Lifting his flintlock, Ryan aimed between the wooden bar, sweeping the longblaster through the group of outriders for a target. A big man with a beard seemed to be shouting orders to the others, which marked him as the leader. Good enough.
Bracing against the numbing recoil, Ryan fired, and the discharge of gun smoke masked the results for a few seconds. When the breeze cleared the air, Ryan cursed to see he had missed. The damn flintlock was about as accurate as throwing dry leaves! Just for a microsecond, the one-eyed man wished the bolt-action Steyr was at his side. Then he shook off those kinds of thoughts and concentrated on the here and now. Six against six, with the newcomers mobile and the companions armed only with two longblasters, a handblaster and a couple of crossbows. He'd been in worse situations, but not by much.
Whooping like lunatics, the outriders charged over the lush grassland toward the companions, their weapons throwing smoke and flame.
“No way they can hit us at this range,” Mildred said, a hand blocking the sun from her eyes. “They must be trying to scare us into submission.” The flintlock pistol was in her other hand, the hammer cocked and ready.
“No nuking chance of that happening,” Krysty stated,
lifting her crossbow high and releasing an arrow. It soared high to arch back down and slam into a juniper tree just behind the outriders.
Contemptuously, the outriders opened fire again, scoring more furrows along the side of the wags, smacking out a chunk of wood from the bars of the cage.
“What in theâ¦the bastards aren't going for us, they're trying to ace the horses!” Mildred shouted in comprehension.
Using the nimrod to ram down a fresh load of powder, ball and wadding, Ryan cocked back the hammer and took aim. “Then we'll just use theirs, instead,” he growled, and squeezed the trigger. The longblaster loudly discharged, a dark cloud of smoke gushing from the wide muzzle with a bright stiletto of flame extending through the center like a lightning strike in the night.
The hat flew off the head of the leader, and the other outriders openly laughed. Then red blood began to trickle from his hair, and the man limply toppled over sideways from the saddle to disappear in a clump of thorny bushes.
Shouting curses, the remaining riders bent low behind the heads of their mounts for protection and started wildly shooting their blasters. Then Jak fired, scoring one man along the leg and tearing off the blaster from his gun belt.
“Well done, lad!” Doc proclaimed, releasing an arrow. It flew straight, then a gust of wind made it veer off wildly and impale a tall cactus. Under his breath,
the scholar muttered a word that normally he pretended didn't exist.
Pressing the handblaster against the bars of the cage, Mildred triggered the weapon, the recoil almost knocking the flintlock out of her grip. Oddly, the blaster sounded louder than the rifles, and as expected, she hit nothing. The range was simply too great for the short-barreled weapon. But she dutifully tried again anyway, determined to go down fighting. If nothing else, she forced the outriders to divide their attention.
“Dark night, if only I had my bag,” J.B. muttered, rubbing his bare shoulder. Then the man grinned wide and dived under the buckboard seat to come out with the wax-covered box of .22 cartridges.
“What do?” Jak asked, quickly reloading.
“Watch and see.” J.B. laughed, emptying out the leather sack of smoked fish, then reaching through the bars to start packing it full of clean straw.
Meanwhile, Ryan and Jack alternated firing and reloading their weapons to maintain a steady barrage. However, they were going through the small reserves of black powder at a prodigious rate and would soon be unarmed.
Just then, the team of horses started kicking and bucking, becoming frightened by the approaching outriders. “Millie, keep them under control!” J.B. yelled, adding a handful of loose black powder to the straw.
Triggering the blaster one last time, Mildred then sprinted to the front of the wag and seized the reins to try to calm the frightened team. “Easy, boys! Easy, now.” The physician chucked gently, her heart hammering inside her chest. Out in the open, she was a sitting
target for the outriders and was gambling they wouldn't want to chill a woman unless absolutely necessary.
Using both hands to draw back the steel cable for her crossbow, Krysty nocked another arrow. This one was tipped with a wicked piece of black volcanic glass, the razor-sharp edge of the basalt glinting like polished death.
Ignoring the people, this time the woman aimed for the much larger horses. She fired again, and a black stallion reared high to paw the air, the tuft of fletching sticking out of its heaving chest. Somehow, the rider managed to stay in the saddle. However, as the other outriders charged past, his animal slowed to a halt and simply stood there, gasping for breath, reddish foam dripping from its slack mouth.
Whipping the animal, the rider dug in his spurs to try to get it moving again, to no effect. Slowly, the beast lay down and went still. Crawling off the horse, the outrider kicked the dying animal in the head with a boot, and it lashed out with a hoof, cracking open his skull like a rotten egg. His head stove in, the faceless rider staggered about for a moment, blood squirting from the pulped mess of teeth and eyes, then he toppled over alongside the horse and they died in unison.
Stuffing in the box of cartridges, J.B. lashed the bag closed with a knotted length of rope. Yanking out the cork with his teeth, he opened a plastic bottle of shine and liberally soaked the entire bag. “Who's empty?” the man demanded urgently.
Quickly, Mildred tossed over her exhausted blaster, and J.B. awkwardly held the firing mechanism of the weapon close to the bag and pulled the trigger. The
flint threw off a spray of sparks and the leather sack burst into flames.
The heavy miniballs of the outriders hummed past the wag. One lucky shot, or perhaps a superior marks-man, scored a furrow in the wood alongside Mildred, splinters flying out to pepper her face. Cursing, she knelt to try to clear her eyes.
With a snarl, J.B. swung the crude bomb around his head, building speed while estimating the range, then he let go. The flaming sack sailed away to land in a bush near the outriders. Immediately, they separated to ride around the smoldering greenery, when the box full of .22 cartridges started cooking off. Banging away, the tiny rounds went in every direction, kicking up loose leaves and knocking a bird's nest out of a tree. Then a horse whinnied in pain, rearing high to dump its surprised rider, and another man clutched his face, blood gushing between his spasming fingers.
“Three down, three to go,” Mildred stated, hunkering down low in the front seat. Her lips were dry, and the leather reins were tight in her sweaty hands.
As if suddenly realizing that they were the last living members of the group, the remaining riders reined in their horses and forced them to lie down. Taking refuge behind the living barricade, the slavers hidden inside some bushes began steadily firing at the companions, the miniballs now slamming into the grass underneath the wag with noticeably better accuracy.
“Okay, this is our chance,” Ryan stated, yanking out the worn flint and shoving in his only spare piece. “Mildred, set the horses loose! Jak, set the straw on fire!”
That caught Mildred by surprise, but she reached
down to yank out the kingpin holding the yoke to the crossbar. As it fell loose, she lashed the horses with a whip. “Yee-haw! Yee-haw!” Already fidgety, the nervous animals needed no further prompting to take off at a hard gallop, leaving the companions and wag behind.
Once the horses were safely away, Jak thrust his flint lock inside the cage and dry-fired the empty blaster, the spray of sparks from the flint setting the rest of the straw and hay ablaze. Soon, thick plumes of smoke rose from the conflagration, the breeze wafting the fumes directly toward the crouching outriders. No longer able to see the companions, the slavers slowed in their assault.
“Nice move, but it won't last for long,” J.B. growled, opening and closing his empty hands.
Unfortunately, Ryan could see that was true. The fire was already starting to die in spots, the meager amount of bedding nearly half-consumed.
“What now, my dear Ryan? Are we to abscond?” Doc asked, a note of disbelief in his cultured voice.
“Not yet,” Ryan retorted, and took off at a full run toward the second wag. The rest of the companions stayed close behind, their movements covered by the billowing smoke.
The naked prisoners in the wooden cage stopped yelling advice as the companions came their way. But they promptly began again as Ryan and the others ignored the cage to rummage under the front seat for any stores of black powder and shot. There was plenty, along with a couple more flintlock handblasters, another crossbow, arrows and some boomerangs.
Grimly, Doc and Krysty grabbed blasters and ammo, while Jak took the boomerangs, as well as a small hatchet. The boomerangs had a rounded nose, with tufts of human hair embedded into the wood. Obviously, these were used to capture runaway slaves alive. But Jak had a very different use in mind.
“Don't leave us!” a woman pleaded, reaching out with a dirty hand.
“Take us with you!” a scrawny man added. “We can help fight! Please!”
Wordlessly, Ryan tossed them the iron key from the pocket of a fat corpse. A woman made the catch, but a man tried to snatch it away and a fight started inside the cage, the naked prisoners yelling and punching one another like lunatics.
“Work together or you'll get chilled!” Krysty yelled in annoyance, slashing the reins. But the caged slaves seemed to be beyond reason, scrambling and crawling over one another in a mad attempt to get the key first, or die trying.
Turning away from the growing madness, the companions each chose a horse, then cut it free from the brace and yoke.
“Stupidity is its own reward,” Doc growled in disgust, painfully climbing onto the back of a roan horse and kicking with his bare heels. Well trained, the horse immediately broke into a gallop, nearly tossing the scholar off its rear end. Grabbing a double fistful of mane, Doc held on for dear life and wrapped his pale legs around the mare's powerful chest as best he could.
With Ryan and Krysty in the lead, the companions
headed away from the battleground and toward the rocky hills. But when a rise in the grasslands took them out of sight, they immediately changed directions and headed toward the setting sun.
Splashing into a shallow river, Ryan saw streaks of glass ribbons in the mud, the marks of a nuke crater. Without thinking, he tried to listen to the clicks of his rad counter, then cursed himself for a fool. Gone. Every thing he had gathered so painfully over the long years was gone. A blind rage filled the man, and Ryan swore a blood oath to seek savage retribution on the cowardly thieves.
“We better get out of this triple-fast!” J.B. warned, the hooves of his mare throwing out a constant spray. More of the glass ribbons were coming into view, the risk of getting aced by rad poisoning rapidly escalating.
“Okay, back we go!” Ryan agreed, sending his stallion onto the grassland. He had hoped to get behind the last couple of outriders, but now that was impossible. There was no other choice but to charge at them headlong.
Returning to the second wag, the companions saw the fight was still raging inside the cage, and they rode past the fools at a full gallop. They were sickened by the stupe actions of the slaves. But then, most folks were dumber than muties. That was how the fragging world got destroyed in the first place, Ryan thought, greedy fools fighting over things they should have been smart enough to share.
Racing into the thinning smoke, the companions primed their weapons and waited for the first sight of
the enemy. In spite of its grim purpose, there was an almost dreamlike quality in their charge, their speed through the billowing smoke softening the grassy landscape into a greenish blur.
At the sound of the approaching hooves, the slavers hidden in the bushes began to wildly fire their weapons into the smoke. Wisely, the companions spread out to avoid offering a group target. Then the smoke cleared, and there were the outriders, crouching low in the bushes, their longblasters sticking out like the quills of a porcupine. Instantly, everybody fired.
With a start, Ryan actually felt the passage of a miniball as it hummed past his head, and Jak was thrown off his mare as the animal unexpectedly bucked, blood erupting from her muscular neck. The teenager hit the ground hard, losing his longblaster, but he came up in a run, waving the hatchet and throwing the boomerang.
Spinning fast, the weapon skimmed across the bushes and slammed into the chest of a slaver, sending him toppling backward. Before the man could rise again, Jak arrived and whacked him with the hatchet, the blade rising and falling in crimson fury.
Bringing his stallion to a stop, Ryan slid off the back end and ran into the thorny bushes in a crouch, uncaring of the cuts and scrapes incurred. There was a rustle to his left, and Ryan almost fired when he spotted Krysty, racing low to the ground, her blaster and machete at the ready. Doc fired his longblaster into a tree, hitting nothing. Dropping the weapon, he swung around the crossbow and continued onward.
A stand of cacti bellowed thunder and dark smoke, a miniball just missing J.B. to ace the horse behind the
man. Popping up into view, Jak threw another boomerang. Dodging to the left, Ryan fired his blaster, scoring a horrible shriek. Then the bushes exploded with activity, the cloud of smoke strobing with the muzzle-flashes of blasters shooting in every direction. The big miniballs hummed through the murky air. Horses screamed, men cursed and something exploded with stunning force, wildly shaking every bush, tree and cactus. Then there was only a ringing silence, and nothing moved for a very long time.
Gradually, the smoke cleared, and the companions stiffly rose from the bushes, their bodies covered with dozens of tiny scratches from the thorns and brambles. Their weapons already reloaded, Ryan and the others carefully surveyed the field, dutifully counting the as sorted body parts until reaching the correct number. Six outriders, six heads. Check.
“That's all of them,” Ryan declared, resting the heavy longblaster on a shoulder. That's when he noticed the clusters of splinters sticking out of his arm, some shrapnel from the cage. Gingerly, he plucked out the slivers, then did the same to his hip. Fragging things were everywhere! Even his back itched something fierce.
“Hold still a sec, lover,” Krysty said, stepping behind the man. He did, and there came a sharp pain from between his shoulder blades, followed by blessed relief.
Grunting his thanks, Ryan motioned for the woman to turn around. She was free of slivers, just dirty, bruised and streaked with blood. Luckily, none of it from her.
Going to a corpse, Jak looked hard at the body, then smiled and pulled off the boots. Slipping them on, the teenager stomped the leather into place, then went after the rest of the clothing. His pale skin was already starting to get sunburned, and Jak needed some cover fast or else he'd be in real pain for the next week.
In short order, the companions looted the aced men, taking random items of clothing, gun belts, ammo pouches, flint, knives and everything else that was useful. The boots were old leather, but still very strong, while the oversize clothing reeked of sweat and other things the companions tried not to think about.
“Oh, great god Laundry Soap, where are you when I need you?” Mildred said to herself, fighting the urge to scratch everywhere.
Going to investigate the dead horses, Ryan and the others found a couple more flintlocks, a couple of .22 zipguns, plus a great deal more ammunition and food. But none of their missing belongings.
“Must be in one of the other wags,” Krysty said, not really believing the words. “Or on the horses that ran away?”
“Nuking hell,” Ryan growled. “The weapons are gone. If these fat fools had our rapid-fires they would have used them in the fight.” Brushing back his long hair with stiff fingers, Ryan exhaled deeply. “Somebody else has our things now.”
“The dastards who poisoned the water?” Doc postulated, draping a saddlebag of food over a shoulder.
“Now I'm sorry we aced all of the slavers,” J.B. said, slinging a pepperbox rifle across his chest. “I knew a nasty little trick I learned from a Hun once that would have gotten one of the bastards talking fast enough.” His new cumbersome weapon had a dozen small chambers that each had to be individually charged with powder and ball, but they fired together with the pull of one trigger. The combined effect was devastating to anybody standing within a couple of yards, and
generally harmless to anything a yard past that. But still, it was better than nothing.
Tucking a zipgun into a holster designed for a much larger flintlock, Mildred frowned at the idea of torture, then suddenly went cold inside when she again remembered what was hidden inside her med bag. Oh, my dear God, she thought. We have to get my bag back at any cost! She started to tell the others, then paused, unsure of how to inform them about her colossal blunder.
“Mebbe slaves know,” Jak stated, sliding a knife into his new belt. “They probably see trade.”
“Let's go ask,” Ryan stated, heading that way.
Along the walk, Mildred decide to keep quiet for the moment about the journal. If she got it back, or it was destroyed, no problem. She would only have to inform the others if the med bag became permanently lost, and she was a long way from that yet. Pushing the matter to the back of her mind, Mildred inspected the wounds on Doc and Jak, and decided they would also keep for the moment. Neither was particularly deep, and both men knew how to tie a field dressing almost as well as she did.
Going to the crashed wag, Ryan went to check the bodies of the slavers, while Krysty and Mildred went to free the prisoners. Meanwhile, Jak went to look for the weapons of the companions under the buckboard seat at the front of the wag, and Doc inspected the horses to see if any of them could still walk. Sadly, all of the animals were crippled, so he solemnly drew a knife and began to mercifully slit their throats.
Keeping a safe distance from the group, J.B. stood
guard with the pepperbox, a hand curled around the huge hammer.
The body of the first slaver was in such ragged condition Ryan had no need to check for any sign of life. The man's head had cracked open on a rock, and his brains were lying in the dirt, covered with scurrying ants. Upon closer inspection, the driver of the wag turned out to be a woman; she was so fat that her huge breasts sort of merged with her belly to round out her shape into a blob.
She also didn't have any blood on her clothing, and Ryan kicked a stone in the dirt to send it tumbling into her side. Instantly, the fat woman rolled over and fired a hidden blaster. The miniball hummed past Ryan, punching through his hair it came so bastard close, and he shot back, blowing a ragged hole in her arm. They needed her alive.
Staggering back from the explosion of blood, the slaver turned and whipped out a boomerang. The spinning wood went straight for Ryan's face, and he just barely managed to block it with his longblaster, the boomerang smashing into pieces on the iron barrel.
Snarling, she draw a hatchet and started lumbering forward when an arrow slammed into her leg. With a cry of pain, the fat slaver turned to stare in raw hatred at Doc, holding an empty crossbow. Low and fast, Jak was running closer, a boomerang held in a raised hand. Dropping the longblaster, Ryan pulled a flintlock handblaster and cocked back the hammer.
“Surrender!” J.B. shouted, aiming the massive pepperbox.
“Nuke you! Never gonna put me in chains!” she growled, and pulled a machete to hack again and again
at her own neck. As crimson fluids gushed from the self-inflicted wounds, the companions could only watch as she slowly sagged to the ground and expired.
“Damn fool,” Doc muttered, nocking in another arrow. “She thought we would do to her what she had done to so many others.”
“Makes sense,” Jak said, tucking the boomerang into his belt. “Do unto others, all that.”
Never having heard the message of peace from the Bible twisted in such a manner, the old man gave no reply, not sure if he should be offended or bemused.
Just then, Krysty got the cage hatch unlocked and the prisoners crawled out of the box onto the soft green grass. Ten people exited the cage, with two more staying inside. It was readily apparent from the impossible positions of their bodies that the slaves' dream of freedom had been granted early by the cruel gift of death.
“Thank you, mistress,” an old man croaked, holding an arm that was clearly broken in several places.
Leading the man to the front of the buckboard, Mildred got some supplies from under the seat and commenced washing the arm with water and shine.
“You a healer?” the wrinklie asked in wonder.
“The best in the world,” Mildred stated truthfully, wrapping the arm in a dirty shirt before lashing it tightly to a broken spoke from the busted wag wheel. “This'll itch like crazy in a few days, but don't take this off!”
“Pain is life,” the old man said as if he had heard the phrase often.
“For a couple of months, at least,” she answered back
with a grin. Hesitantly, he smiled back, then inhaled sharply as she tightened the ropes even more.
The rest of the freed slaves remained standing in a loose group, looking greedily at the food and weapons at the front of the wag. Some of them started to move toward the aced slavers, but then glanced at the weapons held by the companions and nervously stayed where they were.
Frowning, Krysty looked over the forlorn people. Starved nearly to death and buck naked, they looked ready to keel over and buy the farm. What baron would ever want to buy a workforce like this?
Reloading the longblaster, Ryan ambled closer. “Any sign of ourâ¦boots?” he asked, stressing the last word.
“Not here,” Jak said meaningfully, looked sideways at the undamaged wag. The fighting in the cage had finally stopped, and several of the prisoners were stretching their arms between the bars to try to reach something on the ground. Obviously, during the ruckus, the key had accidentally dropped into the grass.
“Anybody see who sold us to the slavers?” Ryan asked in a loud, clear voice. Walking closer, the man lifted an ammo pouch from his belt, hefting it in a palm. “There's a reward.”
Unfortunately, nobody had seen the transaction.
Getting the water skin from under the wag, Doc passed it around, making sure that nobody had more than a sip the first time, but then allowed them to drink freely the next. “There's a river just that way,” Doc said, indicating the direction with his chin. “Plenty of clean water.”
“Lots to eat, too,” Jak said, thrusting a spare knife into the rump of a dead horse. “Long as you don't mind raw meat.”
Mumbling excitedly, the freed prisoners expressed their sincere opinion that raw meat would do just fine.
“Mister, I could eat the ass off a swampie if it held still long enough,” a tiny wrinkled woman said, her flowing hair silvery-white with age.
Snorting in amusement, Jak tossed her the knife. She made the catch and started for the animal.
“Before that, which one of you is the skinny guy that kicked the slaver off the wag?” Ryan asked, looking over the assemblage.
“That was me,” a burly man stated, stepping out of the crowd.
Only a split second behind the man was a skinny woman, her breasts flaps of loose flesh on her bony chest.
“Nuking liar, I did it!” she shot back defiantly. “Me!”
“Shut up, bitch,” he growled, raising a clenched fist.
Moving fast, Krysty pressed the muzzle of her longblaster against the side of his throat. Instantly, he froze in position.
“Best to let her speak,” Krysty stated, thumbing back the hammer with a loud click.
Casting a glance at the muscular legs of the naked man, Ryan then looked at the skeletal woman and rammed the wooden stock of his longblaster into the stomach of the man. Air exploded from him in a wheezing gasp, and he collapsed to the grass softly moaning.
“He eats last for lying,” Ryan stated, resting the stock
of the weapon on a hip. “But you get a blaster, water and food from the stores of the slavers, plus a pair of boots for helping. But we keep any of the live horses. Savvy?”
Her eyes wide in astonishment, the woman nodded her understanding, her pale tongue licking her chapped lips.
After a moment, Ryan jerked a thumb. “Take whatever you want, then start walking.”
Hesitantly, she started forward, then scurried to claim her prizes from the dead and took off for the trees with amazing speed.
“Anybody that goes after her will get an arrow in the back,” Ryan declared, staring hard at the assembled people.
They nodded, looking at the fleeing woman with a mixture of avarice and raw envy.
Minutes passed before the running woman reached the trees and vanished into the thick foliage.
“Okay, everybody else go eat,” Ryan directed with a curt wave.
Drooling with hunger, the starving people descended upon the dead animals, clawing at the hide and ripping off chunks of raw meat with their bare hands, stuffing the gobbets into their faces like wild animals.
Staying in a group, the companions headed for the second wag. Ryan took the lead, with Jak in the rear. The teenager's longblaster was primed and cradled in his arms in case of trouble. Unchained slaves were always grateful to the folks who freed them for a while, but often a few of them would turn on the very people who set them loose. Mildred had once said it was a
form of transference. The former slaves felt guilty about not setting themselves free, and so they wanted to chill the folks who had as a kind of punishment. Of course, who they were punishing for what, Jak had no idea, and so simply chalked up the betrayal to stupidity and greed, the primary motivations in most human events.
Glancing skyward, J.B. shielded his face from the sun and frowned. “Damn, I miss my hat,” he said. “I can replace the Uzi and explosives, but I'll never find another hat as fine as that.” The man chuckled to show it was a joke, and everybody joined in, even though none of them believed the feeble lie. They understood how the loss of the glasses and the backup pair affected the man, and each of them swore to do whatever was necessary to help their friend.
Privately, the man burned with frustration over the loss of his sight. A chain was only as strong as the weakest link. Without the glasses, J.B. considered himself a liability to the group, reduced from a bull to an ox, and seriously thought about leaving them during the night. He wouldn't last long without them, but they would have a much better chance at survival without his deadweight slowing them down.
“Don't worry, old friend, we'll get our stuff back,” Ryan said in a calm voice that sounded as if it came from beyond the grave. “We'll get every bastard thing back.” Reaching up, he stroked the puckered flesh around the exposed hole of where his left eye had once been located. Jacking his blaster and boots only made sense, but stealing the eyepatch made the matter personal, a private debt to be paid in blood.
“And when we do, my friend, we shall deal most
harshly with the fools who sold us to the slavers and send them into hell!” Doc growled, his face twisted into a furious mask.
It was an unusual speech for the normally peaceful man, but the other companions fully understood. They had lost items before, but had always managed to get them back within a couple of hours. However, this time was different. Their possessions hadn't fallen off a cliff or been washed away in a flood, but jacked, taken from them while unconscious. Each of them felt violated and angry at themselves for falling into such an obvious trap.