The Fall of Man: The Saboteur Chronicles Book 1

by J. V. Roberts

  Her anger at a boil.

  A darkened room.

  Loviathar and his hammer.

  He’d just been a piece of shit Outlander.

  She looked away, her cheeks were flushed. She pushed the jacket and guns aside and sat on the edge of the bed, her back to him. “I’m sorry that I don’t stink of goat shit and piss.”

  “I don’t think that’s what gave you away.”

  “Oh, do tell. What is it that gave me away?” She turned the upper half of her body to face him, propping one leg up on the mattress.

  He was sitting down beside the table, legs crossed. His guns were lined up in front of his knees, from largest to smallest. The machete was lodged in the wall above his head. “The way you carry yourself: your eyes, your shoulders, the way you hold your head. Outlanders, we don’t know a whole hell of a lot; mile-to-mile, minute-to-minute, it’s all a gamble for us. The Union, you guys got it figured out. You treat the Outland the same way you treat the Towers, like you can see the angles. Like the world owes you something, like it’s gonna pay up as soon as you walk in the room. That ain’t the way it works out here. You might be able to see all the moves coming from way up there in the Towers, but out here, sister, it’s unstable.”

  “Oh, what do you know?” She waved her hands at him and jerked back around. Why did she even bother asking the brute for his opinion? Does the eagle ask the ant for its perspective on the world? Does the predator seek advice from the prey? “You’re sleeping on the floor.”

  “Have it your way, lady. I’ve slept on more floors than you have beds. It’s no hair off my balls.”

  Savage, of course the floor of some shithole inn would possess all the comforts of home. “Would you blow out the candle?”

  “Why?”

  “Because, I’m trying to get ready for bed. Blow out the candle.”

  “Shy?”

  She stood up and came towards him with her fists raised. “If you don’t blow out the—”

  “Okay, shit, I’ve got it.” He laughed and sat up on his haunches. He gave a quick puff and the room was cloaked in shadow, save for the moonlight streaming in through a single window.

  She felt her way back to the end of the bed and undid her pants. She worked them down across her thighs and feet. She picked them up from the floor, folded them, and laid them across the ledge of the window. Even in the darkness she couldn’t shake the feeling that his eyes were caressing her body, or the pleasure it aroused inside of her.

  11

  Monte had come in from the east three days prior. It’d been a grueling journey, but one that he wasn’t given a choice in making, his brother had granted him a handful of men and commanded him to move out. There were reports coming from the settlements that the Union was making a push not seen since the war, this time with coins rather than bullets. The settlements were what kept Rebel blood flowing; kept their ranks stocked and their bellies full. If the known settlements fell into Union hands, then there was nothing stopping them from pushing east and driving the Rebels beyond the Glass Mountains and into the irradiated seas for good. Monte and his crew had been tasked with discovering the severity of the situation. The decision to deploy for war would rest on the shoulders of their report.

  Their camp was a circle of large tents made out of hand spun yarn comprised of yak’s wool. They were ugly, dark brown structures. The air around the encampment was filled with the smell of boiling stews. Directly in the center of it all there was a roaring fire, with the scorched carcass of some unidentifiable beast fueling the flames with fat drippings. Men stumbled from tent to tent, crashing into one another, occasionally stopping to take in the aroma of the seared flesh. Their bellies were filled with alcohol and their minds presently void of responsibility.

  “Hey, we got ourselves an intruder.” The man speaking was shirtless, with splotchy patches of black hair plastered across his gaunt body. He held a wine skin in one hand and a sawed off shotgun in the other. The barrel of his shotgun cut woozy circles across the small figure standing on the outskirts of their encampment.

  More men rushed from their tents, in various states of undress, carrying a variety of death dealing hardware.

  “Eh, he’s just a kid.”

  “Could be a dwarf.”

  “What’s a dwarf doing all the way out here?”

  “I dunno, them things is tricksy.”

  “You some sort of dwarf expert now?”

  “I’m just covering all the angles.”

  “Enough about the dwarves. It’s obvious that it ain’t no dwarf. His head is too small and his legs ain’t fat enough. What do you two idiots know about dwarves anyway?”

  “I seen a dwarf take a cock the size of a skyscraper once.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Nope, seen it with my own eyes. Big black cock, had the width too, damn thing was as fat as Genesis, but not nearly as pretty. Dwarf looked like a garden snake trying to swallow a rat. Little bitch did it though, impressive, they should have taken that show on the road, I’d have paid good coin to see it again.”

  “Enough about dwarves and black cocks, you’re killing my buzz. Come forward boy; let me get a look at you.” Monte entered the mix, silencing the drunken banter. He was a lanky figure without a sprig of hair to be found on the front half of his head. He was wearing only a pair of dirty underwear. He was also the only one not waving a weapon around as if it were some extra appendage.

  The boy stepped into the firelight.

  “That’s the innkeepers little brat, the goat herder.”

  Monte took a knee and motioned for the boy. “The name is Montejano, but my friends call me Monte. I reckon we’re friends. We ain’t gonna hurt you kid.”

  “I reckon I’m fine where I am,” the boy spoke for the first time, hugging himself, eyeing them warily.

  Monte stood, took a mouthful of hard drink, and spit it on the fire. Flames curled up into the air, engulfing the impaled animal carcass. “What can we do for you, goat herder?”

  “Pa said you wanted to know if Union bodies turned up around the inn, said you were offering up coin.”

  There were seven Rebels standing around the fire. Their laughter and jest ceased all at once, their full attention turned to the boy.

  “Your pa kill himself one?” Monte asked, taking another swig from the skin.

  “Nah, he ain’t killed himself one.”

  “Well, what are you getting on about, goat herder?”

  The boy shrugged. “Ya’ll still offering the coin or not?”

  Monte wiped some of the excess alcohol from his lips. “In truth, it’s my brother that handles the coin. We’ve got ourselves a rather limited allotment of funds for this particular outing.”

  “Well, where’s your brother?”

  “East, young sir, beyond the Glass Mountains, taking in the grandeur of the irradiated seas. Have you seen the seas? Oh, they are a sight. Beautiful and green and deadly, the water will make your skin slop right off, seen it happen with my own eyes.”

  “Well, go get him.”

  The men around the fire laughed. One of them turned the roasting carcass, discarding the fat drippings, igniting bursts of spark and flame as they sizzled against the face of the charred woodpile.

  “How about I draw you a map? You can go get him, we’ll wait right here for your return.”

  “This is a good tip. My pa said so.”

  “Your pa said so? Well, I’m convinced; the old drunk said so.”

  “She’s with an Outlander, big guy, scary looking.”

  “She? Well, perhaps there’s something here after all, you vague little bastard.”

  “Could be a bit of fun,” the man turning the carcass slobbered.

  “I’d like to know what a Union cunt is doing with an Outlander,” Monte spoke with renewed interest. “They armed?”

  The boy shook his head. “Just some rifles, I think. We didn’t search them or nothing.”

  “Yeah, well, it don’t pay to assume.
We’ll act as if they got a bomb. Kid, you got a deal. I’ll give you part up front, out of my own purse. If your tip pays off, there will be more. Agreed?”

  The boy stepped forward and offered his hand.

  Monte seized his wrist and yanked him the rest of the way, grabbing the boys face between both of his calloused hands and squeezing his cheeks together. “If this turns out to be anything other than easy picking, it falls on you and your old man. We clear on that, goat herder?”

  “Yes sir, we’re clear.” The boy was smart enough not to struggle against Monte’s hostile embrace.

  “Good,” Monte shoved the boy backwards, planting him on his ass, “this bitch and her Outland bastard, they are held up in your pa’s place?”

  “Yes sir.” The boy stood and began brushing the dirt from the back of his pants.

  “You run back and let your old man know we’re coming.”

  And with that, the boy turned and broke towards the inn.

  “You four,” Monte drew a half moon across the four men standing around the fire, “strap up and go take care of this. Kill the Outlander and take the bitch alive, if you can. I think my brother would appreciate a Union toy to play with.”

  “You got it boss.”

  “You sure you don’t wanna send more?” asked the man twirling the meat.

  “For some Outlander and some Union cunt? Nah, this is low hanging fruit my friend, low hanging fruit.” Monte sat down, the fire warming his shins, watching his dinner crackle and pop as the four men he’d chosen retreated to their tents to gear up.

  12

  He heard them coming. The floorboards sang an off key groan in his ear, announcing their approach. He guessed three, maybe four, judging by the space in time between each step. He sat up on one knee. He took his pistol in one hand and his machete in the other.

  “Lerah,” he whispered.

  She snored once and rolled over on to her stomach. The moonlight bathed her body. The covers were kicked down around her ankles. Her panties were bunched up in the crack of her ass. She was a heavy sleeper. Not a positive trait for a soldier.

  He leaned out and kicked the bottom of the mattress with the heel of his boot, lifting it from its frame and dropping it back down again.

  That woke her.

  “What the hell?” She sprang up and scrambled towards the head of the bed.

  “Shh!” He brought a finger to his lips. He lifted his gun and motioned towards the door.

  She made her move for the edge of the bed just as the door came spiraling off its hinges. The strobe light flash of automatic gunfire filled the room. Lerah rolled, head over heels, across the mattress towards the far wall. Geysers of feathers leapt into the air as bullets touched down behind her.

  The first gunman ran into the room, his arms extended, still spraying lead in Lerah’s direction, his lips spread in some drowned out battle cry. He was oblivious to Dominic crouched in the darkness beside him.

  Dominic moved from the shadows and brought the machete down like he was splitting a wedge of log. The blade went right through both of the gunman’s arms, taking them off at the elbows. The gun fell to the floor, a dead finger still clasped across the trigger, emptying its magazine on the way down. Dominic brought the machete across the man’s throat before he could register his missing limbs. The force of the blow turned the man completely around. Dominic kicked him in the back and sent him stumbling out into the hall, spraying blood like a busted pipe. The remaining assassins scrambled for cover as their mortally wounded comrade reentered their midst.

  “Sonofabitch!”

  “We’re going to pound your asses!”

  “Union motherfuckers!”

  One of the men hooked his arm around the doorframe and sprayed gunfire blindly. Dominic fell to his belly and rolled back into the shadows as the bullets whistled overhead.

  Lerah was crouched behind the bed in her underwear. She was breathing heavy. She had her rifle clutched tight against her chest.

  This was her first real gunfight. She had that look: frozen up.

  Dominic whistled twice. His first attempt was eclipsed by a wave of bullets tearing through the air. He returned fire. Three rounds through the open door, to keep them at bay. The second whistle got her attention.

  Her eyes were dinner plates.

  He jabbed the machete towards the window behind her head. “Just cover me. Can you do that?”

  She nodded briskly.

  “Okay, on three.” He jumped into a crouch as another bout of gunfire tore through the room, splintering the walls and shredding the mattress. “One, two…” he set all his weight against his back heel, “fuck it!” He broke into a lumbering sprint, pistol in one hand, machete in the other; a man of his size wasn’t built for speed.

  Lerah perched her elbows up on the mattress and began spraying a wide fan of fire at the open door, a wild burst of unguided ammunition, her bullets tore across the walls and up into the ceiling.

  Dominic tucked his shoulder and leapt towards the square of wood and glass. The materials gave way beneath his weight. He flew out into the darkness. His plummet towards the ground was a short one. He landed against the hard packed earth with a dull thud. Razor sharp pieces of glass and fractured wood were now embedded in his naked torso. His ribs throbbed. The breath had been forced from his lungs. He rolled around in the dirt, unable to express his pain. Debris crunched beneath his body. His eyes were pinched shut. His teeth ground together so tightly that they were in danger of snapping off inside his mouth.

  Lerah was still up there, alone.

  He had to pull himself together. Push the hurt down. Store it away. Deal with it later.

  He rolled over on to his hands and knees. As he hung there a crimson shower pitter-pattered against the withered earth. He stood, slowly, catching his first real breath. A thousand tiny explosions ignited inside the walls of his chest. He took his first steps towards the inn. His legs shook beneath him. His stomach gurgled and threatened to expel its contents. The anguish was damn near blinding.

  He took another step.

  And then another.

  The resistance died, little by little.

  Before long he was up the steps and through the door, gripping the pistol and machete. The old innkeeper stood in the center of the room, behind one of the tables. He was just as surprised to see Dominic as Dominic was to see him.

  There were volleys of gunfire flowing down from upstairs.

  Lerah was still alive and kicking.

  Ezra raised his hands. He began waving them gently, up and down, as if he were trying to cast some sort of spell. “Hey, now, hold on one second. Easy big fella, they’re here for the Union cunt.”

  Dominic exploded towards him, slid across the table on his ass, and landed the butt of his pistol across the bridge of the old timer’s nose. Ezra went down, hard, smashing the back of his head against the edge of the check-in counter. He lay there on the floor, softly moaning, drifting in and out of consciousness. Dominic stood over him and smashed the old man’s left kneecap with the heel of his boot. He started to cry out but Dominic belted him across the mouth before he could finish the utterance, putting him to sleep. Dominic stepped over and smashed his other kneecap, this time Ezra didn’t stir.

  With that business handled he made way for the stairs.

  Another burst of machine gun fire.

  Men swearing.

  Three rounds from a handgun.

  “Bitch has got to be running low on ammo.”

  “What about the other one that was with her?”

  “Hell if I know. Wait them out.”

  “You see what he did to John?”

  “No one else goes in. You guys get me? No one else goes in. That’s what they want.”

  “They have got to be close to empty.”

  Dominic moved slowly up the stairs, his back against the wall. He went foot over foot, trying his best not to upset the floorboards. He made it to the corner, bracing himself against the pain, a
gainst the hundreds of needles prodding at his flesh.

  He could hear them reloading.

  There was nothing from Lerah. She should have been taking the chance to return fire.

  Dry on ammo?

  That had to be it, right?

  Think positive, you cynical prick!

  Dominic turned out into the hall.

  There were three of them, lined up outside the door.

  The first two were stacked up with their backs to him. The third was facing him. Dominic locked eyes with him right out of the gate. He knew, straight away, that it wasn’t going to be a clean kill. He dropped in behind the first two men. They were burly fellas, stinking of nature and sweat.

  “He’s behind…” the third man tried to warn them, but it was too late.

  He raised his machete and used it to decapitate the first gunman. He swung so hard that he buried the blade in the wall. He didn’t bother trying to work it free. He just left it there, bits of gristle and skin dangling from the metal. He grabbed the next gunman by his hair and pulled him in close. He draped his pistol arm across his right shoulder and sent three rounds spiraling into the chest of the man he’d locked eyes with. The last man standing began twisting and turning in Dominic’s grasp, trying to work his way free. Dominic slammed his face against the wall, set the muzzle against his temple, and fired. There was a hell of a backsplash, a concoction of bone and tissue that drenched Dominic’s face as the man’s head deflated.

  “Lerah!” he called as he let the body slump to the floor. He ducked into the room, scanning the darkness with his weapon. “Lerah, don’t shoot. It’s Dominic.” The bed was a scorched pit of feathers and fabric. The back wall had been disintegrated. The muggy night air swept into the room, mingling with the acrid smell of spent gunpowder.

  Lerah’s form slowly rose from the other side of the ruined bed. Her arms were shaking, her teeth chattering. A whisper of white smoke still licked the barrel of her gun.

  “You can go ahead and lower that. They’re dead.”

  “All… of them?” She looked wildly towards the door, as if waiting for the next volley of shrapnel to head her way.