by James Axler
Ryan carried on admiring the morning. Dred eventually reappeared, dragging Retha behind him. "Fucked her head, the stupe slut, with all that joltsky."
"Now what?" Krysry asked. "Could go back to the gateway. Jump on out of here." Ryan looked at the others. "Anyone got any strong feelings?"
Mildred raised a hand. "Please, sir. I'd like to look around what's left of New York. For old times' sake." Doc also raised a hand. "I agree with everything the last speaker said."
Krysty looked at J.B. and Ryan, knowing the final weight of the vote would be carried by them. "I'd like to look around, lover."
"Give it a day," J.B. agreed. "We can hit it as it moves."
"Yeah. Move south and keep away from the sewers and the river." Ryan looked at Dred, who was engaged in slapping the semiconscious girl to try to bring her around. "How about you?"
"Chance to stick with the best blasters in the whole ville? Got to joke me, Ryan. Course we'll go with you."
"USED TO BE WAGS RUN on steel lines, right through to Mattan," Dred told them.
"Used to run clear across Deathlands," Doc replied. "Plenty of lines. Topeka and Santa Fe. Climb aboard your coach in San Francisco, have your ham and eggs way down in Carolina. Pardon me, boy, is that the cat that shined the new shoes?" He doubled over, cackling with laughter at what he clearly regarded as some kind of joke. The others looked on blankly.
The early mist was burning off, being replaced by a cold, bright morning. The overnight dew was disappearing, but there was still enoug left to catch the dawning sun and hold it in countless diamond clusters.
"Cooking fires are dangerous," Retha said, now recovered from the alcohol and the jolt. "Brings muties like flies to shit."
"Where does the Hawks' territory—turf—stop?" J.B. asked.
"We walk where we want, and where we step, then the earth fucking dies," Dred said confidently, tossing his hair back from his face.
"Yeah, sure. But how many blocks of the ville do you control?"
"Well, around ten north and south, and four, sometimes five, from east to west."
"How many in your gang?" Mildred asked.
"Hawks got forty soldiers, the meanest fuckers who walk the valley and fear no evil."
"Dred," Retha said hesitantly.
"What?"
"Forty?"
"Shut the fuck up, slut."
KRYSTY LINKED HER ARM through Ryan's as they stood on a broad sweep of hillside, looking over ruined houses and apartments, down toward a huge bowl of tumbled concrete with a suggestion of dusty green at its center. "So that's Yankee Stadium," she said. "Like a shrine, back before the long winters."
Mildred was at their side. "My father's younger brother, Uncle Josh, he brought me here once. I'd be… about thirteen. Hot afternoon and the old guy showed us to our seats and dusted them for us. I liked that. And folks shouted, 'Beer! Yo, beer!' Cold drinks and popcorn and hot dogs. The best I ever tasted. Kids in the tiers with gloves on waited for a high fly ball. The smell and the crowd and—" She paused and swallowed hard. "If I go on like this, I'll end up in tears."
It was J.B. who put an arm around Mildred's shoulders to comfort her.
Dred was getting antsy, shuffling his feet and constantly looking over his shoulder.
Doc nudged him. "You reckon you got a frightful fiend stepping in close behind you, son?"
"Don't call me son, you—" Dred controlled himself with a visible effort. "Sorry, Doc. Listen, that blaster of yours. Big old gren-launcher. Really got two barrels on it?"
"Always keen to impart a little knowledge, Dred, though some say that can be a dangerous thing."
"What?" Total bewilderment showed on the boy's pale face.
"This single barrel fires a .63-caliber scattergun round. Close action. In fact, this gun was invented as a cavalry side arm in 1856 by Dr. Jean Alexandra Francois Le Mat of New Orleans, whom God preserve. They were eventually manufactured in New Orleans by the good doctor and Pierre Beauregard, later to win honors as a Confederate general at both Manassas and Shiloh."
Dred hawked and spit in the cold dirt. "Too much fucking talk, Doc. How many rounds? Gimme a short answer!"
"Well, as I was saying before that rather peremptory interruption, it has the one scattergun barrel. You then adjust the hammer here, and it will fire nine rounds of .36 caliber from this revolving chamber."
"Kind of clumsy."
"Many things are, my dear boy, until you get used to them. I have spent a large part of my adult life struggling to get used to things that were beyond my comprehension."
"You got the greatest blasters ever," Dred said, stopping to peer over his shoulder. "You all join the Hawks and—"
"We aren't big on joining, Dred. Thanks, but no thanks," Ryan replied.
"Sure, sure."
A large rat scurried in front of them, appearing to come out from a broken drain cover. It was brindled and dragged one rear leg. As it ran over the piles of bricks and shattered glass, strings of sticky intestine leaked from a savage bite on its flank.
"Supper!" Retha shrieked, pulling a small knife from her sleeve and going after the creature. But the thigh-length waders slowed her to a lumbering gallop, and the wounded rodent managed to escape among some heaped paving stones. She rejoined the companions, panting and cursing, rubbing at her ankle, which she'd turned in the rubble. "Lost food," she moaned.
Mildred glanced at J.B. "Seems I wasn't that hungry, anyway."
The Armorer smiled at her. "Yeah, but you have to admit last night's dog was good."
Dred, with his uncannily sharp hearing, caught what J.B. had said. "Yeah. With those blasters we could move in on Tuff Norris and his dogs."
Doc grinned. "Upon my soul! That sounds uncommonly like a supporting act in vaudeville. Tuff Norris and his performing dogs. A smile, a song and a bark."
"Shut it, Doc," Ryan growled. "Who's this Norris person?"
"Breeds dogs out of Saint Mary Park. East a few blocks. In Trax turf."
"Breeds dogs." Krysty shook her head. "I didn't think many people around here would be into keeping pets."
Retha looked at her as though the redhead had become demented. "What's a pet? Breeds them for food. Hundreds. Dogs for eating." She shook her head at Krysty. "What a stupe."
Chapter Ten
"WHAT'S THIS ROAD called?" Ryan asked.
"Major Deeway," Dred replied. "Gotta learn the main trails so's you know how to get back to home turf."
"Is that Mattan across the river? If the bridges are all out, how d'you get over?"
"Gangs control crossings. Pay, and they ferry you over by raft."
"Pay what?" Krysty asked.
"Lotsa things. You give what you got that they want that you can give."
"If we're going down into Manhattan—Mattan— then how about all the other street gangs in the way? You got codes, laws and signals about going through each other's turf?"
Dred stopped and looked at Mildred, showing some unease. "I don't know."
The black woman sighed. "I knew about the Crips and Bloods and all the wearing of colors that street gangs used to have before the big night came."
Retha shook her head, glancing at her man for approval. "We don't have nothing like that."
"So how come we're going to walk along these…these mean streets if they belong to other gangs?"
Dred smiled weakly at her. "It's having you oldies along. If you weren't here with all those blasters, the other shitters'll wonder what the fuck's going down here."
Mildred nodded. "Terrific."
IT WAS ABOUT NINE in the morning by the time they got to the ferry, and it had been a comparatively uneventful journey.
A stone had been thrown at them as they neared the river, skittering along the roadway, making Doc skip nimbly in the air. But there was no follow-up.
"What's the average age of the Hawks?" Ryan said.
"What's average mean?"
"Like, you're around
eighteen or so. How many are a lot older or a lot younger?"
"In the Hawks?"
"In any gang?"
"Mostly street kids. Sort of ten to about fourteen. You know."
"How many older than twenty?"
Dred had looked at the one-eyed man as though he'd been asked the riddle of the universe. "Older than twenty? Nobody. What a triple-stupe question! Hear that, Retha? Older'n twenty!"
THE FERRY OPERATED near the remains of what looked like an old railway bridge. The rusted remnants of the lines hung out over the river, reflected in the slow-moving water. There was no sign of any sort of boat.
"Now what?" J.B. asked, his eyes darting around, looking, as always, for the first sign of a potential ambush.
"Call the ferry," Dred replied.
From the behavior of the young man, Ryan was building a suspicion that he might be on jolt or some kind of speedy high. He was sweating, despite the chill of the morning, and he didn't seem able to keep still. His hands were in his pockets and out again, fingers knotting, constantly moving toward the nest of small sores around his mouth.
Behind them was a triangle of steel scaffolding, like an enormous whipping frame. Hung on a length of polished chain was a steel bar, nearly six feet long, and leaning against the apparatus was another metal bar, about two and a half feet in length.
They all watched as Dred slouched toward it, hefting the shorter bar and swinging it in a scything round-arm blow. There was a deep ringing sound, so rich and resonant that it seemed to make the marrow of the bone quiver. The noise echoed back from the wrecked buildings on the far shore.
The teenager scrambled to the top of the makeshift structure, hanging on by one arm and swinging with a studied artlessness, staring out across the water for a response to the signal.
Krysty was at Ryan's side, both of them looking at Dred. "What d'you reckon, lover?" she asked quietly so that Retha wouldn't hear.
"Got to be tough to run a street gang in New-york," he replied.
"Like him?"
"Don't feel one way or the other. How about you? What do you feel?"
Krysty brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Can't tell."
"But?"
"No. Can't say I like him. But there's something about him that puts me in mind of Jak."
Ryan pursed his lips. From behind them there was another great pealing from the signaling bar. "Put Dred and Jak into a dark room together and who walks out?"
"Jak. No contest."
"Then again, Jak was…is something triple-special. Probably not anyone like that snow-headed little bastard in all Deathlands."
Krysty shaded her eyes. "Something's moving over there." She glanced behind her again at Dred, who was punching the air exultantly with his fist. "Trust him, lover?"
Ryan shook his head. "About as far as I could throw him. Then again, in all Deathlands there can't be more than about ten people I'd trust. And four of them are right here."
Krysty laughed. "King of the misanthropes, aren't you?"
"How's that?"
"Misanthropes don't care much for other folks. There must be friends left behind. Old lovers. Children. Must be."
"If there are any wives or children, I don't know nothing… anything about them."
Krysty stopped smiling, putting her hand to her eyes, as though she'd suddenly been stricken by an agonizing migraine.
"What's wrong?" Ryan asked.
"Oh, Gaia!" She swayed so much that he had to steady her with a hand on her arm. "Krysty?"
She gulped in a great shuddering breath and managed to straighten, pushing his hand away. Her face was as white as fresh-fallen snow, eyes glittering like green fire. Her brilliant hair was curled tightly around her neck.
"That was so…" she began.
"What?"
She shook her head. "Just a sort of flash of… A seeing. But stronger than anything I've ever known. Mother Sonja said there'd be times like this. Times like this, she said, when I'd see something so clear, so clear that—"
"But what did you see, lover?"
"I can't tell you, dearest." She held on to him now and stared intently into his face. "I can't. If what I saw is true, then it'll come. If not, then there's no point in words."
"Please."
"No. Sorry, lover. No."
"Ferry's on the way!" Retha yelled.
Ryan bent and quickly kissed Krysty on the mouth, tasting the salt chill of the water on her bloodless lips.
He turned to stare out across the river, seeing the bizarre craft that was making its way slowly toward them. It was flat-bottomed, like a raft, seeming to be based on a number of old metal and plastic drums, which were strapped to its sides. There was a rudimentary mast, but no sail. Three long oars on each side dipped and rose in a ragged rhythm. Steering was by a high rudder at the stern.
J.B. looked at Ryan, concern showing in his eyes. "Lot of men."
"I make ten," Ryan replied.
"Twelve," J.B. corrected.
"Could be fourteen," Krysty added. "Think they're down behind the planking."
Ryan beckoned to Dred, who swung down from the metal triangle.
"Yeah?"
"Need to talk fast about this ferry."
"What?"
"There's more than a dozen men on that raft, and I guess most carry blasters and blades."
"Sure. Does a rat shit in the sewers?"
"So what stops them from trying to take us out and grab our weapons, fuck the women, then cut everyone's throat? Tell me that, Dred."
"Kind of law stops them. Never heard of them doing that. They're all one family. Been here years and years. Nobody attacks them and they don't attack nobody."
Ryan looked at J.B. "Could be," he said to his oldest friend.
"Yeah. Things like it in lots of villes. It could be."
Ryan read the note of reservation and caution in the Armorer's voice. "Everyone on double-red. First sign and everyone opens up. Don't wait for any order."
Dred smiled nervously. "Hey, it'll be no-nerve. You outies don't get rules."
"And the payment?" Mildred asked.
Retha giggled. "It'll be me. Always it's me."
Chapter Eleven
THE RAMSHACKLE CRAFT coasted to a stop about twenty feet from the muddy shore of the river, the oars working slowly to keep it in position against the tug of the water. The person at the helm was so shrouded in rags and furs that it was impossible to tell whether it was a man or a woman. Most of the other crew members had long beards. All wore a similar assortment of filthy clothes.
There was no obvious threat, and Ryan began to relax a little.
"You want the ferry?" roared the person at the tiller, revealed as a tall, burly man. He threw back his hood, which looked like the pelt of a dog, and called out again. "You want to cross?"
Died glanced at Ryan, who nodded his agreement. "Yeah."
"All of you?"
"Yeah."
"I know you. One of the Bronx gangs, near the old baseball ground. Falcons?"
"Hawks. I'm the pres. Name's Dred."
The raft was beginning to turn slowly, caught in a whirling eddy of the river.
"Back water, you brainless cockheads! Hold her steady." His attention returning to Dred. "Who's the others?"
"Outies. Most old."
"Got some pretty blasters there."
Dred grinned and half bowed. "Sure have. You carry us over to Mattan?"
"What we're here for."
"Usual charge?"
"Wait on. Hold her steady, you bastard sons of gaudy bitches!"
The man left the tiller and picked his way forward, exchanging words with some of his crew as he went. Several of them glanced toward the shore, looking along the line of would-be passengers.
Ryan half turned toward J.B., making a small movement of his right thumb, an old signal from their days with the Trader, which meant things were looking suspicious.
"Who are they?" Mildred tapped Dred
on the arm, making him jump.
"Told you. Family. Name's York. That's Boss at the tiller. Rest are his sons and nephews and all. Boss York's got more kin than anyone in the whole of Newyork."
"And you reckon they can be trusted, do you, Dred?"
"Yeah, yeah. Sure."
Retha was shuffling her feet in the mud, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of the long rubber waders as though she were readying herself to slide them off.
Krysty caught Ryan's eye, biting her lip. He repeated the signal with his thumb, warning her that he shared her unease.
Boss York returned to the steering of the raft, calling out an unintelligible order to his crew. One bank of oars began to pull forward while the other rowed backward, spinning the ungainly boat neatly on its own axis, bringing it in closer to the rubble-strewn shore.
"Same as usual, Hawk!" he shouted, a red-lipped smile splitting the expanse of facial hair.
As they moved to climb aboard, Dred gripped Ryan by the elbow, pushing his face close. His rancid breath brushed against Ryan's face. "Whatever happens, don't cause trouble," he whispered.
Ryan counted fifteen on the raft, including a couple of young children who sat in the bottom between the men's feet.
The important thing was that there weren't many firearms in sight, though everyone was festooned with a variety of blades. Boss York, wearing a battered carbine with a sawed-off barrel at his hip, beckoned them to a double row of seats directly in front of the tiller.
"Keep the balance!" he bellowed. "Everyone bug-snug? Then give way both."
The Harlem River was less than a half mile across, running slow and clear. Peering over the side, Ryan could see innumerable fish moving below them, some like sinuous eels, about fifteen feet in length.
When they were a hundred yards or so out in the middle, Boss York pointed to Retha. "Time we started with the toll for the passage. Strip down, slut."
Ryan felt a faint prickling at his nape, and the pulse at his temple began to throb. Even though he knew it was ready, he looked casually down at the G-12, in his lap, checking that it was set on full-auto.
It was.
Retha kicked off the long boots and unbuttoned a pair of ragged jeans. She was wearing no underclothes.