Skydark Spawn Page 16

  “Mog! Mog! Mog!”

  Mog was obviously the crowd favorite, getting slapped on the back by men and women alike all the way into the circle.

  “And he’s as mean as he is big,” Brody said. “The sec men wanted to recruit him into the ranks, but he refused. Said he’d rather be a slave than a rad-blasted sec man.”

  Ryan appreciated the sentiment. “Looks dangerous enough.”

  “When he first arrived, the sec men had trouble keeping him in line. He broke the necks of two men the first week.”

  “Why didn’t they chill him?”

  “Baron wouldn’t let them. Mog’s offspring bring in top jack for the farm. Baron even gave him his own personal group of breeders.”

  “Sounds like he’s got a good deal going. What’s he doing here?”

  “I think he wants Krysty for himself.”

  Ryan remembered something the Trader used to say and muttered it now under his breath. “A chilled man has no desires, no wants.”

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” Ryan answered, craning his neck to see the three men walking in Mog’s shadow. “Who are they?”

  “Dorfman, Billingsley and Foghat. They’re Mog’s cronies and will be watching his back, like I’ll be doing for you. Stab you in the back if they can. Makes no difference to them.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Well, all of them will stab you in the back if they get the chance.”

  Ryan nodded. “That’s what I figured.”

  “Chill or be chilled.”

  Grundwold entered the circle carrying a canvas duffel bag filled with weapons. When he reached the center, he upended the bag and let the contents fall to the ground. Piled in a heap were several lengths of heavy chain, an assortment of knives, a few long wooden pikes and a few rusty swords. However, included in the jumble were several newer pieces, including Ryan’s own panga.

  Seeing the knife’s eighteen-inch blade, Ryan moved closer to the center of the circle.

  “Back off, One-eye!” Grundwold bellowed. “You start anything while I’m in the circle, and my snipers will blow a hole through your skull big enough to drive a wag through.”

  Ryan looked at the armed men in the towers and took a cautious step backward.

  Mog moved closer to the circle’s center, as well, but instead of calling the man on it, Grundwold simply hurried out of the circle.

  “Makes no difference to me, outlander,” Mog said, gesturing to the weapons. “I’ll chill you with whatever you leave behind.”

  Ryan watched the giant man stop a few paces from the pile of weapons and wondered if he meant what he’d said, or was merely trying to put Ryan off.

  “Take what you want,” Brody said. “Hurry!”

  Ryan reached for his panga, slid his fingers around the handle and pulled it roughly out of the bottom of the pile.

  Brody grabbed a six-foot-long pike, selecting the best weapon to keep the others at bay.

  The sec men and muties also reached for the weapons, the sec men picking out knives and the muties selecting the aged swords. True to his word, Mog and his men took what was left behind. The giant took a length of chain for himself, while Dorfman, Billingsley and Foghat ended up with a knife, pike and sword respectively.

  “I can chill you with a chain as easily as a blaster, One-eye,” Mog said, his voice a low, deep rumble that boomed out of his cavernous chest like a cannon shot.

  Outside the circle, Grundwold raised his hands. “Ready?”

  The question was answered by a rumble of shouts and whistles from the crowd. They were more than ready, for blood and chilling.

  “Fight!”

  The circle came alive with movement.

  Ryan stepped back from the center, expecting Mog to swing the chain in his direction, but instead he quickly turned to the left, whipping his arm out and catching the mutie named Laslo in the neck. The chain tore into the mutie’s neck, embedding itself three inches into the flesh, causing a gout of blood to spurt up from the open wound.

  Hambly looked at his partner with stunned fascination as Laslo desperately tried to pull the chain from his neck. Blood was pouring over the dying mutie’s shoulder as he fell to his knees, still vainly trying to work the chain free.

  Mog took a step toward Laslo, wrapped the remaining length of chain around the part of the neck that remained, and then pulled with both hands. The blunt chain ripped through the mutie’s flesh like a dull blade, tearing his head from his shoulders and sending it spinning into the air.

  The flying severed head, blood still draining from inside, caught the attention of the crowd and most of the combatants.

  But not Ryan.

  He used the opportunity to move right and slash at the leg of one of the sec men. He caught Salazar on the right leg just below the knee. The man let out a yelp of pain as his pant leg was slashed open and blood began to pool around his right foot.

  “You should have chilled me with that blow, One-eye,” Salazar said, clutching at his bleeding leg. “’Cause I’m gonna make you pay for it.”

  The sec man lunged forward, but stopped himself in midstride when he found the sharpened tip of Brody’s pike between himself and Ryan.

  “Let him come,” Ryan said, moving the pike aside with his left hand. “You just watch that the other poor excuse for a sec man doesn’t interfere.”

  Richmond heard the comment and sneered at Ryan. “Don’t chill him, Sally,” he told Salazar. “Leave a bit of his worthless life for me.”

  “You got it.” Salazar grimaced, still bleeding.

  Ryan stepped back to keep his distance from the approaching sec man. On Ryan’s right, the second mutie, Hambly, had his hands full trying to stay away from Mog. The giant appeared to be toying with the man, putting on a show with his chain that the crowd seemed to be enjoying since they were still shouting, “Mog! Mog! Mog!” louder than ever.

  Salazar’s knife was about the same length as Ryan’s panga, but that’s where the similarities ended. Ryan’s blade was sharp, and the balance of the weapon was excellent. Salazar, on the other hand, seemed to be fighting his knife, not sure whether to lunge or slash with it.

  And there was another advantage Ryan held over the sec man. Salazar’s wounded leg continued to spill blood. If the cut hadn’t slowed him, the loss of blood was sure to. All Ryan had to do was wait, but in this arena, waiting was a luxury he might not have time for.

  “What’s the matter, One-eye, don’t want to stand and fight?”

  Ryan thought of the Trader’s saying about those who run away being able to run away another day, but that didn’t apply here. If he ran, his fight was over and one of these creatures would end up with Krysty.

  His best friend.

  His lover.

  The thought of her made Ryan stand his ground.

  He planted his boots on the dry, dusty ground and threw the panga back and forth from his left hand to his right. The move had been intended to confuse Salazar and let him know that Ryan was equally good with the knife with either hand, but it had also captured the attention of the crowd, who appreciated a fighter with some showmanship and flare.

  Even Mog and the others were watching Ryan now.

  But he refused to put on a show for their entertainment. Chilling was a matter of survival, not people’s amusement. He stopped tossing the panga back and forth and held it before himself to guard against an attack.

  Salazar had no problems about putting on a show, however. He tried to emulate Ryan’s prowess with his knife, but was handling the weapon awkwardly. Ryan followed the flight of the knife from one hand to the other, waiting for his chance.

  It came on the third time the knife was in Salazar’s left hand. He fumbled with it, having to adjust his hand slightly to firm up his grip on the knife.

  Ryan wasted no time.

  In a flash, his right boot shot up from the ground, kicking Salazar’s hand, breaking several finger bones and sending the knife spinning thr
ough the air.

  Salazar looked stupidly at his empty right hand, as if the knife had suddenly betrayed him.

  Ryan followed the kick with a hard left cross to the side of the sec man’s face. Teeth and blood flew out of a corner of his mouth, much of it landing outside the ring, and his eyes rolled up in their sockets. He fell to the ground in a heap, his head slamming hard into the ground.

  Richmond stepped forward to help his fellow sec man, but Brody kept him back.

  Even one of Mog’s men, Foghat, moved in to keep Richmond away.

  Ryan stepped forward and looked over the fallen guard. “If you agree to leave at the break, I won’t chill you, sec man.”

  “Fuck you, outlander!” Salazar spit on Ryan’s boot and pounded a fist weakly against Ryan’s thigh.

  Ryan flipped the panga so that it was pointing down and plunged the tip of it into Salazar’s chest. The knife stopped when it was through his body and had come up against the hard-packed ground beneath it.

  A faint pulse of blood bubbled up around the panga’s blade, and a crimson line leaked out of the corner of the man’s mouth.

  The crowd grew silent.

  A bell rang to signify the first break.

  Ryan and Brody were still alive, and there were two fewer opponents to worry about.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Sec chief Ganley helped pull the second boat onto dry land and began overseeing preparations for another night on the shore. The volunteers were near exhaustion after fighting the wind and current on Erie Lake throughout the long afternoon. Some had gone off into the nearby forests in search of firewood and anything else that might be useful to them.

  There was plenty of fresh fish to eat, but Ganley would allow them to break into some of the dried stores they’d brought to trade if anyone wanted. The following day would be a long one, and they’d need all the rest and strength they could manage.

  A sudden scream came from somewhere inland.

  Ganley ran toward the sound, followed closely by several of the others.

  When he reached a small stand of trees, Ganley stopped in his tracks. He frantically searched the deadwood and pale leaves of the trees, but could see nothing in the afternoon shadows.

  “Help me!” The scream was fainter this time, but clearly a man’s scream.

  The scream had come from somewhere up ahead and to the right. Ganley headed toward it, signaling to the others to fan out to the left and farther right.

  With each step the sounds of the man’s scream grew fainter, replaced by another noise more sinister in nature. It was wet and sloppy and mixed in with the unmistakable sound of bones snapping and muscle and sinew being torn apart.

  And then he saw it.

  Russell Duncan, a young fisherman in his early twenties on the mission to bring home a wife, was lying in a small clearing while his body was being torn apart by several pale white, sickly-looking mutants. They were tearing Duncan’s flesh open with their bare hands and taking bites from his open wounds with their teeth, shredding the skin and muscle with vicious jerking motions of their heads.

  There were four of them feeding on the body.

  “No!” Ganley cried out, but none of the muties seemed to notice. Others began trying to scare the muties away, but they all remained where they were, feeding.

  Ganley raised his blaster and fired nearly a dozen shots. He was careful with the first shot, making sure he placed the round in Russell Duncan’s skull. When the body went limp and he knew the young fisherman was dead, he opened fire on the creatures in earnest, peppering the muties with a hail of blasterfire, throwing them back and away from the corpse and ripping holes in every part of their bodies.

  He walked over to the remains of Duncan’s body and grabbed the man’s jacket collar. He began to drag the corpse toward the beach where they could bury it properly and with an appropriate ceremony.

  J.B. HAD THE FOUR .50-caliber machine blasters out of the P-39. All of the parts had been fairly well-preserved, and a few of them still had a light sheen of oil.

  “I thought we would only be using two of these blasters?” Doc asked.

  “We are,” J.B. answered. “I’m going to use the best parts out of the four to make two.”

  Doc sat and watched the Armorer work. There was pleasure to be had watching someone who thoroughly enjoyed his work, and that was J.B. He had quality blasters to fiddle with, and he looked just like a boy in a toy store. There was a strange look of pleasure on his face, as if he couldn’t wait to fire the .50 caliber, or to see the 37 mm cannon blow apart the side of a building.

  Doc envied the man’s simple pleasures and wished he could become so lost in something. Instead, he spent his time thinking of his dear Emily and the two children they’d had together, Rachel and Jolyon.

  With all the talk of breeding going on the past couple of days, Doc took solace in the fact that he had sired two of the most beautiful and vibrant children in all of the eastern states. They would have lived their lives out long ago, and while he was sure that Emily had raised them right, he often wondered about what they made of their lives, and if his family name or bloodline had lived on into skydark.

  J.B. tried the gun he’d been assembling, pulling the trigger and gauging the action by the sound the mechanism made. He looked pleased.

  “Impressive!” Doc commented.

  “Rate of fire of five hundred rounds per minute, a muzzle velocity of 895 mps, and a range of 10,000 feet,” J.B. said with a look of pride on his face. “This blaster can destroy any soft target it can reach, and that includes buildings.”

  Doc nodded, silently wondering if it might have been better if none of his descendants had survived the nukecaust.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “How are you?” Mildred asked. She had been assigned to the circle to help with the wounded combatants. She hadn’t had much to do so far except pronounce two of them dead.

  Ryan looked over his arms and shoulders. “Not a scratch on me yet.”

  “Try and keep it that way,” Brody said. He had suffered a cut on his right arm.

  “Intend to,” Ryan said.

  “I don’t think Richmond and Hambly are likely to team up this next round. Something about sec men and muties that just don’t mix. If anything, Richmond will be after you, wanting to give you payback for chilling Salazar. Hambly will either be taken out by Mog and his men, or he’ll be hugging the edge of the circle hoping a wound will take him out at the next break.”

  “Can’t he just quit?”

  Brody shook his head. “He could, but that would make him a laughingstock.”

  “On your feet!” called Grundwold.

  Ryan and Brody stood along with the others.

  “In this round, all combatants will remove their shirts,” the sec chief ordered.

  Ryan took off his shirt. The crowd seemed to enjoy the sight of bare, bloody and sweaty flesh.

  “Ready?” the sec chief bellowed.

  The crowd screamed its approval.

  “Fight!”

  As Brody had suggested, Mog and his men went after Hambly, allowing Richmond the chance to go after Ryan.

  Brody made sure Dorfman, Billingsley and Foghat remained with Mog and didn’t try to take out Ryan amid the confusion.

  “You’re good with the knife, Cyclops,” Richmond said, calling Ryan by the name the sec men on the farm seemed to favor.

  “Better to be quick with a knife than quick with my mouth.”

  Richmond was a tall, lanky man. Ryan estimated they weighed about the same, but Richmond stood about three inches taller. Unlike the knife scars he’d seen on other sec men and slaves here, Richmond had a big round blaster scar on his right shoulder that was about three inches across. The wound was set back in the flesh about an inch, as if someone had scooped out a patch of flesh with a knife. “You want me to put down the knife, Cyclops?”

  Ryan shrugged.

  “No problem.” Richmond dropped his knife onto the ground and
kicked it to the edge of the circle.

  Meanwhile, Mog and his three men had Hambly, the mutie, surrounded. Billingsley was poking him with his pike while Foghat was slashing at his back with his sword. There was pale red blood flowing over the mutant’s equally pale flesh, making him look like a predark barber’s pole. Every once in a while, Hambly would make a break for the circle’s edge, but Mog would always catch him and pull him back for still more torture.

  As Ryan was dealing with Richmond, he noticed what was going on out of the corner of his eye and knew he’d have no trouble chilling Mog when the time came. He was too careless and casual in his way, and Ryan would take full advantage of it when the time came. He looked back at Richmond and threw his panga to the ground where the tip dug into the hard, dry earth and stuck, leaving the handle to quiver slightly in the sun.

  “I’ll get more pleasure chilling you with my bare hands anyway,” Richmond said, moving closer. “That way it will happen slowly and with plenty of pain.”

  Ryan said nothing, concentrating solely on Richmond’s hands and feet.

  Dorfman, one of Mog’s cronies, wandered over toward Richmond and Ryan, looking for a chance to chill one of them while they fought. But Brody stepped forward, waving the sharp end of his pike in Dorfman’s face, and the man backed off.

  Richmond lunged at Ryan, but the one-eyed man was able to move left, out of the way. Richmond turned, a slight smile on his face, then lunged again, this time feigning left, then moving right. Ryan again stepped to the side, but this time as Richmond passed him, he put out a knee, catching the sec man in the thigh and sending him spinning to the ground.

  Richmond spit dust and dirt from his mouth and rolled onto his back, expecting Ryan to be right there towering over him.

  But Ryan was standing well back, waiting for the sec man to regain his feet.

  “You’ll be sorry you didn’t try to finish me off, Cyclops!”

  “I’ll make you the same offer I made your friend,” Ryan said. “If you leave at the next break, I won’t chill you.”