The Glass Mountains: The Saboteur Chronicles Book 2

by J. V. Roberts

  Dan shook his head. “I intend to see this through. Didn’t come this far just to tuck tail. Besides, most of the Outlanders still remember my face from the war. I wouldn’t last a day out there.”

  “You probably won’t last the night in here.”

  “At least I’ll die in my home, on my terms.” Dan was back at Caldwell’s side, pouring over the wound. “I’ll have to open it back up, there’s still something leaking in there.”

  Caldwell shoved him off, the rifle clattered to the floor. “We both know I’m done. If I’m going to go, I want to go like this: peaceful, painless, chatting with an old friend.”

  Dan didn’t bother trying to convince him. His mind was made up. Dan wasn’t one to deny a soldier his final wish. He slid up next to Caldwell and slapped him on the knee. “Well, alright then.” He didn’t bother with a rifle. The lobby entrance would remain sealed. Hause wouldn’t be sending anyone that night or the night after that. Hause was a careful man. A master strategist, driven by fear. Fear of losing power. He now held the advantage. He’d pinched off the weapons, the food, and the electricity, and now all he had to do was wait. “So, what do you want to talk about?”

  “You counseled a lot of men over to the other side?”

  Dan nodded. “My fair share.”

  “What do dying men usually talk about?”

  “Things done. Things left undone.”

  Caldwell’s face was going white. Like someone was sucking the blood out through a straw. He smiled, his teeth were stained red. “I’ve got more of the latter swimming around in my head than I’d care to admit.”

  “Most of us do.”

  Caldwell braced his heels against the floor and pointed his toes as if he were trying to push himself further up the wall.

  “You need some help.”

  “No!” Caldwell exhaled sharply. “Hurts too damn much.”

  Dan eased back. “You just let me know.”

  The volume of Caldwell’s voice rose and fell with the spikes of pain. “Did any of this mean a thing?”

  “It meant something to me.” Caldwell would go to his grave not knowing that his actions had been purposed towards securing Lerah’s safety, holding firm to the belief that he’d taken up arms against his fellow soldiers for the good of Genesis. It wasn’t a lie. It was just a shadow of the truth. Dan wanted to see the sun rise on a new Genesis. But more than anything, he wanted to know that Lerah was safe, he wanted to set eyes on her once more. But that wasn’t in the cards. Hopefully, the Outlander had enough sense to take her far away from the fighting, somewhere she could begin again. Dan had done everything he could to ensure the survival of his daughter: sacrificed friends and embraced enemies. Holding that knowledge close to his chest, he could get to the business of dying. Dan looked at Caldwell. His eyes were heavy. There wasn’t much time left. He took one of his hands. “I can’t go with you to the other side, but I can walk you to the door.”

  “Suppose I could use the company.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t get you a better view.” The two horses stabled on the other side of the room were facing the wall, their asses framed by the rusted gates. One of them was in the process of evacuating his bowels.

  Caldwell shook as he tried to suppress a laugh. “You vicious sonofabitch, you know that hurts.”

  “I’ve heard laughter is good medicine.”

  “There’s no medicine out there strong enough to cure what’s ailing me.” Caldwell moved his hand to the wound as if checking to see if it was still there. “It sucks, you know. These past few years I’d started to think, maybe, I’d get the privilege of dying in my own bed, wrapped up nice and warm, all my limbs attached, no holes in my body that I wasn’t born with. I dreamed about it a few times, me laying there, my final hours ticking down, looking into the eyes of my family; it was nice.”

  “Was I in this dream?”

  “You kidding? Of course not. I said dream, not nightmare.”

  “You’re stuck with me, like it or not.” He yawned, long and loud, making no attempt to stifle his natural reaction to the overwhelming fatigue he was beginning to feel. “Most of us are lucky just to die indoors. I always figured I’d go out face down in the sand, belly full of lead, with the sun burning a hole in my back. The only thing a soldier can ask for from death is the rifle in his hands and the clothes on his back.”

  “I’ve always been an optimist. It’s why I joined up with your crazy ass.”

  ***

  Dan didn’t know when Caldwell passed. There was no ceremony to it. No wrestling with the reaper. No choked breaths or clenched fists. One moment he was there and the next he wasn’t. Dan had started to jolt in and out of consciousness. It had been a long and violent day, with slivers of brittle sleep plucked from him by gunshots and battle-cries. His body was seizing any moment it could to recharge. During one of those moments, he gasped awake and looked over to check on Caldwell and noticed that his head was slumped over to one shoulder and that his grip had grown cold and weak. He didn’t need to shake his corpse or check for a pulse, he’d read the same story enough times, he knew what the ending looked like.

  He stood and took up Caldwell’s rifle. He removed the magazine and placed the weapon on his lap. “Only your rifle and the clothes on your back.”

  Dan walked across the room to the stairwell. He didn’t step through the door. He listened. He thought he could hear men whispering above him, but it could have just been the wind playing tricks on his ears. Finally, he stuck his head through the door. His gun was still up and ready to go, but his speed and movement were anything but tactical. Death was a foregone conclusion and part of him just wanted to get it over with.

  Nothing.

  Hause probably didn’t see the need to waste manpower. The staircase was already in ruins, there was no climbing it. Besides, Dan was now running a one-man offensive; no real threat to anyone. He considered letting off a few rounds and making his final stand right there.

  Not yet. Doesn’t feel right.

  He circled the lobby. Surveying the corpses, considering the stark contrast that existed between Loviatar’s mangled body and Caldwell’s pale and peaceful form, slumped against the wall as if he was simply taking a nap. Who had gotten the better deal? Loviatar had gone out like a soldier, fighting until the last twitch. On the other hand, Caldwell had leaked out. It was slow and agonizing. He’d seen death approaching. He’d been given time to twist his mind up, reflecting on all the things he’d left undone. The horses were quiet as he passed their stables, their eyes half open. He was moving towards the lobby entrance. He pulled one of the double doors open, his rifle secured beneath his armpit, covering the ever widening gap, just in case there was someone waiting for him.

  Nothing.

  He was met by space and silence. He looked out over the flat expanse of bone-dry Outland, lit only by the swirling neon rivers undulating across the night sky. He took a step forward, just to test the waters. A bullet snapped past his head. He jumped backward as another handful of rounds pelted and puckered the metal door. He could hear the snipers in Tower Two laughing as they reloaded, mocking him.

  “He dances pretty good for an old man.”

  “Hey, traitor, poke that head back out.”

  Traitor.

  That’s all he was to them now. After all of his years of service, after everything he’d given to the Union, he would go down in the history books as a turncoat, as the man that started a civil war in Genesis, responsible for the death of countless innocents.

  He slipped back inside the lobby, pulling the door along with him. He was determined to go down fighting. He’d die. But his death wasn’t going to come at the hands of a couple of piss ant snipers. No, the fucker that got his number was going to have to earn it.

  21

  The three of them were lined up, side-by-side, lying on their bellies at the top of a small hill.

  “How’s that shoulder?” Dominic asked.

  “Tight,” Higgins replied. “
The pain’s starting to go down a bit. But I think that has more to do with me being shit scared than anything else.”

  Dominic nodded as he looked down at their target. “It’s gonna be hairy, that’s for damn sure.”

  Ronan was on the opposite side of Dominic, his chin in the dirt. “This is a really bad idea.”

  Dominic snorted. “Is anything ever a good idea with you?”

  “I’m a merchant, not a gunman.”

  “Not today,” Dominic said. “Today you’re a gunman.”

  They were looking down on a complex of small storage sheds, built upon a flat expanse of Wasteland. Most of the structures had collapsed and rotted out long ago, destroyed by time and the elements. Slices of orange metal and rebar with clumps of brick still clinging to it were poking up from beneath the sand. There were exactly one-and-a-half structures still standing. One of them had a single wall and a roof that was punched through with holes. The only structure with any integrity left was an obvious patch job. The walls were discolored; it looked as if old bricks had been swapped out for new ones. The holes in the door and roof had been covered over by planks of scrap wood. Dominic assumed the rusty, orange, roll-up door still worked; there were three guards hovering around it with torches and submachine guns. Beyond the door, that’s where the weapons would be, according to Higgins. The guards were acting like it was just another night on the job; the sound of their nonchalant chatter filled the air. They had no reason to be on edge. According to Higgins and Ronan, no one had ever dared to rip off Randall.

  “He’s here,” Higgins pointed. The two freaks with the skeleton fingers and the bags over their heads were walking the grounds near the main building, shoulder-to-shoulder, clutching their submachine guns, flanked by three men with torches. They looked and moved like spiders, lean and predatory, no hesitance in their steps. “Randall doesn’t go anywhere without those two.”

  “Where is he?” Dominic was scanning the grounds again, sure that he’d missed something.

  “Probably inside, massaging his guns, or sucking the flesh from his latest conquest.”

  Ronan shivered. “There’s got to be an easier way.”

  “An easier way for what?” Dominic asked.

  “To get weapons. Something that doesn’t involve going after one of the most terrifying men in the Wastes.”

  “Easier? Maybe. Faster? Nope. This is it. Besides, this asshole isn’t terrifying. He’s a small-time tyrant. He fumbled together the coin for a few low rent goons with guns. So what? Fuck him. We’ve got guns too.”

  “He’s capable, I’ll give him that much,” Higgins spoke matter-of-factly. “He’s clashed with plenty of bad men over the years and he’s always been the one left standing.”

  Dominic still wasn’t impressed. “Everything has a tipping point.” He sighted one of Randall’s bagged freaks through the irons of his rifle. “You just gotta know where to push and how hard.”

  “We’re really doing this?” Ronan whimpered.

  “Pick your target and wait for my mark.” Dominic’s aim bobbed up and down, matching the movement of the creature, hovering on its center mass. “Now!” He fired and the spindly abomination left its feet. The second black bagged horror broke for cover, moving on all fours, dragging his submachine gun through the dirt. The three henchmen with the torches hesitated. They popped off a few wild rounds while backing away and searching for someplace to cower. Dominic fired again, catching one of them in the thigh. The man fought to recover and Dominic put two more shots in his back, planting him in the dirt for good.

  Meanwhile, Higgins was doing a bang up job. He’d downed two of the three henchmen that had been standing guard in front of the main building, his bullets passed through their bodies and created a fetching light show as they impacted the metal door, splintering the planks of wood placed there to patch the existing bullet holes and creating new ones in the process. The remaining henchman was hugging the wall on the left side of the building. Higgins was doing his damnedest to hit him, pausing between each missed shot to readjust his aim, but his view on the target was growing narrower by the second. Dominic had a better view on the guy. He turned his rifle and put one in his belly, doubling him over, and sending him tipping out into Higgins’ field of fire.

  “All yours,” Dominic said.

  “Much obliged.” Higgins blew the back of the man’s head off.

  Ronan was a mess. He was firing down on the remaining two men Dominic was battling, but his shots were cutting wild S-shapes across the ground, putting no real pressure on them. He stopped between each volley to pant and whimper, “I’m a merchant. I’ve never shot at a man. I can’t do this.”

  “These boys aren’t really giving you much of a choice.” Dominic reloaded and stood. “Higgins, keep them held down. Ronan, just stop shooting, I don’t feel like catching one in the ass.”

  Dominic felt a familiar surge of adrenaline as he charged down the hill, gripping his weapon against his chest, the hot air breaking against his face, Higgins’ rounds snapping past his head and tearing up the enemies’ defenses: a hill of rubble and sheet metal, composed of a collapsed block of old storage units. One of the henchmen came up to return fire, unaware of Dominic’s charge. He was dead before he hit the ground, a bloody hole where his left eye used to be. Dominic ran up the pile of rubble, the loose pieces shifting beneath his boots, his momentum slowing, his balance faltering. He caught himself before he could slide backward and shifted his body forward just as he crested the hill. On the other side, he found the final henchman staring down at the hole in his buddy’s face. Dominic pumped two rounds into the top of his head before he could react.

  Before Dominic had time to celebrate his victory, the twin horrors rose from the ground, the muzzles of their submachine guns coughing fire.

  I already killed one of you! What the fuck!

  Dominic threw himself backward, firing as he went, plumes of dirt rising into the air as bullets bit into the ground he’d just been occupying. He landed hard, temporarily concealed from his enemies on the opposite side of the debris hill. Another flurry of cover fire came sailing in, giving him time to recover and reposition. He ran sideways, foot-over-foot, towards the building where the weapons were supposedly being stored, firing at the spindly outlines as they fired back. He was comfortable shooting on the move, but he couldn’t tell if his bullets were making contact.

  Maybe these bastards aren’t human after all.

  He threw his back against the front of the storage unit, the sheet metal groaning beneath his mass. He switched out magazines and chambered his next round.

  A screech of pain came from the direction of his monstrous aggressors.

  “I got one! I got one of them!” Ronan’s voice echoed down from the top of the hill. Ronan, who’d never fired a gun, was now reveling in the adrenaline-fueled glory of his first kill.

  “Shut the fu—” Higgins’ scolding was cut short by a storm of bullets that peppered the ridgeline and pushed them down into hiding. If the monster was firing at Higgins and Ronan, that meant it was distracted.

  Dominic was never one to waste an opportunity.

  He pivoted from cover, weapon leading the way. The lanky creature filled the rifle sights. Dominic fired as he advanced, sounding off three round bursts. The creature shook with each impact but refused to fall. Dominic raised the sights and sent three rounds into its face, shredding the bag, and downing the abomination for good. Giving in to a sudden wave of curiosity, Dominic knelt and began picking away the scraps of cloth that still clung to the ruined face. What was so hideous that their master saw fit to hide it away from the world? Dominic wasn’t one for recoiling at the horrific. He’d seen it all, in one form or another. The effect, for him, had been dulled…or so he thought. He jolted at what he saw. It wasn’t a monster. Just a man. A man that had experienced unimaginable pain. He’d been a flesh factory for Randall. There were bite marks everywhere: forehead, cheeks, lips. Deep ragged holes where the flesh had been ch
ewed right down to the bone. Places that had healed over only to be feasted from once more.

  “Holy shit!” Higgins was standing behind Dominic, Ronan at his side.

  “What the hell happened to him?” Ronan was hyperventilating.

  “They weren’t just Randall’s bodyguards,” Dominic pulled up the man’s shirt and found a similar series of bite marks, “they were his snacks.”

  “I got no love for my cousin, I knew he was a sick sonofabitch, but this is beyond me.”

  “He’s here somewhere,” Ronan said, his words bumping together. “I’ve never seen him out without these too. He’s not going to be too happy about this.”

  Dominic’s disgust quickly turned to resolve. “He dies tonight, weapons or no weapons.” Dominic was turning towards the storage shed as he spoke, top lip curled, gripping the rifle so tight that his knuckles cracked. No one said anything. They just fell in behind him as he barged towards the shed.

  Two shotgun blasts tore through the shed door.

  Higgins started to return fire, but Dominic pushed the muzzle of his rifle down, causing him to send two rounds into the dirt.

  “I want to talk to him first. When I’m done, he’s all yours.”

  “Talk to him? Really? How do you plan on accomplishing that?”

  “Higgins? You traitorous bastard!” The words slithered and oozed through the holes in the sheet metal door.

  “I’m the traitor? Fuck you!” Higgins took two strides forward, ready to storm the gates, but Dominic wrapped an arm around his chest, holding him in place. “You hired someone to come to my house, where my family sleeps! Too chicken shit to do it yourself?”

  “You made the deal, my coin for your hand!”

  “I was desperate! My family had to eat!”

  “And so do I!”

  “Who eats…you know what? Never mind! You’ve had your last meal, you fat pig!”

  Another burst of shotgun fire took a chunk out of the door. “Come on in! I’m waiting!”