by James Axler
Jak was sitting to Ryan's right. He put his face closer and whispered, "Fucked if find chilled their double-best god, huh?"
Ryan nodded. There hadn't been any choice in chilling the giant mutie rattler, but that might not go down well if anyone in Snakefish found out about it.
Mote continued to smile around, rubbing his hands together in an odd washing motion. Ryan heard Doc whispering something about the perfumes of Arabia, but he didn't get the reference.
"We have new brothers and sisters to welcome to our humble gathering," Mote continued. "I will ask them to introduce themselves to us, one by one. Perhaps, Mr. Cawdor, you would care to begin to do the honors for us?"
"Sure, Reverend. Name's Ryan Cawdor and I'd like to thank the kindly ville of Snakefish for helping me and my friends."
"I'm Krysty Wroth and I'd like to back up what Ryan said. Thanks."
Norman Mote held up an imperious hand. "Such thanks do credit. But there are those in the ville who think that generosity begins at home. Too much kindness to those from outside means less wealth for those within Snakefish."
"Wealth isn't all," someone countered from the front of the congregation. Ryan was sure it was Baron Edgar Brennan or his brother, Rufus.
"Some say, some say," Marianne Mote called from her golden throne.
It was the first time she'd spoken, but the co-guardian of the temple made a big impression, just by sitting there.
She was short, struggling to make four-ten. Marianne was also struggling, by the look of her, to keep her waist down under forty inches. She wore very heavy makeup, which made her look like an aging gaudy queen. She was dressed in a loose, rustling gown of what was either snakeskin or a very clever imitation of it. And her belt was silver, like the collar that Ryan remembered all too clearly from around the throat of Azrael. She wore shoes with totteringly high heels. The piled-up hair was of a shimmering blond color—obviously a wig. Marianne Mote was one of the finest bits of mutton dressed as lamb that Ryan had ever seen.
Her eyes had the flat, incurious dullness of a killer shark.
Norman turned to her and gave a slight bow, moving to face the congregation once more. "I must apologize to everyone here in the name of the Great Worm for the interruptions. Pray carry on introducing yourselves, outlanders."
"John Dix. Good t'be here."
"Jak Lauren. Same."
"Richard Neal Ginsberg. I'd like to say that I appreciate the kindness shown to me personally. Good to see strangers treated so well. Thank you."
"Lori Quint."
"Theophilus Algernon Tanner." Doc bowed deeply to everyone around him and glanced up at the people in the balconies. "I've been to a lot of places and have seen a lot of things, which is better than seeing a lot of places and being a lot of things. I guess." The old man shook his head disappointedly. "Not tuned in for my kind of humor. Well, let it pass. So it goes. I'll simply add my own gratitude to those of you who've been kind to us."
He sat down and Norman Mote clapped his hands together, very softly and gently. "We thank you all, brothers and sisters. We trust that in the days to come you'll all find some way of putting back into Snakefish what you're taking out."
"Most generous little ville in the west," Krysty whispered sarcastically.
The service was complex and long. There were innumerable readings and prayers, not all of them centering on snakes. But most of them did. Some of the religious elements were more traditional, with hymns that were more recognizable. But again and again either Norman or Marianne Mote returned to the reptilian theme—coiling, striking and crushing.
Their son, Joshua, preached a short sermon, which he read with stumbling difficulty from a series of large cue cards. He was in his early twenties, had sagging, unhealthy skin and puffy eyes, and wore a shirt of pale blue silk and a neck thong holding a large, polished nugget of turquoise. He was barefooted. Blond curls peeked out from under the brim of a black Stetson-style hat. His voice was faltering and high-pitched.
His reading was a supposed parable about a family who owned a lot of wheat but gave so much away that they began to run short and suffer themselves for their generosity.
"For wheat, read 'oil,' I guess," Ryan whispered to Krysty.
Swiftly becoming obvious was the extent to which the ville was divided. Baron Brennan had seemed a friendly and generous old man, but the roots of a long-buried bitterness were becoming exposed. And it was also becoming clear that the baron's hold on the power in Snakefish was as nebulous as the dew upon a summer pasture.
Joshua finished his reading and sat down again on his chair.
"Before our final prayer for the morning," Norman Mote announced, "I shall give out one or two important notices."
Ryan saw that there was a strip of wooden carving above the stage. The lettering, deeply incised and in shadow, was difficult to read. By putting his head on one side he was able to decipher it: The Ophidian Way Is the True Way
.
"What's ophidian, Doc?" he muttered.
"Means to do with snakes. That's all," came the reply. "From 'ophis,' a snake in Greek."
"Please shut down on the talking during services, Brother Ryan," Norman Mote called with the sweetest and most conciliatory smile, a smile that fell a good few miles short of reaching his eyes.
"Sorry, Brother Norman," Ryan replied.
"The notices. Sister Laurentia is holding a clambake on Thursday next. Three in the afternoon, is it not, Sister? I see her nodding in the balcony there. Praise the Worm, Sister."
A faint "Amen" filtered down from the gallery above them.
"Some bad news. Zombie has reported to me that the base on the fringes of Death Valley has been raided twice more by stickies. I shall be talking to Baron Edgar to find out what he intends to do about this further incursion to our gas supply." There was a buzz of chatter. Ryan was able to see that Edgar Brennan was talking animatedly to Carla Petersen and to his nephew, Layton.
"Go chill the coil-bound mutie bastards!" someone yelled from the back. Ryan would have laid jack that it was the gun dealer, John Dern.
"Amen, amen to that, brother," Mote called, lifting his hands for quiet. "One more thing. At feeding last night, there was no sign of our beloved Azrael. Belial and the others came to the call, but not Prince Azrael himself."
"Could be shedding, Pa," Joshua Mote hissed from the rear of the platform.
"No, Apostolic Apprentice Joshua, no. It is the wrong time for Azrael to shed. No. It has happened before that he has missed a feeding."
"Maybe caught him a juicy stickie," Marianne Mote suggested.
"Maybe, my dearest. Maybe that. Anyway, I'd like eyes and ears kept open for any news of Azrael Twelve. That's all. We'll end on our usual prayer, brothers and sisters. Let us pray."
There was a series of pattered responses, similar to those that had opened the service. A final, swelling "Amen," and it was time to leave.
As they filed out, there was a double line of the Last Heroes, standing so casually out in the bright morning sunshine. Zombie caught Ryan's eye.
"Reverend Mote'd like a word, brother. His room at the back."
"I'd like to go and see him." He turned to the others. "Be out soon. Wait for me."
Zombie walked through the empty church, escorted by Riddler and Dick the Hat. Ryan strolled at his elbow, deliberately taking his time.
"Come on in," Norman Mote invited. "Zombie, you wait in here. Other two outside the door. Don't want to be interrupted till I say so."
The Mote family was relaxing in a suite of elegant rooms behind the temple. Norman was smoking a large cigar, feet resting on a table. Joshua was picking his nose and thumbing through a crudely colored porn mag. Marianne had changed into a loose gown of chem-cloud-pink chiffon that swirled loosely about her as she moved. Ryan couldn't help noticing that she hadn't been very careful about the fastening and it kept swinging open to show the top of her thighs. The reverend mother looked like she didn't believe in wearing panties.
"Break their piss-ant knees if they didn't come," Joshua mumbled.
"Now, now." Norman smiled. "Boy will have his joke, Ryan. You understand that? You got any children of your own?"
He was taken off guard by the question. It had been such a long time since anyone had asked him that. Oddly Krysty had never asked him. She'd talked about their future together. Even kind of hinted that maybe one day she'd like kids. But she'd never asked him…
"No. I don't think…"
"You don't think, Ryan?" Marianne Mote laughed. Close up the resemblances he'd noticed were stronger. The gaudy queen with the dead eyes. And she was years older than he'd even guessed.
"That's right."
"Mean you don't know? Lots of little Ryans running around Deathlands looking for their long-lost daddy? I declare!"
Norman resumed control of the conversation. "Just wanted a word, Ryan. One or two folks say you and your…party look mighty like a load of mercies. What d'you say to that?"
"I say that I don't like answering the same question more than once."
There was a shocked silence in the room and, for the first time, Ryan realized that he was dealing with real power.
"Daddy asks a question, folks answer it," Joshua hissed.
"That's right," Zombie added. "Reverend Mote says 'jump' and you just say 'how high?' and do it."
But Norman wasn't thrown by Ryan's attitude. "Now this is the core and kernel of why I wanted a quiet word. I see that you seven outlanders have the look of… of folks that can handle themselves if there was any trouble. I just wanted to satisfy myself that you hadn't been hired by…" He paused then carried on. "By anyone in the ville to take their side if there was to be some sort of difficulty."
"Or firefight," Joshua said loudly.
"Yeah. A scale-blasted firefight," Zombie enthused, clenching his fists.
Marianne swept closer to Ryan, so that he could smell a cloying scent, overlaying the stale odor of her body.
"We don't believe it will come to that, Ryan. But you have arrived, no doubt by coincidence, at a key time for the ville. There is change in the air. Most of us believe that what comes from the ville belongs to the ville. All of it."
"The gas," Ryan said.
Norman nodded. "Indeed. Man of perception, Ryan Cawdor. I saw that right away. Now, if… let's imagine you might have been hired by someone." He raised up a hasty hand. "I know what you say about happening by. First time's happenstance. Second time it's pure luck. Third time and you're on your back staring up at the sky. We'd double whatever you'd been paid. Double it, clear and free."
"Bear it in mind," Ryan said.
Mote moved closer. "I'm not a man to fuck around with."
"Yeah," Ryan agreed, his voice flat and steady. "Stick your prick into my business, and you'll get it cut off."
"Yeah, Reverend."
"Go and have a nice day now. Zombie, see Brother Cawdor here off these premises. Good day."
"Well?" Krysty pressed when Ryan joined his friends.
Ryan took a deep breath of the morning air, tasting the sickly taint of gasoline. He grinned. "Like you said, lover. Friendliest little ville in the whole fire-blasted west."
Chapter Twenty
"SAW AN OLD MOVIE, back when I was… you know. It was Japanese, and about a sort of ace swordsman coming to a ville like this. He found two warring groups there, and they both wanted him to help them against the other. In the end, they kind of wiped each other out and he moved on. Seems a bit like that, here in Snakefish."
Ryan nodded. "Sure is. Looks like this place is a pan fit to boil. Baron's lost his hold. The Motes got the power. Folks in the middle go along with the power."
Doc was sitting on the bed, cleaning his nails with one of Jak's throwing knives. "Go with the power. Always have and always will. Show them a whip and they'll fall down to kiss it."
Rick stood and walked to the window, stooping to peer out across the street. Ryan noticed that he was less steady on his feet than he'd been on the way to the service, when he'd had the help of the stick.
The freezie turned back to face the others in the room. "Meant to ask you, though I have the feeling I'm not going to like the answer very much. Just what is a stickie?"
J.B. told him. "After the long winters Deathlands was full of hot spots."
"Centers of high radiation?"
"Right. Seems that the nuking did some strange things to animals and plants."
"And people," Lori added with a dramatic shudder.
"And people," the Armorer agreed. "You saw the snakes. There's plenty of mutie creatures of all kinds. Some grossed out. Some you have to look real hard to see what's wrong. Stickies are kind of obvious."
"What do stickies do? Stick to you, I guess. Is that it?"
The smile faded at the expression on J.B.'s face. "Right, Rick. They have kind of suckered hands. Some have feet the same. They can hang on smooth surfaces, like the side of a wag."
"Terrific. And there's a gang of them around here someplace?"
Ryan nodded. "So they say. Oh, there's a couple of other facts you should know about stickies. First is that they generally love all kinds of fires and explosions. Sometimes get themselves killed going too close to grens or flames."
"What's the other thing this twentieth-century boy should know about stickies, Ryan? I can hardly wait."
"Stickies all have a homicidally vicious hatred of all other living things."
Rick whistled. "Hell's bells! Like I said, I can hardly wait."
THEY WERE halfway through lunch when Carla Petersen arrived at the Rentaroom Hotel. Ruby Rainer was bringing in a tureen of stew with sweet potatoes and okra, sniffing with audible disapproval at Baron Brennan's assistant.
"Good noon to you, Mrs. Rainer. I'm not here to help myself to your food, though that does smell so good! I just want a word with our outlander brothers and sisters, if you don't mind."
"Sure. Go ahead." The woman flounced out of the room, muttering something that sounded amazingly like "mercies" as she went.
"Hollow tooth! That dried-up old bitch would sell her own kin to the feedings. If she had any kin to sell."
"What's a feeding?" J.B. asked quickly.
Carla picked at a small gravy stain on the cloth in front of her, hesitating briefly before she answered him. "A feeding's when… Only about one a year. Less some years. More in… Gas doesn't run so free or there's a sickness in the cattle or the crops fail or the rains don't come."
"And the creeks don't rise," Rick muttered absently to himself.
"Then the Motes have a big service…lasts for hours on end. They go into the brush and consult the oracles. How the big snakes are moving. Trails. Shed-skin. All kinds of things. Then they proclaim a need for a feeding."
Doc coughed, laying down his knife and fork. "I have lived long enough, Miss Petersen, to hear the words behind the words."
"How's that, Doctor Tanner?"
"A feeding. To my ears it sounds as though you really mean a killing."
She didn't answer, remaining preoccupied with the mark on the cloth.
J.B. took up the question. "That right, Carla? What Doc says? You mean someone gets chilled and offered to those slimy mutie bastards?"
"John!" Carla looked quickly at the closed door of the dining room with something very close to panic in her eyes.
"What?"
"Words like that will bring you all into the coils, John Dix. Ruby Rainer's one of the best informers in the ville. A breath here becomes a hurricane by the time it reaches the ears of the Motes. You must take care with your talk!"
Ryan leaned across the table, the congealing stew on his plate forgotten. "We're talking sacrifice, Carla? Is that it?"
"Edgar tries to stop it. Maybe he holds it in check. Marianne and her kin, they got the blood taste, Ryan. If the baron falls, then the ville will slide into butchery. If you could only help him. You g
ot blasters and you look like you know how to use them. Couldn't you…?"
Ryan caught J.B.'s eyes across the table, but was unable to read them behind the blank glass of his spectacles.
"We keep telling everyone that we aren't mercenaries, Carla. Means we won't hire out. There's enough men around Deathlands who'll chill for a pocketful of jack."
"Women, too," Krysty added thoughtfully.
"Yeah. Women as well. But not us. We saw the problem—old baron weakening, generous with the ville's main wealth. The Motes, scenting power for themselves. It's not a new story, Carla. We've seen it all before. But that doesn't mean we'll get involved in it. I'm sorry."
"They'll kill him and use the bikers to shut down anyone who tries to stand up. Doesn't that matter?"
The words were aimed at Ryan, but her eyes focused on J.B., who answered her. "It matters, Carla. In Deathlands you just can't step aside for every problem, every difficulty. There's always been killing in Deathlands, since the smoke settled after dark day. Rad-blast it! We just can't help everyone."
It was an unusually strong outburst from the taciturn Armorer. His normally sallow face was flushed, and his fingers tapped nervously on the edge of the long table.
"Edgar said you wouldn't help."
"Norman Mote offered to double whatever you were paying us. Told him the truth." Ryan remembered his food and stirred it with his fork, sniffing. "Guess I'll pass on this. No, Carla. Couple of days and we'll be gone."
"A lot can happen in two days," she said, standing slowly, looking around at the seven faces. "Sorry to have interrupted the eating."
After she'd left the dining room, bumping into Ruby Rainer in the hallway, the silence lasted a long time.
THE ROAR of the two-wheel wags told everyone in the rooming house that the Hell's Angels had come calling.
The engines were cut, and Ryan, sitting on his bed, heard a voice shouting. Krysty tugged the window open and leaned out, seeing Jak's head at the next window along. She turned back to the room and warned Ryan.
"They come for the kid," she said.
"How many?"
"Four. Not Zombie. What d'you think, lover? Gonna stop him?"