Scather had climbed onto the roof of the Hammer’s cab, watching his men go to town on the town. He laughed at his own mental wordplay as he uncorked the last of their stash of liquor. No need to be frugal with it anymore; they’d be set for all sorts of supplies when this raid was done. If the general store didn’t have hooch in stock, there’d be some in the little saloon at the end of the street.
Scather knocked back a slug of the rude homebrew, wiped his mouth, and eyed Burly and Snakebite, who were heading toward the general store. “Hey!” he yelled down at them, and then again, louder, “Hey, you two!”
Burly stopped and turned. Snakebite hesitated and then looked around.
“Don’t kill the store guy! We want him alive!” Proprietors of general stores in these shit-feed towns knew everybody, all the gossip and dirt—like who had what sort of good shit stashed away, and where. Scather had found in his years of ravaging the zones that it always paid to question the general store guys.
He looked down the street and noticed Bone Grinder. As usual, the guy wasn’t tearing around crazy-arsed like the other Ravagers, but instead stalked down the center of the street with a measured pace, his head slowly turning side to side. The motion reminded Scather of a lizard, taking everything in, missing nothing. Scather knew what Grinder was up to. He was searching for the townie with some balls, the one who would try to stand up to the Ravagers, pull a gun or a knife to try to protect his wife or his daughter, or just his own self-respect. He was looking for a challenge. Scather knew he wouldn’t find it, not really. He’d find some rube to kill, no doubt, but Scather had seen what the Bone Grinder could do. There was nobody in any of these backwaters who could give him any sort of challenge. Maybe if they stumbled across a Railwalker, or a city guardsman who was visiting relatives or something—and even then, Scather’s money would be on the Grinder.
He sighed and slugged from the bottle again. Things were starting to get a little bit hairy. Scather wasn’t sure he himself could take the Grinder on, come to that. Not that Grinder had ever challenged Scather’s leadership, not outright, and certainly not in front of the others. The Bone Grinder had been with them for almost eight moons, and after the third moon, he’d challenged Walrus, Scather’s Secondman. Their combat had been short, nasty, and bloody. Too quickly to be believed, Walrus was lying there dead, and the Bone Grinder wasn’t even breathing hard. Walrus had been the toughest sonofabitch any of them had ever seen. It might have been pure dumb luck, of course, but everything Scather had seen of Grinder since proved it wasn’t. Now Grinder was Secondman, and truth be told, he might as well be the Honcho.
Scather had started out following the Grinder’s advice because it seemed like he always had good ideas. He was sharp, Grinder was. He knew which towns were best to hit at which seasons, depending on the crops they grew or the animals they raised. He knew when trade caravans traveled through the zones, and which routes they’d usually take. The gang had certainly profited from Grinder’s schemes. It was Bone Grinder who came up with the idea of having the buggies range out to nail any escaping townies. More than once that had turned up some old coot blowing town with a bag full of money. Truth to tell, it had been Grinder who’d pointed out the value of the store proprietors. But it was getting so Grinder seemed to take Scather for granted. Even though he gave Scather his props in front of the gang, more often than not these days in private conversation he was telling rather than asking, and Scather wasn’t sure he was comfortable with that.
“Fuck,” Scather mumbled, and took another slug. He hoped they’d find some tobacco in this burg; he hadn’t had a smoke in almost a week. Yeah, with the way things were going, it was time to have a talk with the Grinder, set things straight. Scather wouldn’t admit to himself that he was actually scared of his Second. But he knew if it came to a challenge between them, he would probably end up bleeding out on the ground, and there’d be a new Honcho leading the gang. Well fuck it, he thought, better dead than nutless.
At the sound of the engine Anna Barclay had hurried back to the kitchen, in time to see Art Cavanaugh’s jeep pull up by the back door and Art himself burst out of it carrying, of all things, a shotgun. “Art, what’s going on?”
“Anna, you alright? Where’s Keith?”
“Dad’s at the garage, of course. What is it? Were those gunshots?”
Art stepped quickly through the kitchen and into the parlor, looking toward the front window. The front door burst open, a wild figure framed in the doorway. Anna could barely make out any details, silhouetted as it was by the morning sun, but she knew this was no local. He stepped into the room, and she could see him more clearly: greasy jeans stuffed into high-topped boots, muscular arms covered with inexpert tattoos, a leather vest. Designs crawled across his bearded face, as well. He carried a short sword or a very big knife in one hand, a pistol in the other. The man noticed Art and raised the pistol, but Art was quicker. The boom of the shotgun inside the house was nearly deafening.
“Oh my gods...” Anna stammered.
Art Cavanaugh stood staring at the red ruin the shotgun blast had made of the man’s head. Art had slaughtered javelina and goats many times, but he’d never killed a human being before. During the last raid, back when he’d been a kid, Art had never actually seen the town’s attackers, although they had been described to him. Ravagers had occupied a fearful place in his mind since then, like near-supernatural bogeymen, and now he had killed one. He would have expected to feel elated, having struck a blow in return for the carnage these men, or others like them, had brought to his town so many years ago. Instead he just felt sick and empty. And scared. He shook himself, wrenched his gaze away from the dead man, and looked out Anna’s front window. The man had died so quickly and easily; for a moment he considered going out to face the rest of the Ravagers, or maybe trying to gather some of the other men, get weapons, and fight back. Then common sense prevailed. It would be suicide. He didn’t know how many there were, how well armed they were. Even a group of townsmen with rifles and shotguns would stand little chance against a troop of outlaws who killed for fun and profit. Anna’s safety had to be his first concern. “Come on,” he said, taking her arm. “We gotta get you away.”
As they headed back through the kitchen they heard Keith Barclay’s voice. “Anna! Anna!” The voice suddenly became a high-pitched scream, which was quickly cut off.
“Daddy!” Anna screamed, and headed for the front door; but Art caught her up.
“No, Anna, there’s nothing you can do. We have to...”
Art stopped when he saw the look in her eyes, realizing she was not looking at him but over his shoulder, and he suddenly remembered the open front door. He released her, pumping another round into the shotgun even as he turned and aimed at where he expected to find another Ravager coming through the door.
Art was no soldier. He’d only been in two fistfights in his entire life, and he didn’t have the instincts of a killer. When the figure in the doorway made no threatening move, he hesitated.
The man was tall and powerful, though not huge. Also dressed in jeans and boots, his head was shaved, his torso covered by a serape draped over his shoulders. The only tattoo visible was on his forehead, three vertical slashes above a squat oval, like the paw-print of some clawed animal. His hands were hidden by the serape, but blood dripped from under the left side of the cloth. The other Ravager’s eyes had been crazy; when Art met this one’s gaze, he felt like he was looking into Hell.
“Mornin’, folks.” The man’s voice sounded like he regularly gargled with ground glass. He took a step into the room and Art, realizing he’d unconsciously let the shotgun drift downward, brought it back up to point at the man’s head.
“Anna,” Art said, keeping the man covered, “get to the jeep.”
“Stay right where you are, Anna,” the Ravager said. She had begun to move, but when he looked at her Anna froze in place. “Anna, Anna... What a lovely name. It’s from the Hebrew ‘Hannah.’ It means ‘grac
e.’ Did you know that? Are you graceful, Anna?” He took another step.
“Stop right there,” Art said. “I mean it.”
“Or you’ll shoot?” The man smiled. “Go ahead, hero. Take your best shot.”
Art debated only a second. Killing the first Ravager had been easy. Killing in cold blood was a whole different matter, but he knew in his bones that if he didn’t take this opportunity, if he gave this man the chance to attack him, he’d never get off another shot. He pulled the trigger. The shotgun boomed again.
Art stared, momentarily stupefied. He knew, he absolutely knew, that it was impossible for a human being to duck a gunshot, especially a shotgun blast at such close range. Yet this man had done it. He not only ducked it, but ducked and came back to the very same position so fast Art had barely seen a blur of movement. Quickly, Art jacked another round. Pulled again. This time, nothing happened. Through the ringing in his ears he barely heard the man say, “Sorry, hero. One shot is all you get.”
The Ravager raised his left hand and the serape fell back to reveal something more like an eagle’s talon than a hand, its claws dripping blood. With the same unnatural speed the man flew across the room at Art. There was a searing, tearing pain, a flash of black, and a loud rumbling noise, as if someone had dropped a big bag of rocks on a wooden platform. Then Art Cavanaugh was looking sideways across the floor of the Barclays’ living room, slowly realizing that the sideways view was because he was lying on the floor. That the noise he had heard was his own limp body hitting the floorboards. He had just time to feel despair at the thought that he had failed to protect Anna, and then everything went cold and black.
The shotgun had clattered across the floor as the farmer fell, throat slashed almost through. The man the Ravagers knew as the Bone Grinder watched him die, knowing that behind him the woman was quietly reaching for the shotgun. He’d seen the intelligence in her eyes; he knew she was a feisty one. She’d know better than to try to shoot him; she’d try to use the gun as a club to batter him from behind. He waited until he could feel the movement of the shotgun through the air behind him, then his clawed hand shot out and caught it mid-strike, stopping it as though it had hit a rock. He turned, twisted the shotgun out of her hands, and tossed it across the room. She shrank back. He smiled again.
“Yes, Anna,” he said, “I am one nasty motherfucker. But you don’t need to be afraid of me. I like you. You’ve got spirit.” He walked leisurely to the front door. “I noticed your fella’s jeep is out back. Motor’s running. You want to try to escape? Go ahead. I won’t stop you.” He looked at her and smiled again. “I won’t even tell. Promise.”
After a moment’s hesitation Anna made her break for the back door. The Bone Grinder watched her go. As she put the jeep in gear, he added, in a whisper, “But I know you’ll never make it.”
Twilight in the desert, the shadows deep purple shading to indigo, the sun painting the peaks with reddish gold. Scather made his way to the top of a rise just outside the town, where the Bone Grinder sat staring westward over the desert scrub. Behind them plumes of smoke billowed toward the sky, carrying the pungent odors of burning wood, plastic, and flesh. There were occasional shrieks still from the few townspeople left alive. The fighting and rapine had ended by mid-afternoon, the initial wave of looting had died down, and the more organized search for useful parts and equipment would be under way.
“Grinder,” the Honcho grunted, and offered a bottle of hooch. “Store bought, not home brew,” he added. “Good stuff.” The bald man shook his head, as Scather had known he would. No one had ever seen the Bone Grinder take a drink, but it was customary and respectful to offer it anyway. “Long pork, then?” he asked, offering one of the two pieces of roasted meat he’d carried up along with the bottle. “Big gal, mighty tasty.” Scather and his boys had come to eat people out of necessity once, when they were starving in the desert, and had decided they liked it. Fat people made the best eating, Scather thought, but you didn’t find them in the zones very often. It was a hard life, and zoners tended to be skinny and tough. To their delight, the Ravagers had found one woman in town who was a bit overweight, and wasted no time in butchering her.
Grinder accepted the meat with a nod of thanks and chewed meditatively, staring off at the sunset.
“Good haul, this one.” Scather nodded and sat down beside his Second. “Hooch, smoke, plenty of corn, beans, bacon. Even found a water pump Gaffer thinks will fit the Hammer, which is a damn good thing; the beast’s fuckin’ pump is nearly dead.”
Grinder made no reply, merely nodded and continued staring at the sunset. Scather stared at the sunset too, half hoping he’d be hit with some inspirational idea on how best to approach his uncomfortable subject, half hoping Grinder would volunteer himself what his Honcho wanted to hear. After a long quiet interval, Scather decided neither of these miracles was going to occur, so he opened his mouth again.
“Look, Grinder.... We keep going south and west. I think it’s startin’ to make the boys a little ansty.”
The bald man looked at him, then looked back to the sunset. They both knew perfectly well that the Ravagers weren’t getting uncomfortable at all. Their raids had been increasingly successful and profitable, and that was clearly all most of them cared about. They were drunk on their own success. Aside from the Bone Grinder, Scather was the only one who really gave any thought to the future, or the implications of the path they were following.
“I mean...” Scather havered. “Well, y’know... We keep on this trail, sooner or later we’re gonna be gettin’ awful damn close to the coast cities.”
“Better pickings,” was all the Grinder said.
Scather tossed away the last of his meat, his appetite suddenly gone. He wiped his greasy fingers on his jeans. His stomach felt sour. Fortunately they’d found some tobacco in town, and after noting that he was indeed downwind of his Second, he took out a stogie and lit up.
“Yeah, but...” he started. Sighed. “Look, we get to raiding too close to the cities, eventually they’re gonna get wind of us. Next thing you know they’ll be sending out a troop of guardsmen with heavy artillery to take us down.”
There was another long pause, and Scather had almost decided Grinder wasn’t going to reply at all, when the man spoke again, quietly.
“Exactly.”
“Exactly?” Scather demanded. “Exactly? What the fuck? You want to bring that kind of heat down on us?”
“S’matter, Scather?” Grinder asked mildly. “Don’t you want to test yourself against the strongest challenges you can find?”
“Fuck, no!” Scather jumped to his feet. “That’s insane, Grinder! Man, you run into guard unexpected like, that’s one thing. I’ll fuckin’ murderize ’em. But go askin’ for that kinda fight when it ain’t necessary? That’s just fuckin’ stupid!”
The Bone Grinder showed no particular reaction to Scather’s outburst, but sat calmly contemplating the sunset. When he spoke his words were slow and emphatic, as though he was explaining something to a child. “Then ‘fucking stupid’ is what we’re going to be,” he said, “because that’s exactly what we’re going to do. We’re raiding south and west until the townies send guardsmen out to get us.” He looked up at the Ravager leader now, raised his eyebrows in question. “You got a problem with that?” The Bone Grinder held Scather’s eye for a moment, then looked back to the sunset.
Scather hesitated. He’d had a sense it might come to this, but it was happening sooner than he had expected. The leader of the Ravagers was no coward, but he was also no fool. He knew he stood little chance in a fair fight against his Secondman, so he’d prepared himself. If the challenge had come formally, in the company of the group, he was prepared to use his fighting knives—a fair balance, in Scather’s mind, against the power of Grinder’s hands, which could become deadly claws. But here, by themselves, alone on this hill above the town they’d just raided, the good of the gang superseded Scather’s sense of personal honor. He couldn’t ris
k Grinder winning a fight between them, if the formalities of the Ravager gang didn’t demand it. It was more important that the gang survive intact than that Scather prove himself the better man. His hand slipped to the small of his back, where the compact machine pistol lay waiting for just such an eventuality. He whipped it out with the speed of a striking snake and aimed it at the Bone Grinder’s head. Just before he pulled the trigger, he muttered, “Sorry, man.” Then suddenly, he was looking at the stump of his right wrist fountaining blood as his hand, still clutching the machine pistol, tumbled down the hill.
Grinder now stood before him. Scather’s left hand groped for his knife, but the Grinder’s claw slashed out in a blur of motion. Scather felt pain in his throat, and then he was tumbling to the ground. Everything was going black, he was as cold as he ever remembered being, and as if from a great distance he heard the Bone Grinder’s voice say, “No, you’re not sorry. And neither am I.”
16. BAY CITY
“Kind of on the upscale side for a mutie,” Remming mused as they surveyed the clinic from an expensive coffee shop across the street. Dobbs had given Remming and Turrin the mutie’s name and address. They’d checked out his records and discovered he worked at a medical clinic in the Thornhill neighborhood. They were looking at a long, low, adobe-fronted building, very clean, no graffiti, several expensive runabouts parked in front. A small brass plaque beside the main entrance informed visitors who drew close enough to read it that this was the Thornhill Medical Center. The streets were free of trash, and palo verde trees shaded the sidewalks at regular intervals.
Darkwalker: A Tale of the Urban Shaman Page 13