the entire dive. A killing, after-all, was free crowd-pleasing entertainment, and seeing these two Goliaths battle was a main event at this lousy dive turned stadium. Bets were already being collected.
Thorne knocked the blade out of Dax’s hand, meanwhile exposing himself to a series of jarring body-shots, until finding an opening in the fury of bloody fists to connect for a solid head-shot. Dax staggered back, pulling yet another knife and making a blind swipe that clinked against Thorne’s artificial arm. The biker’s cheek was visibly broken; his left eye swelled up and became immediately useless. Dax waved the blade around furiously, nearly cutting a few of his surrounding friends. Thorne finally took Dax’s bladed hand up, pulling him forward towards himself. He seized the back of the biker’s head, ramming it directly into the wall, transforming Dax’s face into a bloody wheezing bubbly mess. The brute lurched in circles some, and then fell over a stranded table. He was down for the count. Thorne picked up the relic, still leaning against his chair, and he walked out of the Shrieking Clam, cracking his neck side-to-side and spitting on the ground.
As he went down the stairs of The Shrieking Clam’s porch, he dug two playing cards out of his pocket and tossed them on the ground, a grin creeping up on his face. The bike was a knockout: cherry-red and chrome work all over. He admired her from a myriad of angles, then he climbed on, turning the engine over until it whirled, boosting the bike off the ground. Aside from the ignition, the controls were arranged on the handlebars of the bike. He studied them a moment, then he leaned forth and turned the accelerator forward sharply and the hover-bike kicked forward, spitting dust and its passenger down the road.
By the time he showed up at the smith’s shop, the old cripple was just completing his order. Thorne collected his leather coat, pieced delicately back together, and slung it over his wide shoulders. The smith gave his work one final satisfied look and handed the case for the relic cross over to Thorne. It was a reinforced leather triangular sleeve, with a sturdy harness for carrying. Thorne fit the relic cross inside and tightened the clasp, positioning it on his back. He nodded to the smith, who smiled gleefully and offered an excited applause to himself. Thorne paid for the work and left the craftsman to his odd perversions.
Dark shades piled in the skies. East winds were picking up, signaling an approaching hurricane or tornado, as they were both common in those parts.
“Hell, here we go.”
He sat down and took a breath, before he started up the dust-kicker again and sped along a lonely dirt road that brought him out of the sea’s reach and into the embrace of the Dead Land.
…….
-St. Julian and the New Salvation Army-
THE FALL OF DRUM CITY (Part 1)
By Kalju Lee
In the first light of morning Saint Julian stood on the hill and watched Drum City’s walls through his binoculars. He looked to his companies, surrounding the fortified outpost. The tiny figures of guards ran back and forth on the rampart, setting up defenses. Tracked vehicles filled with the troops rumbled into position; all roadways had been blocked off, just as he had ordered. He lowered the binoculars, satisfied with the results of his army. Over eight feet tall, Saint Julian cut an intimidating figure. He wore a broad cape on his power armor, his bald head exposed. Some of his fellow saints felt it more fearsome to be featureless, thus appearing entirely inhuman, but he disagreed. It was good for the men to see his face, even in a pitched battle. Especially in a pitched battle.
The Saint walked back down the hill to inspect his men. He passed his saluting soldiers, glancing to check for imperfections. Many of the men on the front line were conscripts from various villages and cities, armed with bolt-action rifles and peasant weapons. They looked ragged and fearful. His knights rode on hover bikes, hold
ing up their assault rifles, shouting orders.
“Corporal Franks!”
The man he addressed stood from his work, turned and immediately saluted.
“Yes, your grace?”
“How are your men, corporal?”
“Ready for the fight, your grace.”
“Do they understand the rules of engagement?”
“They can repeat them to you, your grace, but whether or not they have sunk in, I don’t know.”
Saint Julian smiled.
“That’s what I like about you, corporal. You don’t try to placate. Ensure they understand we are taking this city in order to save it. I will not have its buildings razed or citizens killed unnecessarily.”
“I will keep them under control, your grace.”
“See to it.”
Saint Julian dismissed the soldier and made his way back to the command post. The TOC was established in a tent not far from the front lines. Outside the entrance was his guidon, a large red flag with the New Salvation Army crest emblazoned on it. In the tent he found Colonel Barry and his company commanders going over the maps of the area. Colonel Barry looked old and tired. He had joined the Salvation Army as a conscript a long time ago, and had fought alongside Saint Julian ever since. The first man to see him enter called the tent to attention, and everyone snapped rigid immediately.
“As you were, gentlemen. Are all preparations in place, Colonel?”
“All companies are in position, your grace. Artillery has its targets. We are waiting on your order to cycle the lasers.”
“Keep the lasers powered down, but have the crews ready. The lasers should not be necessary, but we’ve already underestimated this city once. I want to be prepared for any contingency.”
The initial attack on Drum City had been conducted weeks before. A typical Armed Missionary party had been sent to take the city. These forces consisted almost entirely of local conscripts, with only a handful of NSA officers, but were more than enough to occupy most human settlements they encountered. Drum City’s unexpected use of heavy machine guns quickly wiped out the “missionary” force, requiring Saint Julian to take the city himself. Drum City was a large walled human outpost built around an old army base that once belonged to the United Royal States of the Americas, and had existed even before then, in some dimly remembered military capacity. They had access to weaponry and ammunition rarely seen post-boom.
“Have we gotten any reply to our request to speak with the city’s leaders?”
“No, your grace. Well, no real response. They quite literally shot the messenger.”
Saint Julian shook his head.
“These arrogant men force bloodshed when there should be none. Alert my security detachment, I will go down there --”
“Your grace!” yelled a soldier, as he rushed into the tent, out of breath.
“What is it, private?” Saint Julian asked, as he turned to face the private, bringing about complete dread in the boy.
“Your grace, I apologize for the interruption. We’ve caught a deserter.”
Saint Julian sighed and looked at the colonel.
“Foolish arrogant men, my old friend. I will deal with this. Ensure we have a proper plan to clear the city in an orderly fashion, with minimum collateral damage.”
“Yes, your grace.”
Saint Julian turned to the rag-tag soldier.
“Very well. Private, show me to this deserter.”
The private led Saint Julian out away from the command post, into the interim tent-village where the mass of NSA soldiers occupied, and where the prisoner, bound by rope, was being kept. The fright was obvious in the deserter’s face as the armored giant approached with his escort.
“What is your name, soldier?” Saint Julian asked.
“John Towers,” the bound man replied, attempting to compose himself.
“And you are intent on deserting your post?”
“I won’t fight for you!