by James Axler
"Sure. Here I go."
Ryan felt a wave of pride at the ten-year-old's indomitable courage. Out on his feet, dried to a husk, the boy was ready to go out in the open and chance his survival on his father's shooting.
Ryan dropped down again, lying prone, resting the barrel of the Steyr in the dirt. Dean walked southward, stumbling and falling once. The boy was so exhausted that Ryan couldn't be sure whether he was faking or not.
"Go now, son!" he called quietly.
With a piercing, throat-rasping scream, Dean threw up his arms and crashed down in the sand, thrashing around for a half minute and then lying still.
Ryan kept motionless, resting his cheek against the walnut stock of the rifle. There was no point in squinting through the scope until the coyotes made their move.
It wasn't long coming.
The pressure of the heat and the chase, combined with the slaughter of several of their pack, had brought the powerful dogs to a raging edge of foaming excitement.
They began to move in a strange circling motion, snapping at one another as though they were psyching themselves up for a charge. Between them and the boy was a pattern of deep draws, but Ryan had made sure there was plenty of flat ground near Dean to give him time and space for the shooting.
A thought crossed his mind that Jak or Christina could have heard the sound of shooting if their homestead was fairly close. But the eternity of the desert easily swallowed up noise.
The coyotes suddenly disappeared.
Ryan stayed where he was, concentrating through the blinding heat, feeling a raw pain in his lost eye from the salt sweat. The pack could only be after the boy, and that meant they'd have to come out in the open before closing in for the kill.
Dean lay utterly still, a light wind ruffling his hair.
There was a hint of dust from one of the concealed arroyos to the right of the boy, showing where the dogs were moving.
Ryan laid his index finger on the trigger of the rifle, took in a long, slow breath and waited.
The brutish muzzle of the first of the coyotes slid into sight, scenting the air.
"Not yet," the man whispered. "Come on, you bastards. Come on."
One by one they emerged, until ten of them stood there, huddled in the pack, heads turning as though they still suspected a trap.
Then, as if by some unspoken command, they started to trot toward the recumbent figure lying less than a hundred yards from them.
One more breath taken in and held.
Trying to keep as calm as if he were in the butts at a redoubt practice range, Ryan opened fire on the cluster of animals.
Four spaced shots resulted in three clear kills and a fourth coyote down with its hind legs dragging.
Dean was up, as well, leveling his pistol in both hands. Ryan dropped the rifle and picked up the SIG-Sauer, ready for a death-or-glory charge against the surviving animals—when his reflexes gave him a belated warning of danger.
The massive dog loomed over him, already in midspring, jaws gaping and saliva dangling in ropes from its questing teeth.
Ryan had no time to do anything except try to roll away, punching at the animal with his blaster. There was no chance of a shot and less opportunity of drawing his panga.
The instant the powerful mutie creature struck him, Ryan knew he was in deep trouble.
He was pinned on his back, scrabbling in loose dirt and stones, the P-226 discarded. One hand was locked in the shaggy coat at the side of the coyote's neck, the other beneath the underslung lower jaw, fighting to keep the slavering fangs from his face. Rank, stinking breath festered in his nose and mouth, and the blood-mad eyes were inches from his own.
The coyote was heavier than he'd expected, weighing in around one hundred and twenty pounds. Its hind legs kicked at his groin, and it took a tremendous effort for Ryan to roll to one side to protect himself.
Dimly Ryan thought he heard the sound of a burst of gunfire, the noise booming like a small cannon. Not like Dean's target .22.
But he had his own survival to worry about. His right hand and arm were bent back, weakening his leverage, allowing the coyote to fight its way closer to him.
He felt rather than heard a solid thunk, as if something had struck the coyote. The animal jerked upward, head straining toward the sky. For the first time it howled, a sharp yelp of pain torn from its chest.
Its legs kicked, then it went limp. As Ryan struggled to push its corpse off, he noticed the taped hilt of a throwing knife, protruding just below the coyote's left ear.
And he knew.
The voice merely confirmed it. "Like old days, Ryan. Saving ass for you."
"Hi, Jak."
Chapter Thirty-One
DEAN FINALLY FELL asleep on the old sofa with the faded Navaho blanket on its back. Christina Lauren tucked a woolen blanket over the boy, smiling at Ryan and her husband.
"Not much doubt about who the father is," she said, rejoining them at the table.
"So they tell me. Yeah, course. I'll put him to bed after we've finished talking."
Jak poured himself another mug of black coffee from the blue enamel pot. "Not much more to say."
Jak hadn't changed much, but to Ryan's keen eye, the teenager seemed a few years older, more mature, more solid. His hair was still a flaring white, like a bright sun off snow in the Cascades, his eyes like molten rubies, and he still wore the huge satin-finish Magnum on his hip.
Christina seemed to have changed more.
Her early life had been sheer misery, turned into a drudge by her crazed father and psychotic brothers. She'd been accustomed to being quiet and subservient, knowing the price she'd pay in bruises and kicks if she stepped out of line. Now she had blossomed.
Then her hair had been a dull brown, tied back in a stringy knot. Her eyes had seemed a pallid and watery blue. Now she had shoulder-length hair, a luxuriant autumnal russet, and her eyes were a strong and steady blue.
Christina was still disabled, halting with a built-up boot on her left foot. But it didn't drag her down. Now she swung around the house with an effortless grace and ease.
Ryan remembered her as homely, which was the kindest word he'd have used back then. A long, raw-boned face made her seem older than her twenty-odd years.
Now he'd have been forced back onto the overused word beautiful to describe Jak Lauren's wife.
Despite there being more than a dozen years between their ages, the difference had shrunk to virtually nothing.
IT WAS TRUE what Jak had said. There really wasn't much more to say.
After they'd driven off the handful of surviving coyotes, one of which had come within five yards of Dean Cawdor, Ryan and Jak had embraced, hugging each other with the unashamed delight of old and good friends. Then the boy had been introduced, but the rest of the news had been saved until after they'd gotten back to the spread.
The farm had been in excellent shape. There were now more cattle, with a half dozen quarter horses and thirty pigs, a wired compound for chickens and a hundred sheep roaming around the spread.
"Sheep most difficult. Some vanish. Local wandering tribe. Went and spoke. No more trouble."
Jak grinned and Christina nodded approvingly. Ryan knew the young man well enough to wonder what form his "speaking" had taken. Jak Lauren was about the finest natural killer that Ryan had ever met, and not a person to cross.
Dean had been disappointed that Jak had never met Sharona Carson. He was always desperate for someone who'd known his mother from the old days.
The supper had been excellent, with some of the freshest food that Ryan had ever tasted. Jak and Christina shared the cooking chores, bringing dishes to the table until it almost groaned beneath the weight of food.
"It's not every day we get visitors, Ryan," Christina said, smiling. "Specially not someone who means as much to both of us as you do."
Over the chicken and creamed corn, the woman sat with her chin in her hands, listening as Ryan, prompted occasionally by his son, e
xplained the reason behind his journey.
"You want him back with you?" she asked, her face blanking out her pleasure. "That what you came for?"
"No. No, it isn't, Christina."
"If wanted me, I'd come," Jak said quietly, avoiding his wife's eyes. "Have to. Blood debt running deep."
Ryan shook his head, feeling the tension beginning to boil beneath the social surface. "No, that's not it, truly. Just to keep the boy safe. Shouldn't be more than three or four days. Week at the outside. Now I got the code, we can come visiting you when we want."
"I didn't think the gateway would still work, after that blowout."
Christina glanced across at Jak as she collected the plates. "There's…" She let the sentence trail off, obviously changing her mind. "Got apple and blueberry pie. With good cream. You got a gap left, Dean?"
"Yeah." Seeing his father's face, he added, "Please, Christina. Thank you."
The woman went into the kitchen, and Ryan leaned forward. "What's the problem, Jak?"
"You see tracks?"
"Ah." Ryan sipped at his mug of coffee. "Yeah, I did."
"Been up there. Someone using it. Someone comes and goes. Someone got code like you."
"Mercenaries?"
Jak shook his head. "Not heard of much bad trouble. One or two… Heard Indians lost children. Not many. Some."
"Slavers?"
"Maybe. Chris is… See, she's—"
"Pregnant."
Jak sat back so suddenly he spilled his drink on the white cloth. "How did… ?"
Ryan grinned. "Something about a woman when she's carrying a child, Jak. Sort of glows."
"I do, don't I?" Despite her limp, Christina was capable of moving silently around the house. Now she stood in the doorway, arms folded, holding a cloth. "And I'd be real grateful for a hand with these dishes. Anyone game?"
AFTERWARD, WITH DEAN tucked safely into bed, Jak took Ryan out to his workroom, leaving Christina sitting contentedly by a small fire, working on some lace.
"Got wind generator and water pump. Old man Ballinger triple-sick demon but picked land well. Traders come by and pay good for meat and eggs. We deal locals too."
The light clicked on, and Ryan nodded appreciatively at the neat row of tools on the walls, three long bows and two crossbows, as well as a whole rack of honed knives.
"You've done real well, kid," he said, deliberately teasing the albino teenager.
"Thanks. Don't mind calling 'kid' now, Ryan. Like Jak better."
"Sure. You happy here with Christina?"
"Very happy."
"Sort of thing Krysty always wants. Well, guess we both do. Settle down someplace where there's good land and sweet water. Some— Hey, that's a shortwave radio trans, isn't it?"
"Yeah. Got real good range but hardly anyone ever listens or talks."
"Cover the hundred?"
"Sure. Traded it month ago. There's a teacher in ville near sea talks. Woman, sounds stupe, by Four Corners. Says she'll come see us one day. Freaky radio trans. Some days works and some not. You got one?"
"Yeah. Keep it on hundred. We can talk to each other sometime."
Jak nodded. "Wants some ammo for Steyr?"
"Couple of ten-clips be good. Got some?"
"Here." There were boxes of several kinds of ammunition, mostly full-metal jacket, with some caseless and even the makings for a cap-and-ball revolver.
Ryan shoved the mags into one of his pockets. "When I get back to the ville I'll try calling in a day or so. Let you know how it's going and when we might be down here."
"Best go in. Christina doesn't like me being out here too long. Want another coffee?"
Ryan shook his head. "No. Bed seems the best idea I can think of. Mebbe show me around the spread in the morning?"
"Sure," the teenager replied, turning off the lights and locking the heavy door behind him.
DEAN WAS SLEEPING soundly when Ryan entered the bedroom. As he got undressed, he thought how much Krysty would love the place and the calmer, safer way of life.
His last sentient thought was to wonder if all was well back in Greenglades. Not much was likely to go wrong in the night.
Chapter Thirty-Two
DOC TANNER GENERALLY slept well. Every now and again his rest would be disturbed by gibbering phantoms of the night, specters who came to him from the swirling blackness, with faces and forms that were almost familiar yet whose appearance and touch brought only a sickly loathing and a sweating terror.
The worst dreams were when all his various pasts became blurred and mingled. He'd see Strasser, with a gloating smile, having sex with his beloved wife, Emily. Or his little children, wearing Victorian clothes, being chased along a shadowy corridor by beckoning stickies. .
Gradually the nightmares were becoming less frequent.
He'd waited up in his room, on the off chance that the girl, Sky, might keep her word and come to him. There'd been a flickering vid of the TV in his room, but the quality was so poor he gave it up. There was a Bible in one of the drawers on the bureau, and he thumbed through it until he felt his eyelids begin to drop.
The overhead light clicked on, its brightness dragging him slowly back to consciousness. But someone operated the dimmer switch, and the bedroom became a cozy, half-lit world.
"Sorry," whispered a woman's voice. "Didn't mean to wake you. Not like that."
He half sat up. "You have been out with your chums tonight, doing that snaking thing?"
"Dark snaking." She giggled. "Sure. Best yet."
There was just enough illumination in the room for him to make out the girl's figure. She was still wearing the same blouse and skirt, but he noticed that her legs were streaked with what looked like drying mud. In the stillness he could catch the feral, exciting scent of her body, and he felt himself beginning to stir with arousal.
Sky saw him watching her and started to twirl, her skirt swelling out, rising above her knees, showing the whiteness of her thighs. Faster. Higher. Doc was aware that his pulse was speeding, and there was a tightness across his chest.
"Caution," he muttered to himself. "You must go gently into this good night."
It wasn't easy to tell, but the flaring skirt spun out around the narrow hips and Doc was nearly sure that Sky wasn't wearing any underclothes.
The giggling and spinning stopped.
"Dizzy, dizzy… Traven gave us biggies for snaking. Said all we had to do was dreem. So, we dreemed, and now I got you, Doc."
Doc shuffled sideways to make room for the girl on the enormous bed. By the time he'd turned around again, Sky had peeled off her clothes and was unlacing her thonged sandals, balancing awkwardly on the side of the table.
"There," she said with the pride of a child performing a difficult trick.
"Bravo, my dear."
She was stark naked, silhouetted against the dim glow of the light. Not quite naked, Doc noticed, as she had some kind of necklace around her slender throat.
"It was sooo good," she hissed, stepping closer to him, lifting her feet exaggeratedly high, arms spread as though she were flying.
"You move like the lady of the dance, wherever you may be," Doc said, finding that the pressure on his chest had eased, but his voice had become unaccountably hoarse.
The bed moved as she jumped into it, pulling the sheet and blankets up over her. Doc felt the burning heat of her body as she wriggled closer to him, a hand touching his shoulder.
"You're cold, Doc. Sky better play some games to warm him up."
He felt her lips touch him on the neck, then inch lower, through the grizzled hairs on his chest.
Lower.
"By the three Kennedys!" The exclamation was torn from him as his hips jerked and his hands grabbed at the back of the young woman's head.
The bedclothes fluttered and Sky reappeared, licking her lips, grinning at the old man.
"Warmed up?" she whispered.
"I think that is a more than adequate summation of my physical condition, my
dear. Much more than adequate."
"You talk such big words."
"I have frequently been reproached for that failing and— What are you doing, my dear?"
"Climbing aboard, Doc."
"I fear that my reserve batteries will not yet permit my being able to— Oh, I see that I am wrong and that…"
She was astride, heels digging into his thighs, guiding him inside with her long, strong fingers. Doc sighed at the sensation of warm depths surrounding him, sucking him in.
"You can pinch my tits, if you want. Hard as you like."
He reached up, staring at her as she loomed over his naked body in the half light. Sky rocked backward and forward, like a jockey urging a horse over rising ground. Now that he was closer he could make out the necklace more clearly. It was made from a string of chunky amber beads. The largest of them, dangling in the valley between the woman's breasts, had a silver crucifix swinging from it.
It stirred something in the old man's memory, and he reached up to touch it, fingers caressing the amber, finding it sticky. "Sticky?" he said wonderingly. "What? Come on, Doc, get your hands on these." In the cavern of the bedroom, whatever was smeared all over the necklace was almost black. Doc brought his fingers to his own lips, hesitating and reluctant, tasting blood.
"Mrs. Owen's amber necklace." he whispered, feeling himself shrinking inside the thrusting girl.
She felt his waning enthusiasm and stopped moving. "What's up, Doc?" she asked.
He remembered now. Mrs. Owen was the old woman who lived in the retirement complex just outside the theme park. She was scared of attacks and murders.
"Tonight," he stammered, holding his hands out wide to avoid touching Sky.
"What?" She sounded irritated now.
"Dark snaking. This necklace. I recognize it, you know. And there's blood upon it!" There was revulsion in his voice. "Oh, the horror!"
"Fuck," Sky said in a little girl's voice. "What a pity, Doc."
And she punched him in the face.
It was a brutal, roundhouse swing that he barely saw coming. He managed to shift his head to one side, so that her fist struck him on the temple. Pain exploded in his skull, and he nearly lost consciousness.