Latitude Zero

by James Axler

  "Oh, yes… Yes…"

  Eduardo was coming, feeling the wonderful, draining, pumping orgasm overwhelm him.

  Maria was sharing it, he could tell. A bubbling sigh of pleasure erupted from her lips and her body went slack, slumping down across him, hot sweat flooding the side of his neck and shoulders. His nostrils twitched as he caught an acrid, unpleasant smell.

  Ryan leaned over the woman's corpse, trying to avoid the arterial blood that still gushed from her severed throat, and thrust the point of his panga into the man's gaping mouth. It splintered teeth and sliced his tongue down the center. Ryan put his weight and strength behind the long blade, driving it out the back of the helpless man's neck and a foot deep into the earth behind his skull.

  Eduardo wriggled, trying to push the body of the woman off his chest, but her slumped mass kept him trapped. He tried to yell, but blood filled his mouth and flooded his lungs. His last sight as his eyes misted and life departed was the deathly smile on the face of the lean one-eyed man above him.

  Ryan set his boot across the dying man's forehead and braced himself to draw out the panga, wiping it hastily on the woman's pants.

  It was now important to move fast, before the two dozing members of Strasser's killer band woke up. If they could also be chilled without raising any alarm, then Skullface would take it hard. And it wouldn't do his people's morale a lot of good.

  But there was no need to hurry. Both men still lay where they'd been, unmoving, M-16s resting across their thighs.

  All it would take was two quick, carefully aimed shots from the silenced pistol.

  Ryan leveled the SIG-Sauer, sighting along the slide, picking the man on the left first. For safety it would have to be a brain shot, between the eyes. The range was less than twenty paces.

  His index finger whitened on the trigger, and he braced his wrist against the impact. The silencer was one of the best he'd ever come across, muffling the crack of the explosion to a quiet cough. He saw the man's skull jerk as the bullet hit home and a small neat hole appeared smack between the eyes.

  Ryan's mind registered the odd fact that there wasn't even a residual twitch from the man's arms or legs. He lined up the second shot.

  Again came the muted kick of the pistol. The other man's head knocked back, and the hole drilled through the center of the temple. And, again there wasn't the slightest movement from the body.

  Looking around, Ryan parted the undergrowth and stepped out, the muzzle of the blaster probing at the warm air. But nothing stirred. Several houses away he could dimly hear the sound of voices calling out orders, and once there was the sharp shrilling of the whistle.

  Like a child's puppet springing from a box, Krysty appeared in the doorway to the left of the bodies, smiling broadly at him.

  "Made you jump, lover?"

  "Stupid bitch! Could've put a couple of rounds through you!"

  "Be like you to waste a couple of rounds, Ryan," J.B. said, easing himself around the corner of the wall to the right of the corpses.

  "What d'you mean, man?" Ryan asked, thrown slightly off balance by what was obviously a private joke between J.B. and the woman.

  "Look at the stiffs."

  Ryan stared down and sucked at his teeth, grinning at his friends. "Fireblast! Couldn't see from over there. Both had their necks and chests in shadow. Nice ones."

  The men had already been killed, which answered the question about why they had been so still when he shot them. Both had their throats neatly opened, the blood soaking quickly into the thirsty earth.

  Major Ward appeared then, at the edge of the garden, beckoning to them with the barrel of one of his Peacemakers.

  "The kid says he figures we best get moving as soon as possible. Thinks that Skullface and his men could be coming back real soon."

  The wag master was pale, and he looked away from the two corpses by the house. The flies were already gathering, attracted by the fresh sweet blood.

  Ryan, Krysty and J.B. followed him into the bushes, spotting Jak squatting on his heels by the rotted remains of the old front gate.

  "You see the other two leaving, Jak?" Ryan asked. "We chilled the other four."

  The teenager jerked his thumb behind him. Lying against the hedge were two corpses.

  "Killed 'em both with thrown knives," Major Ward said wonderingly. "Damnedest thing I ever did see."

  Ryan nodded approvingly. "Good, Jak. Real good. Now let's go find some other place to hide. Cort Strasser's going to be well pissed at us."

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  "SIX. EDUARDO MENOELE, Maria Holt, Jesus Martinez, Diego—"

  Cort Strasser held up his hand and shook his head. "That's enough, Rafe. Names don't mean shit. But to lose six of our fighters, just like that…"

  His voice was calm and gentle, which worried his lieutenant more than one of the boss's blinding crimson rages.

  "The two by the house had their throats opened up and then they were shot."

  Strasser looked up. The fine oval mirror, with its brass cherub supports, reflected his puzzled expression. "After they were dead?"

  Rafe nodded. "Seems that way. Bullet wounds hadn't bled none."

  "And two were butchered in mid-fuck," Strasser mused with a sardonic smile. "Ryan Cawdor is developing himself a fine sense of humor."

  "Kind of end of fuck rather than the middle, by what we found," added the lieutenant, relieved now that it looked like Strasser wasn't going to chill him on the spot.

  "And two with stab wounds. Perhaps the snow-headed little fellow with his throwing knives? Six dead. I think it is time to operate Plan B, Rafe."

  "What's Plan B, boss?"

  "Hunting failed. I blame myself for that. Should have figured Ryan would chill the shit out of some of the offal we got here. Now we'll enter the trade mode."

  He glanced across the carriage to where the woman, Rosa, sat at the walnut table, playing a complicated game of solitaire. As Strasser looked at her she came to the end, blocked by a red ten. He smiled as she tore the card in half and dropped it on the carpet, continuing with her game.

  "Yes," he said. "Change the rules of the game, Rafe. That's our next step. But we'll wait awhile. Keep Ryan in suspense. Keep the prisoners carefully and give them some food and water. A little."

  "Supplies are kind of low, boss," Rafe said, shifting his feet uneasily, making the chain of the nunchaku sticks jingle.

  "Yeah. First light I want a work party cutting wood. We'll head off into the hills day after tomorrow. Take what's left."

  "What about trading?" Rosa asked, completing her game. Five torn cards were on the floor by her polished boots.

  "Tomorrow. Ryan's not going anywhere, nor is Dr. Tanner. Tomorrow morning we'll have us a small lottery."

  "Lottery, boss?"

  Strasser stood up, locking his hands so that the knuckles cracked like pistol shots. "Folks like a gamble. Tomorrow morning we'll have us a lottery."

  RYAN HAD BEEN surprised by the reaction of the skull-faced former sec boss—or rather by his lack of reaction.

  "We chill about a fifth of his bastard army and he don't do nothing."

  "Doesn't do anything," Krysty corrected.

  For once he ignored her.

  "They found bodies. Watched." Jak was eating some peaches he'd found growing wild along the banks of the dry creek.

  "Strasser even withdrew patrols," J.B. commented, busy in his nightly ritual of fieldstripping and cleaning his Steyr AUG 5.6 mm pistol.

  Major Ward had been out into the brush behind the house they'd moved to, which was at the opposite end of town from their previous hiding place. Since evening he'd been taken short four or five times and left with a muttered explanation.

  "Something I ate," he mumbled.

  Ryan looked up at him. "More likely something you didn't eat."

  "Could be, son. Belly's emptier than a hot spot crater."

  "Too risky to go in tonight." Ryan glanced at the moonlit sky. "Strasser'll look for that.
Just have to eat some of Jak's peaches and put up with the gut rot."

  "Least we got water off that roof tank," J.B. said, bolstering his blaster. "Flash flood did us some good in the end."

  "Same guards as last night?" Krysty asked.

  This time they'd been careful to pick somewhere unlike their last hideout. Most of the house had fallen down, food for giant termites, but an end wall and the rectangular garage remained. Ryan had chosen it because it was in such a poor state that no patrol would give it a second glance. And if they did, there was an alley out back that gave them access to another four buildings. It would do.

  MILDRED COULDN'T believe what she was seeing. In the opalescent light of early morning, the cobbled yard was bustling with people, and the feeling was like everyone was involved in an old-fashioned barn raising or a church picnic.

  Yet Strasser couldn't have made it plainer what his intentions were.

  Word had gotten around fast that six of the gang had been murdered by Ryan Cawdor the previous afternoon. Someone had seen the corpses being carried in on a flatbed wagon.

  Food had been issued before Strasser made his speech to everyone, and it had lifted folks' spirits. Mildred found it hard to credit the overweening optimism that ran through the settlers. The surviving preachers circulated, openly telling anyone who'd listen that things weren't going to be too bad, that Mr. Strasser wanted some workers for a while and then they'd all be allowed to go on their way.

  Mildred was so outraged that she grabbed one of them, Jeremiah Moorbane. "How can you all believe this of Strasser? Have you forgotten those tortured corpses we saw? Or what that skinny son of a murdering bitch did to Vare when he tried to defend his own daughter from him?"

  The man smiled at her with a patient, saintly shake of the head, making Mildred want to punch his lights out. "That was yesterday, sister. And this is a new today."

  "You brainless, worthless piece of shit! Can't you—"

  But she saw the futility of it. Even before Strasser made his speech, the woman realized that no help would come from the settlers.

  "A lottery, ladies, gentlemen and children." The skinny, black-clothed man had assumed the role of a tout, soliciting for trade outside a center-ville gaudy house.

  Mildred hadn't been able to snatch even the briefest word with Doc. The old man was being kept apart from the others, ever since the word came in of the multiple slayings.

  "Six of my people have been cruelly sent to buy the farm. But I know who's done this. One-eyed Cawdor and his filthy companions! It's their fault that we will have this lottery, and it's Cawdor who can save lives."

  All around Mildred there were mutters of agreement, and several of the settlers turned to glare at her, as though it was her fault that Strasser's men had been killed.

  "This bucket is filled with white stones. There are six black stones, one for each of my people. Everyone draws, and the six black stones get to pay the blood price for what the butcher Cawdor did." There was a murmur of consternation all around the yard as everyone came to realize the truth that lay veiled behind Skullface's words. But he held up a hand for silence and carried on. "But I shall make sure that Cawdor hears of this. All he has to do is surrender himself and the white-haired mutie freak, and not a drop of innocent blood will be spilled."

  To Mildred's amazement there was a ragged cheer from the men and women standing near her, as though Strasser had just promised each of them a hatful of jack, along with forty acres and a mule.

  "How about children?" a voice called out.

  "Child dies just as well as a grown man," Strasser replied. "Every family with young ones has the father draw for them. Let's go."

  For several long heartbeats nobody made a move.

  Strasser slapped his whip against his leg, the noise as loud as pistol shot. "I'll not wait!"

  A stout lady, breathing heavily, took a cautious half step forward, catching the eye of the skeletal man in black.

  "Ah, a volunteer. May you be lucky. What's your name?"

  She blushed at finding herself so much the center of attraction. "Name's Jackson, sir. Shirley Jackson. Come from the ville of Castle House, back east."

  "Then you can come draw first."

  There was a big oil drum cut into half and filled with small stones. It was placed on a trestle table, high enough so nobody could actually see into it. As an extra precaution a cloth had been draped over the top.

  Watched in silence, the large woman came to the table, the light morning wind tugging at her sprigged cotton dress. It threatened her bonnet, and she raised a hand to hold it in place.

  Mildred stared at Strasser. He wasn't paying much attention to the proceedings, his slit eyes roving around the crowd as if he was watching for some special reaction. Mildred dropped her gaze to avoid looking him in the face.

  Rafe was standing next to the large bucket to check on what people drew. Shirley Jackson reached up and in, holding her stone in her right hand, closing her eyes for a moment before looking at what she'd drawn.

  "White!" the lieutenant called. "Lady draws a white pebble."

  There was a cheer, and everyone started chattering excitedly.

  The lottery took well over an hour. Until all six black pebbles had been drawn.

  Three hundred yards away, using J.B.'s glass, Ryan watched it all.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  "WHAT'S LOTTERY?" Jak asked.

  "A sort of a gamble," Krysty replied. "There's a prize and everyone does what's called 'drawing lots.' Means like there's lots of bits of paper and one has a red cross on it, or something like that. One who draws it out gets to win the prize."

  "Oh, yeah. So what's prizes fucking Strasser's giving?"

  "That I don't know," she replied. "You got any ideas, lover?"

  Ryan had led the others down before dawn, wanting to get in close to the railroad, having a gut feeling that his old enemy might try something during the day. They'd picked their way through the stark blocks of ruined houses, crossing the main street one at a time, watching for guards. But there wasn't that much light, and few people saw as well in semidarkness as the albino teenager. He took over from Ryan at the dangerous points in their journey, holding up a pale hand to halt them as a patrol went by. Ryan was again tempted to make a further hit on Strasser's forces, but decided the risk was too great. The six they'd already chilled was a fair enough start.

  Now they were safely hidden in the first floor of what had been Salvation's firehouse, a wooden frame building that now seemed held together only by a handful of nails and a lot of memories.

  They were able to look out across the glittering tracks to the engine house and the open yard in front of it. The locomotive had got steam up, a white pillar of smoke spiraling into the cool morning air.

  "Ryan?"

  "Sorry. Thoughts were miles away."

  "What do you think Strasser's prizes are in his lottery?"

  "Easy."

  "Thunderation! I don't see no dad-blasted way you could know, son."

  Ryan glanced sideways at the wag master. "Think about it, Major."

  "I did."

  "I know," J.B. said quietly, taking the spyglass from Ryan and peering through it, adjusting the milled knob to alter the focus. "Reckon I'm certain."

  Krysty, Jak and Ward still looked puzzled. Ryan shook his head. "Just do some counting. How many look like they got the different bits of paper or stones or whatever they are?"

  "Five," the wag master said.

  "No, six," Krysty disagreed. "It was six, wasn't it?"

  "Yeah, it was six."

  "Oh, Gaia! I get it. Don't like it, but I think I get it."

  "Six?" Ward said. "But why six?"

  Jak spit on the chipped boards beneath his feet. "Got it! Fucking dirty bastard!"

  "How many of Strasser's guns did we send off on the last flight out, Major?" Ryan asked.

  "Man and woman you chilled. Two by the house and two by the… Oh, yeah. Six."

  STRASSE
R SWITCHED ON the big blue loudspeaker and blew into it, testing for sound.

  "One, two, three… Checking for sound… Checking for sound."

  The amplified voice, flat and toneless, filled the ville, flooding out into the surrounding desert, easily reaching the ears of Ryan and the others.

  Strasser waved the speaker in the air. "All right, all right. Let's get to the meat and potatoes."

  In front of him, heads bowed, stood the six members of the wag train who'd drawn the black pebbles in the lottery—two women, three men and one young child, who every now and again would look around for his mother and then turn away, gobbets of tears falling from his chin.

  "This message is for my dear old friend, Ryan Cawdor, One-Eye himself, and for the people with him. I'm not that certain how many or who they are, but I'm not interested in all of them. Just Ryan and the mutie child, Jak Lauren."

  "Fucker," Jak gritted. "Not mutie and not fucking child. Chill him, Ryan."

  With the G-12 it would have been a ridiculously simple shot, and Strasser must also have been aware of that. But he still stood up there, tempting Ryan, confident that his enemy wouldn't waste him with the knowledge that the result would be a total massacre of the innocents.

  "If Ryan and Jak come in here and meet up and talk some with me, then not a single drop of blood gets spilled."

  An automatic valve on the locomotive opened and there was a sudden noisy jetting of white steam. Strasser looked around at the interruption, then carried on with his speech.

  "I know they can hear me. I know they're in the ville. And I don't want to waste time on waiting for them. We have to get back into the hills tomorrow or we run short of supplies. So, here's the sharp end of it, Ryan." He paused for dramatic effect.

  "Deadline time," Ryan said, taking back the spyglass from the Armorer, centering it on the gleaming black figure, easing it sideways a little to take in the trio of guards who were covering Doc Tanner. The old man had probably never received so much close attention in his recent life.