by James Axler
Buckley turned to them. “Hell, this gets your blood a’fire, don’t it just. This’ll mean that we’s ready when the time comes.”
“What time is that?” Ryan asked. “You keep talking about a convoy, but what—”
Buckley cut him off. “That ain’t your problem, One-eye. First y’all gotta get some rest so’s to be ready, right? And that’s what I’m sorting for y’all now.” The ville chief turned back to the group around the rutting couple and yelled something incomprehensible. He was now talking fast, not making the effort to be understood by the outlanders, and the ville dwellers switched their attention to him, listening while he pointed at individuals, rattling out orders. Behind the crowd, the fat woman and the tall man finished their rut and she pulled herself up from him, leaving him lying limp and exhausted while she waddled over to the others. Buckley directed a comment at her and she gazed straight at Ryan, a hideous grin splitting her wart-covered face.
Buckley turned himself to the companions. “Guess’n that’s settled that. One-eye, you’ll be staying with Mags—she’ll look after you,” he added with a wink.
“Blackie, you’ll be with Si, Dee and Mal,” he told Mildred, indicating the three they had earlier glimpsed through a window, who had now wandered out to join the crowd.
Great, Mildred thought, this was going to be a hell of a night to try to get some rest. The way they were looking at her made her skin crawl. Meanwhile, Doc and Jak had been assigned to their own billets and the chief saved the best for last.
Turning to Krysty, he said, “As for you, Red, ya’ll be safe with me.” A leering wink and the spittle running down his chin told a story that was at odds with his assertion.
The companions exchanged glances. There was nothing they could do to stop their being separated, as Buckley held all the cards. They were weakened, outnumbered and had to play along until they had a chance to recoup and run.
But would they get that chance? The hungry and curious looks on the faces of the crowd around them spoke of a hard night ahead. Unconsciously, all the companions fingered their blasters. But they were surrounded in unknown territory and the chances of blasting their way out were minimal. The only choice that gave them some kind of option for maneuver was to go along with Buckley, split up and try to make it until sunup.
It wasn’t an option any of them could openly embrace.
The crowd dispersed and they were led off to their billets. The fat woman, Mags, took Ryan by the arm. She was smiling at him, but it was the smile of a predator. She was still slick with sweat and the smell coming from her was rank. She was rushing, barely able to contain herself. In a heightened state of arousal, she felt sure this was going to be a good night for her.
Her shack was toward the back end of the ville and she pulled Ryan so hard that the still-weakened man nearly fell a few times. She helped him to stay upright, burbling at him in rapid-fire tones that he couldn’t understand—although the meaning was clear enough not to need words.
Stumbling through the mud, she reached her shack and threw the door open, almost pushing him through the narrow gap. Ryan stumbled and fell in the darkness, landing face-first with a jolt on a pile of thin sacking that stank so badly it made him wretch. He rolled over as she lit the oil lamp that was the shack’s sole illumination. The place was strewed with stinking, rancid clothes and bits of rotting, discarded food. The only thing that seemed to be maintained in any way were the blasters and knives that stood in one carefully swept corner. The blades of the unsheathed knives glittered cruelly in the flickering light and Ryan noticed her eyes flicker to them.
She advanced on him. Ryan, still weak, tried to move out of her way, but she was fast and she was on him in seconds, pinning him down with her bulk. Her hands were everywhere, seeming at once to hold him still and search his body. Her fingers found his crotch and felt for his prick. Despite his own revulsion, she was surprisingly light and dexterous and he found his body responding.
Ryan felt incredibly weak, with little physical strength to resist, even though every other part of him wanted to fight. Summoning all his strength, he flipped her away from him. It took her by surprise and she yelped as she skittered across the room, unable to prevent herself from falling.
She reached out, grabbing one of the knives, and got to her feet in a combat stance. Ryan had maneuvered himself so that he was seated with his back against the far wall of the shack. His unsheathed the panga, and the curved blade took her attention.
“Yeah, try it bitch and I’ll cut your fucking throat before you can do anything,” he hissed in a low, cracked voice.
Her face writ large with frustration, she settled opposite him on her haunches, the knife still in her hand. They fixed each other with a glare.
It was going to be a long night.
WHICH WAS EXACTLY what Doc was considering as he sat on the floor of the shack in which he was billeted. He was with two men, one fat and warty, the other thin, with a cleft palate and eyes so close together that they seemed to blur into one by the fading light of the tallow candles that lit the shack. Both men had so far spoken to him only to tell him their names and to indicate where he should sleep. Otherwise they had ignored him. But Doc had an intuitive feeling that, as soon as he fell into sleep, they would attack him in some way. And yet it was so hard to stay awake. He was carrying the worst injuries of all the companions and had the greatest need to rest. Yet he knew that there was no way that he would.
Try as he might, Doc’s eyes began to droop, his mind wandered and his weary body let sleep begin to claim him. He felt himself drift and it was only the sudden sharp pains that made him jolt awake.
The two men, giggling, were using knives to strip his clothing from him. One of them was using the point of his knife to inscribe a design on Doc’s bare chest. Wild-eyed and confused, Doc reached for his LeMat, only to find that it had been taken from him.
But the two men didn’t realize the secrets of his walking stick. With a cry that was half-anger, half-fear, Doc struggled free, grasping the stick with both hands and unsheathing the blade of finest Toledo steel. As he unsheathed, the arc he proscribed sliced into one of the men—the fat one—who screamed in a high-pitched, frightened tone as his chest and face were scored by the blade.
The two men scuttled away and Doc fixed them with a glare. “One step and I swear I shall cleave you in twain,” he uttered, not caring whether or not his words made sense. The tone was enough.
The pain from his cuts was fresh enough to ensure that he would be able to stay awake this time.
JAK HAD NO SUCH TROUBLE. The albino was fitter than the others, had less injury and strain to carry, and was less concerned with whether or not they should pick the right time to move. He only knew that right now, he had to establish control over the situation. He was with a man and a woman, both tall and lanky, both with hideously deformed faces, who towered over him. It was obvious they were looking to enjoy their captive.
Jak let his body posture seem submissive until they were in the hut and then whirled before the couple had a chance to light their lamps. In the darkness, his sensitive eyes were better attuned than theirs, and he could see them look surprised, as though they didn’t know how to respond. Jak reached into his jacket and took out a couple of leaf-bladed throwing knives, keeping them light in each palm. He advanced and skipped around the pair, cutting at them and forcing them into a corner, where they cowered, whimpering in shock and pain.
Jak settled himself in the opposite corner. “You move, I cut you. Chill you slow. Understand?”
He saw them nod, gibbering softly. For Jak, it was going to be an easier night than for some of the others.
MILDRED WAS FARING LESS WELL. A sense of dread filled her as she was led back to the hovel shared by Si, Dee and Mal. She neither knew nor cared which was which, only that she couldn’t get the vision of what she had seen a few hours earlier out of her head. When they closed the door of the shack, and she was faced by all three of them in the fal
tering lamplight, a shiver crept down her spine.
One of the men spoke to the other two. She couldn’t make out what he was saying at first, his voice was so deep and guttural, but gradually, the words began to make sense.
“…so is it any diff’rent or is it the same?”
“Guess we got all night to find out,” the woman said with a malicious cackle. “Could be kinda fun.”
The second man said nothing, just giggled softly to himself.
Mildred backed into a corner. She hadn’t caught all of it, but she had a pretty good idea what they were talking about.
“Hey, no need to be scared,” said the first man. “This could be real good—y’might even like it.”
Mildred doubted that very much, but was in no position to argue. She just had to defend herself.
The woman sprang forward with shocking speed, a knife appearing in her hand from seemingly nowhere. She was on Mildred before she had a chance to move, pushing her back against the wall, pinning her arms, the knife slicing into her clothes and pricking her skin, drawing blood.
“Hell, her blood’s same color’s ours,” the first man said with amazement in his voice. “Wonder if’n she’s same color as you down there,” he added, gesturing to his crotch.
The woman and the second man howled with laughter. Before she had a chance to brace herself, Mildred found all three of them on her, tearing at her clothes, trying to get her naked. If she let them trap her in the rags and get her defenseless…She didn’t even want to contemplate what could happen.
Struggling, she managed to free her ZKR pistol. Angling the barrel as much as she could against the body bulk on her—she didn’t know which of them it was—she snapped off a shot that echoed through the night. As did the howl of pain as the second man—who had done no more so far than giggle—fell back, clutching at his midriff, blood flowing through his clenched fingers.
“What do you do that for?” the woman wailed before her features contorted into rage. “I’ll teach you—” She launched herself at Mildred. With the first man doing likewise, Mildred found herself fighting, almost blindly, for her life as the two fat people crashed onto her.
The shot had echoed around the ville and had probably saved Krysty from an equally awkward situation. For Buckley had taken her back to his ranch house and then sent away his two guards before producing an old plastic container with a noxious homemade brew in it, which he had persuaded her to share. His capacity for the alcohol was less than he thought. Either that or Krysty had a strong constitution, as the ville chief was soon drunk, reeling around the rooms of the ranch house, talking to Krysty in a thick, guttural voice that she had trouble understanding. The gist of it was that he had something to show her.
Didn’t she just reckon. Torn between playing along for group safety and stopping things right now, the woman allowed Buckley to take her hand and lead her to the locked room. He fumbled with the key and led her inside. Krysty stood by him, not quite sure what course of action to take, shuddering when he took her hand and placed it on him.
“No, you’ve got that wrong,” she said softly, trying to humor him and keep him calm as she let him drop from her hand.
“Wha’? Wha’? You stayin’, you does what I’s say,” he mumbled, grasping her by the arm. It was a tight, hard grip, his fingers biting into her flesh. She flexed her muscles and drew back her free arm to punch him. That was when the blastershot rendered the air.
Buckley seemed to snap out of the alcohol-and lust-fueled trance that he had been in and lumbered from the room, leaving Krysty behind him. Whatever happened of a night in Nagasaki, blasterfire was still obviously unusual.
Krysty ran after him, to find half of the ville had gathered outside the hut. The rest of the companions were there and Buckley had already pushed his way in by the time that Krysty arrived. Over the wailing of the wounded man, and the shouting of the other two ville dwellers, she could hear Mildred try to explain what had occurred.
Oddly, she noticed that none of the ville dwellers were ready to take arms against the outlanders, which she would have expected. From the looks of the other companions, she could see that they, too, found that strange.
Buckley shut up the yelling fat couple by striking both of them so hard that they fell to the earth.
“Dammit, you was told to be good, not to fuck them over. We’s needing them—y’all knows that.” He turned to the crowd, searching with his eyes for the companions. “One-eye,” he yelled, “you and your people come stay in the big house, where y’all and us can’t do any more damage. The rest of you keep the fuck quiet. We’s got some huntin’ to do,” he added cryptically.
The rest of the ville stood and watched as the companions detached themselves and followed the ville chief. It was uncanny the way the ville dwellers just stood silently. Mebbe the sinister import of his words was the reason.
We’s needing them… Whatever he had meant, it had ensured their safety.
But perhaps only temporarily.
Chapter Nine
After Xander and Grant had departed, J.B. stood in the entrance hall of the armory, waiting for old man Budd to make the next move. He had seemed to be okay with the idea of J.B. working with him when the baron had been present, but the Armorer could feel the air grow frosty as soon as the double doors to the outside closed.
“Guess you’d better get yourself a room. Mebbe go into the ville and get some more clothes and shit—you didn’t bring much with you,” Budd rasped, his tone cutting beneath the words.
“I had things with me. Mebbe Grant can get them to me,” J.B. said, trying to remain neutral.
“Mebbe…Esquivel!” the old man yelled, turning away and calling for the sec man. After a few seconds, the Hispanic guard wandered into the hall.
“Yeah?” he muttered, taking the opportunity to cast a closer eye over the Armorer.
“You wanna take this guy and get him some shit, ’cause he’s only got the clothes he stands up in,” Budd said. It was an order rather than a request.
“Yeah, sure,” the sec man replied laconically. He beckoned to J.B., and together the two men left Budd standing in the hall, glowering after the departing Armorer.
They walked out into the early evening, the air still humid and stinking. They quickly moved past the enclosure that surrounded the building and into the main body of Duma.
J.B. was glad to be back among people going about their everyday business. There had been an atmosphere inside the armory that he was sure he had felt before, but not being able to remember much of anything made it difficult for him to pin down what had been going on. Here, outside, he felt much more at ease. The ville was packed with people buying and selling, arguing and fighting. Scuffles erupted on every corner, quelled by the distinctively dressed sec force. It was an edgy, hustling ville, but it reminded him obliquely of so many others he had seen, even if they were barely remembered.
“So what do you need?” Esquivel asked, interrupting J.B.’s train of thought.
“More clothes, I guess. Another pair of boots. I dunno what was in the bags that Grant still has.”
“You don’t know?” Esquivel eyed him suspiciously. The Armorer had assumed that everyone at the armory knew how he had come to Duma, so he filled Esquivel in on the details as they walked the streets, dodging wags and running children. As he talked, J.B. was aware of a few stares thrown at him, some hostile and others merely curious.
“News travels fast, even if you didn’t catch it,” he finished, indicating the latest passerby to stare curiously at him. “You’re a trading ville, they certainly ain’t looking at me ’cause they’re not used to outlanders.”
“Yeah, guess there were a few loose mouths from the secure unit,” Esquivel murmured by way of reply, adding cryptically. “Just hope they don’t get known to Grant.”
“So what’s the problem, then?” J.B. prodded. Adding, when Esquivel looked blank, “Why am I so fucking important or weird that people are staring?”
“It’s not every day that someone turns up at the bottom of a well,” the sec man replied. But the tone of his voice and the way he wouldn’t meet J.B.’s eyes suggested that it wasn’t the whole story. It seemed to the Armorer that he would have to watch his back.
The two men entered a trading post that was little more than an old house with the front windows knocked out and replaced by a sheet of old Plexiglas, cemented into place. Inside was dingy and dirty, and smelled of old rubber and leather, along with tobacco and alcohol. It was more like a bar than anything else. A small, gnome of a man of indeterminate age was bent over a counter, meticulously sewing the upper of a work boot to a new sole cut from an old tire.
“Yo, Boney, heads up—you got a customer,” Esquivel said as they entered.
“Go fuck yourself, asshole,” Boney replied in a tone that underscored the insult with good humor. The sec man laughed and gestured to J.B. to look around at the merchandise on offer.
The Armorer pored over footwear, looking for something hard-wearing but still supple enough to leave his feet in one piece if he had to march long distances. He paused for a moment. Why had he made that stipulation to himself? It was like another isolated piece of the puzzle, with nothing to fit around it.
Esquivel watched him with interest while he searched. J.B. only noticed after he’d found a suitable pair of boots and looked up to see the sec man studying him.
“Something I can do for you?” J.B. queried, keeping his tone flat.
The sec man shook his head. “Just wondering how much you really remember, I guess. Not every day we get such an enigma.”
Boney looked up from his work, no longer ignoring them. “E-what? Shit, you just make that up, Es?”
The sec man smiled. “Just something I picked up from those old predark books Budd’s got. It gets kinda boring sitting around there all day, otherwise,” he added almost apologetically. “Means a mystery, something you can’t quite fathom out.”
The man behind the counter looked at J.B. for the first time. “Don’t look much of that to me. Just some poor dude got caught in a rockfall and got lucky, came out alive. Lucky the only thing you lost was memory—and mebbe that was a good thing. After all, you don’t know what you might have done before,” he added.