Watersleep

by James Axler

  "We got the special of the house," Sandy drawled.

  "Any good?" Ryan asked.

  "Well, it's been the special long as I can remem­ber," Sandy replied, sidestepping the question.

  Ryan frowned. "I still don't know if that's good or bad. What is it?"

  "Ever sink your teeth into the chewy goodness of a pecan-nut log?" the waitress asked. "They're a spe­cialty of the house. Each bar individually wrapped in plastic for your sanitary protection."

  "Good Lord, no!" Mildred cried out before anyone else could answer.

  "I think we'll pass," Ryan said, exchanging curi­ous looks with a poker-faced J.B., who had taken his rain-splattered glasses from his coat pocket and was using a piece of his shirttail to clean them. Although seated next to Mildred, he paid her outburst no mind. "My doctor told me to lay off nuts."

  "Suit yourself. Seven stews and coffee it is." The waitress spun on one orange high-heeled shoe and strode away into the back.

  "Mind explaining what that little scene was all about?" Ryan asked once the woman was out of ear­shot.

  "I used to stop in places like this on vacations as a kid," Mildred explained. "Take the word of one who knows. If you've been in one tourist trap in Flor­ida, you've been in them all."

  "What kind trap?" Jak asked.

  "Not a death trap, Jak," Mildred told him. "A 'tourist trap' is a predark slang term for a spot that suckered in the rubes. Take my word for it. You do not want a pecan-nut log."

  "Speak for yourself, dear lady. Some of us here like pecans," Doc protested.

  "I should let you eat one, you old goat, but we don't have time enough to spare for you to drop your trousers with the squirts every five minutes when we get back on the road. Besides, they're probably left over from over a hundred years ago—all that business about 'individually wrapped.' I'm guessing the damned things had a shelf life of over a thousand years and they taste like it, too. Worse than self-heat meals."

  "Really?" Doc said, surprise falling across his face. "I had no idea."

  "Take my word for it," Mildred assured him. "Stay away from any candy in the shape of a log."

  THE WAITRESS RETURNED first with a tray of seven steaming-hot mugs of coffee-sub that everyone agreed tasted like recycled wag coolant, but at least the fluid was thick and plentiful. Mildred and Dean revised their requests and asked for water instead, but after seeing what color the liquid was in the clear glasses, went back to the coffee, which at least was dark and hid any impurities.

  The stew was a step up from the beverages. Chunks of real potato and bits of green parsley and cabbage were mixed in with some finely diced carrots and a kind of mystery meat that nobody could discern ex­actly.

  "I've had worse," Doc said, speaking for all of them.

  "Must be why you went for a second helping," Dean said.

  "As did you, young Cawdor," Doc responded over the rim of his coffee cup.

  "Dean's a growing boy, Doc," Krysty said. "He needs his nourishment. You'd better watch out or you'll be dragging around a potbelly."

  "Nonsense," Doc pronounced through bites. "The Tanner clan has always been blessed with a high me­tabolism. The more we eat, the leaner we get."

  "How about some bread for the broth?" J.B. asked the server toward the end of the meal.

  "Bread's extra."

  "No problem," Ryan said. "We've got the jack. And pack up an extra round to go. Two pieces each."

  Sandy left to accommodate the requests.

  There was a jingle of the tarnished silver bell mounted above the entrance to the eatery. Four men stepped in through the door, and oddly enough, they stepped in by order of height.

  "Damn, something done smells like it up and died in here!" boomed a loud bass voice from the largest of the quartet. "By, God, it had better taste better than what my nose is telling me!"

  Chapter Nine

  On the edge of his peripheral vision, Ryan saw Krysty's red tresses begin to gently coil and uncoil of their own will. Not a good sign. Especially since his own radar had also kicked into triple overtime from the moment the four men swaggered into the restaurant.

  The quartet was dressed in a mix of tech and West­ern. The short, older man in front seemed to have the carriage of leadership. He also had a receding hair­line, making his furrowed brow disappear into the brim of his crisp cowboy hat. Silver gray mutton-chops and white wisps of hair at the back of his ears stuck out from under the hat.

  In appearance, he was what Doc would term as a "dandy." Only a few drops of rain had fallen on the small man's suit since a second man, who was much taller, held a faded black umbrella above his head.

  The small man looked like a well-preserved sixty-year-old, and wore a dark blue pair of trousers, a cream brocade vest with matching puff cravat and white spats. The spats were pulled over a pair of an­cient brown lace-up shoes. A single stray speck of red mud dotted one of his feet, but otherwise the outfit was immaculate.

  The only nod to the modern world in his accoutre­ments was in his choice of holster.

  It was hand-tooled leather, with a wide sliver-plated buckle that matched the color of his hair. What looked to J.B.'s trained eye like a 6-shot old-style Smith & Wesson rimfire revolver was holstered on his left leg. The blaster was a near antique, but still deadly in the right hands.

  The little man also carried a slim walking stick with a silver handle. Ryan caught himself wondering if the man's cane contained a hidden blade like Doc's.

  "That guy sort of looks like a sawed-off version of Doc, doesn't he?" Dean whispered, echoing Ryan's thoughts. "Walking stick, funny old clothes, nose high in the air. Like he was better than us."

  "Shh!" Ryan hissed. The boy was right, though.

  "Afternoon," the small man said, removing his hat and showing off a nearly bald pate. "I'm Benjamin Green. This strapping young lad behind me is my son, Jackson. We're traveling with a second party for pro­tection. This is Mr. Briggs and Mr. Constantinople."

  He was speaking to the waitress, Sandy. The man identified as Green's son, Jackson, had been carrying the umbrella. He now pulled the collapsible shade closed and shook off the excess rainwater. Ryan could see the family resemblance behind the unfortunate waxed mustache that Jackson had chosen to wear. The facial hair was coal black, like the man's hair. The black was too much and looked artificial. Ryan suspected the liberal use of a bottle of hair dye. Per­haps the son was prematurely gray, and that was his way of rebelling against the unstoppable onslaught of old age and/or resembling his father.

  Vanity was usually the first thing to go when tra­versing Deathlands, but the father-and-son team looked to have an ample supply. In addition to vanity being a deterrent when attempting to move quickly, a vain man was almost always a man with too much jack in his pockets. Ryan suspected the Greens' trav­eling companions weren't friends. The one they re­ferred to as Constantinople had the look of sec man written all over him. Hired help.

  Like his father, Jackson was dressed in the splendor of the old West—with selected nods to modern-day touches—a dark blue high-cut jacket with leather la­pels, a white shirt starting to droop from the damp­ness, a loosely tied lariat necktie held closed by a silver bolo. His trousers were tight and appeared to be made of a mix of shiny black leather, dark gray nylon and canvas. The toes of his once gleaming black cowboy boots were also tipped with silver, ster­ling tips very similar to the ones Krysty favored and currently wore.

  For protection Jackson carried a stripped-down re­made Uzi, a simple firehose with a pistol grip, capable of emitting a steady steam of bullets. The weapon hung from a shoulder strap down at his left side for easy access, right below the bottom of the short coat he wore.

  "Nice suits," Sandy told them.

  "Thank you. Will you seat us?" Green asked the waitress.

  "Pick a table. Don't matter which," she replied in a bored voice. "Get yourself situated, and I'll take your orders."

  "Are you on the menu?" asked the big man, Con­stantinop
le, with a leer.

  "No," she said flatly, "I'm not. And if I was, you couldn't afford me."

  As the blonde disappeared in the back, Constanti­nople watched the shallow movement of her hips and snorted. "Not much of a ride back there, but I guess it'd do in a pinch."

  "You'd crush her, big man," Jackson replied. "Smash her right into the ground once you got pump­ing."

  "Damned straight," Constantinople replied. He glanced at the older man. "Well, Ben," he said, "you planning on eating before dark or we gonna go out and catch our own? I guess we could continue to stand here with our thumbs up our asses waiting for the lady to bring us our grub, if you want."

  Green nodded and gestured for the others to choose a table.

  As the group strode past Ryan's table, the one-eyed man noticed that Constantinople was the classic ex­ample of a big man gone to seed. The broad shoulders and imposing height and weight had probably once made him an unstoppable opponent in hand-to-hand combat, but an appetite as huge as his frame had added weight to his flabby cheeks, his thick neck and his colossal stomach. A patch of hairy pelt could be seen at the apex of his middle where a shirt button had buckled and fallen under the constant assault of his gut.

  Constantinople was no intellectual; that could be seen in his wide face and half-lidded, cruel eyes. Un­like the Greens, he was no fashion lover. He wore a dirty brown duster, red-checked flannel shirt, jeans and boots that were more mud than leather. Perched on his skull was the quintessential ten-gallon hat, a tall hat with a wide brim, much like its owner. A semiautomatic handblaster was tied down to his right leg.

  The last man, the one called Briggs, took the ini­tiative and sat down first, picking a table across from Ryan's group in the opposite corner of the dining room. As if to express his own lack of interest in his fellow diners, he sat with his back to them. Briggs was all in shades of brown: brown kerchief, brown gloves, brown hat, brown coat. Even his hair and his bushy eyebrows were brown.

  The waitress returned when the men were seated. She held her pad and looked at the new customers impatiently.

  "What's good tonight?" Green asked.

  "Stew," Sandy replied.

  "Stew," Green parroted.

  "Got grits on the side if you want them," she added. ' 'All out of bread. Won't be no more up for another hour or so."

  "We'll have stew, then. And grits. And four cups of coffee."

  "Four stews and subs coming right up," she announced cheerily, happy to escape the obvious gaze from Constantinople. She quickly returned with four chipped mugs and a lime green metal pot. After filling all four mugs, Sandy had nearly made it away from their table before silently having to endure a quick slap on the rump from Jackson.

  Ryan couldn't help but notice that Jackson seemed more interested in impressing Constantinople than ac­tually getting any sort of thrill from smacking the waitress's buttocks.

  The sniggering of the two men ringing in her ears, she turned her attention to Ryan's table.

  "Refills?" she asked stoically.

  Doc and J.B. took her up on the offer, but the rest abstained. They'd had enough of the lackluster brew.

  '"Tis poor to the palate, but it does give one fire in the belly," Doc said after taking a large gulp.

  "Fire in the belly, hell, that's gas," J.B. retorted. "You could run an engine off this stuff."

  "Cut the chatter and drink up," Ryan announced in a low voice. "I've got a bad feeling about the boys who just joined us. I'd rather avoid any trouble if we can help it. My stomach's full, and the last thing I want is to exert any energy dealing with a bunch of stupes."

  Sandy returned from the back of the Tuckey's with a serving tray bearing four wooden bowls of stew and a stained brown paper bag. After setting down the bowls of food, she tucked the tray under one arm and stepped over to Ryan with the bag.

  "Bread's inside," the waitress said. "I've got your check up at the register. We can settle up whenever you're ready."

  "Let's do it," Ryan said, and pushed back his chair. The legs made a low screeching sound as they were dragged over the floor. However, before any of them could rise, Jackson Green made a comment un­der his breath.

  "What did you say?" J.B. asked.

  "Nothing to you. Talking to the waitress."

  "I don't care who you were talking to. I want to know why it was you felt a comment was necessary."

  "If you must know, Four-eyes," Jackson began, but was stopped by Mildred.

  "Four-eyes? Now there's a classic insult that never goes out of style," she said.

  "I was wondering why there was bread for you and none for us," Jackson finished, continuing to speak over Mildred's sarcastic interjection.

  "They were here first, ordered it before you come in," the waitress said. "Sorry about that. Today's been busier than usual. Plenty of stew left. Should fill your belly."

  Ben Green spoke to them next. "There you go! Problem solved. Sit down, Jackson." The son obeyed, staring hard at Ryan and J.B.

  "Which way you all coming?" Green asked pleas­antly.

  "West," Ryan lied, shifting the paper bag with the bread into his left hand and smoothly dropping his right beneath the table and to his holster.

  "Smart to travel in a group. I try and do the same."

  "I noticed that. Right about the same time you made a point of telling everybody in here," Ryan said in the same even tone.

  "Hey, I gotta know something," Jackson said, tak­ing the conversation back from his father and peering over at Dean. "See, I'm not used to seeing men trav­eling with two such fine pieces of ass. Three if you count the boy—"

  Jackson was interrupted by a loud snort from Con­stantinople, who found this last statement to be utterly hilarious. A double-nostril load of the pale brown cof­fee sub exploded through the large man's nose and onto his plate of grits and stew.

  "And I was wanting to know where I could buy myself some. Traveling leg, coose on the loose, a walking, talking velvet snap-trap—you know what I mean."

  "Brother, there isn't enough money in all of Deathlands," Mildred said. "You keep looking, though, hon. You might find yourself a real relationship, in­stead of the one you've got going on right now with your hand."

  Mildred's statement amused Constantinople even more. "Who's the banshee?" he managed to ask be­tween snorts as he tried to catch his breath from laughing so hard and exhaling the coffee sub.

  The big man was pointing at Jak. Ryan could see the albino's muscles tense across the table, but the youth kept quiet.

  "I'd say he was one of those frigging vampires I heard about down along Louisiana way, but when I last looked, it was still daylight outside. He some kind of fucking mutie or what?" Constantinople asked.

  "Or what," Jak spat, sliding one of his small leaf-shaped throwing knives from the secure hiding place along the underside of his left forearm. "Chill your fat ass quick."

  Ryan gave the teenager a warning look. The ruby-eyed albino gave a barely perceptible nod and again fell silent.

  So did the obese man, who chose to have another large swallow of his coffee brew.

  Jackson did the replying for him: "That's a lot of double-big talk from a scrawny pecker like you, whitey. I think you're some kind of spook. Yeah, some kind of ghost who walks and talks, but ain't real friendly, eh? Freaking horrorshow."

  "Ease up, boy," Green said sharply. "Let these folk be."

  "Better listen to your daddy. We're not looking for trouble," Ryan said, keeping his tone deceptively easy, like the initial rumbling of a storm in the dis­tance before the first signs of chem clouds began to creep across the skyline. "No muties here, just hun­gry folks like yourselves. We just want to pay our tab and get back on the road."

  "Well, what's your big hurry?" Jackson asked in a snide voice.

  Ryan decided he'd had enough mouth. "Trying to get away from pricks like you. To be honest with you, pretty boy, I don't need the aggravation."

  "Ryan," Krysty warned from his right. The tim
bre of the one word said it all.

  The one-eyed man had the ability to read a situa­tion, although his own gifts weren't the result of mu­tation, as was the case with Krysty. In his years of roaming Deathlands, encountering the good and the bad in people from all walks of life, Ryan had become a keen observer of human nature. Not universal na­ture, although he understood quite a bit about what drove a person to act in a manner to injure his fellow, but more of a face-to-face understanding of what a man would do under the right circumstances.

  Mildred would have termed it an ability to read body language. Others might have said Ryan pos­sessed a sixth sense: observation and comprehension; the manner in how a person spoke, whether the tone was tinged with even the slightest hint of menace or friendship; the posture of his back and how he held his body; even the way his eyes cut back and forth— all of this could offer the crucial tip Ryan needed in knowing how to play a situation.

  One bad guess or false move could mean a crip­pling wound, a loss of limb and property and, more often than not, instant death from the barrel of a blaster or the blade of a knife. Ryan Cawdor enjoyed being alive. From time to time, he liked to tell himself he was getting pretty damned good at staying that way.

  The Green boy was trouble—handlebar mustache, fancy duds, dyed hair and all. Some burst of testos­terone had flooded his brain. Now the conversation had dropped all pretense of being civilized and had gone the way of a pissing contest.

  "Mebbe I'll just chill your one-eyed ass and take what I want," Jackson snarled, leaping to his feet and hoisting the Uzi.

  In response, Jak's right arm snapped down like a released cobra, spitting out one of the albino's wafer-thin throwing knives. The blade spun at an angle, singing across the standing man's throat in a near in­visible blur of movement, ultimately embedding itself in one of the orange seat cushions of an empty booth across the dining area.

  Jackson's neck split open in a yawn of crimson, spraying the table, the plates and his three compan­ions in a fine mist of blood.

  "One way to shut him up," J.B. muttered philo­sophically, whipping out his own scattergun to back up Jak's play.