Deathlands 067: Death Hunt Read online

  “Here,” came a voice from nearby, followed shortly by the Armorer as he crashed through the trees. “Shit, that was hard work,” he panted, pushing his fedora back on his head and wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “We must have been closer than we knew. It’s just so fucking dark now.”

  “Yeah, and we’ve got more company,” Ryan commented, wiping down his panga before sheathing it and unholstering his SIG-Sauer. He checked and reloaded as he said, “Must be what was driving those stickies berserk. Figure we’ve seen most of them off, and the others are probably running from whoever this is—but I don’t know about you, but I’m too tired to run.”

  “I’ll go along with that,” J.B. agreed, taking down his Uzi and checking before smoothly clicking it on to rapid bursts.

  Jak frowned. “Wait—spreading—trying round up stickies.”

  Ryan lifted his head and listened intently. Jak was right. He could hear the remnants of the mutie pack being driven back toward them.

  “Fireblast! They’re coming right through here,” he yelled. “Cover, now! Triple-red!”

  The companions sought whatever refuge they could in the cover of the trees. They had converged on a natural path formed by an avenue of trees and it seemed that the horsemen were intent on driving the muties back through this path.

  The stickies were being encircled and pincered, there was no doubt about that, either, but there was no escape. What was going on?

  The few stickies that were left were driven past the companions’ cover. Once level with the area where Ryan’s people were in hiding, a volley of shots rang out from blasters carried by the horsemen. The few remaining stickies were mowed down in the hail, their bodies jerked by the impact and thrown across the path. They remained still, smelling of death: that unpleasant odor of cordite, blood and excrement.

  Ryan could see exactly where all his people were. They would have been hidden to the casual view, but he had noted their cover. In turn, they knew where he was. He signaled them to remain in hiding. Let the horsemen make the next move.

  One rider came into view, walking his horse slowly. He had a Remington slung over his shoulder and was clad in animal skins tied over ragged leggings and a jerkin. He had a beard flecked with gray and long hair tied back from his face. He stopped almost directly in front of where Ryan was in cover, and looked around from his mount.

  “You might as well come out, people. We know you’re here and we’ve got you surrounded. Chill me, and you’ll be as fucked as these mutie bastards.”

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  Ryan knew from the sounds of horses and men around them that the stickies had been driven and chilled at this spot for a reason. The riders had heard and possibly seen some of the battle that had taken place on their approach, and they were making a point. Now they were all around, and there was no way that the companions could escape.

  Casting his eye over the hiding places of his companions, Ryan could see that they were as aware of this as he was and were waiting for a sign.

  The bearded rider kissed his teeth. “Come on. You know you’re surrounded and you know we could drop you where you hide. It wouldn’t be hard. But why haven’t we done that? We want to parlay first, see who you are. One thing—you’re not stupe. You could chill me now, no prob, but that would just bring the rest of us down on you and you know that’s bad move. So I’m still here. And I appreciate that. But we don’t have forever.”

  Ryan signaled to the others, hoping they would see through the gloom, and stepped out, hands loose at his sides, no weapons in view.

  “You’d think we did have forever, the way you can’t stop talking,” he said calmly, stepping into the clearing, avoiding the stickie corpses but still making sure he was out of range of the mounted man’s foot. Although his body language bespoke relaxation and compliance, he kept himself alert and ready. Careless meant chilled.

  “I only talk so much when I have to wait,” the bearded man said. “My name is Ethan, Baron of Pleasantville. Looks like we ran these fuckers right into you. Wasn’t the purpose.”

  “I kind of gathered that,” Ryan returned guardedly. “It’s not the usual thing to do with them.”

  Ethan paused, then laughed. It was a loud, hearty laugh and showed no malice at Ryan’s comment. “I don’t know,” he gasped finally, “it could be a kinda new sport, I guess. But it’s the last thing you needed, right? After all, I know most what goes on around here and I don’t know you—so you’re either traveling through or lost from somewhere.”

  Ryan nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Got that right.”

  “So why don’t you call the rest of your people out, then we can get back to Pleasantville and you can rest.”

  Ryan smiled, his eye showing that there was no humor in the gesture. “Rest, yeah, that’d be good. But mebbe it’ll be a permanent rest, nice and cold…nice and chilled.”

  “One-eye, I could have had that done right from the start—and you know it,” Ethan said in a low voice.

  Ryan knew that he was speaking the truth. To root out the companions and chill them wouldn’t be much harder than culling the stickies. The riders surrounded them and the companions were fatigued from two extensive firefights. Odds were that the baron of Pleasantville was genuine, and Ryan had little choice but to play the odds right now.

  “Okay, you win,” he said softly, raising his arm and gesturing.

  From their concealment, the companions came forth, until it seemed that Jak, Krysty, Mildred, Doc and J.B. had joined Ryan in forming a circle around the baron. All of them were careful to keep their arms by their sides, hands free of weapons.

  Ethan studied them. “That all?” he queried. Ryan nodded and the baron gave a low whistle. “Now that’s what I call interesting damage you caused out here,” he added almost to himself. Then, seeming to remember where he was and what he was supposed to be doing, he whistled again—this time sharper and harder, the sound piercing the forest.

  The foliage began to rustle and ripple as though it were alive with movement. Through the blanket of cover emerged a dozen riders, all clad similarly to their baron. The horses were a mix of squat pony stock and sleeker beasts. Similarly, the compose of the sec party itself was a mix. Short and tall, fat and thin, black, white and all shades between. Whatever kind of a ville Pleasantville may be, it certainly had no problem with ideas of physical difference.

  It crossed Mildred’s mind that the Pilatu could have done with such an example. But then she remembered that Dean had been with them then and experienced a sense of loss she hadn’t felt for a long while. What, she wondered, must Ryan be feeling?

  The riders surrounded the companions so that Ethan now sat in the middle of two rings: the inner a possible threat, the outer his protection. In truth, the clearing wasn’t large enough to accommodate all the horses and people that were now gathered there, and the companions could quite literally feel the breath of the horses down their necks as the animals jostled, the smell of death unsettling the beasts.

  “This really all of them?” Ethan asked his men. Ryan knew that the one who answered would be the second in command. He made a mental note of who that sec chief may be. He was a hook-nosed, craggy man, with long dreadlocks down his back. He looked to be part white, part black and part Native American. But all mean…He had the still, calm air of a born mercie who would have no problem chilling everyone in the clearing—friend or foe—without a second thought.

  The man shook his head. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, ain’t no others. They’re good, give ’em that.”

  “Some are a whole lot better than others, if y’ask me,” another rider said lasciviously. He was a squat, fat man with one clouded eye and scars across his forehead. He smiled, but looked about as far from the idea of a jolly fat guy as it was possible to get. He nudged the side of his mount with his heel and the horse’s head came down, pushing at Krysty’s shoulder. “I’m betting this one could be real good, y’know what I’m saying?”


  It wasn’t just the words, it was the way that they were used. There was something in his tone that couldn’t be ignored. Krysty focused on this and forgot that they were surrounded and outnumbered by a hostile group.

  “Watch what you’re doing, fat boy,” she growled, stepping to one side.

  “Whoo-hoo. What do we have here?” he jeered. “She’s a real feisty one, ain’t she?”

  “Cut it out, Jonno,” the sec chief said wearily. But there was no real authority in his tone. It was something he was saying for the sake of it, not because he meant it.

  “C’mon, Horse, it’s just a little fun,” the fat man whined before leering at Krysty. “Could be a whole lot more fun, though…”

  Krysty backed away from the horse, her body tensing. Her Titian mane had closed around her neck and shoulders protectively, signaling her sense that she was in some kind of danger.

  The companions tensed with her. They knew that they were hopelessly outnumbered, but they would always defend one of their own.

  Ryan kept his eye fixed on Ethan. The baron was watching the developments with interest. The one-eyed man guessed that he was using this situation as a yardstick for how they would react, how stupe or smart they would be. Imperceptibly, Ryan signaled to the others to stay. They were watching him for a lead, and although they had the desire to fight, they knew that he was playing the odds.

  The sec chief—Horse—sighed heavily. “Jonno, cut it out. Do I have to give you more bastard scars than you already got?”

  “Shit, you big-haired fucker, it’s only some fun. Right, Baron?” the fat man asked, looking across at Ethan. The baron stayed impassive, which the fat man took as a sign of assent. “Yeah, only some fun,” he added, almost to himself. He leaned forward over the front of the horse and reached out for Krysty. “Just a little fun, honey. Now you-all ain’t gonna do anything with all your friends here about to get chilled if they get in the way, are you?”

  He reached out and looped his fingers in her hair, trying to tug her toward him. The strength of the prehensile mane surprised him and a flicker of a frown crossed his face. He allowed it to pass, paused until he thought he had the measure of her strength, and then tried to pull her to him.

  At first Krysty held back, making him tug harder, sit farther forward on his saddle. Then she acquiesced, moving a few steps closer and letting him believe that he had the upper hand.

  It worked. He was still seated forward on the saddle and was complacent. He would offer little in the way of resistance.

  Timing her actions, she waited until he was at the optimum point, then stepped back suddenly, wrenching her head, straining her neck muscles and feeling the hair tug on her scalp. The sentient tresses had encircled his hand to hold it in a viselike grip. It wasn’t something she could do consciously, but as a result of the fear and adrenaline that coursed through her body. She felt a searing pain as her neck muscles protested. Her hair, protective of her body and strength, let loose of the fat man’s hand.

  It was enough. His balance completely thrown, he fell forward with a startled yelp, crashing onto the ground at her feet, landing heavily on a dead stickie. The yelp turned into a yell of disgust as he struggled to his feet, eyes blazing.

  The mounted riders reached for their weapons, but a gesture from Horse stopped them. The sec chief could see that the baron was studying this with interest. Likewise, Ryan stayed his people. Krysty would have to deal with this on her own and he had no doubts about her capabilities.

  The fat man was facing her. She backed off him to give herself more room to maneuver. He took this as a sign of weakness and a savage grin crossed his features.

  “You won’t be so pretty—or so keen to fight back—when I’ve finished with you,” he snarled, pulling a long-bladed hunting knife from beneath the layers of skins and furs.

  Krysty allowed herself the smallest of grins. He was telegraphing his intentions far too much, and taking him out would be easier than she thought. A fact that became obvious as he lunged at her with all the finesse of a runaway rhino—except that he had none of the danger. She moved aside to allow his arm to thrust past her harmlessly, then caught him at the elbow, snapping his arm backward and at the same time kicking back with the heel of one silver-tipped cowboy boot so that it cracked into his shin and raked down, splitting the cloth and flesh and hammering into the bone.

  The fat man howled in pain and toppled over. Krysty took the knife from his hand and dug one knee in the middle of his back, pinning him to the ground. She pulled his head up by his hair with one hand and held the blade of the knife against his throat.

  “One good reason,” she whispered. “Just one…”

  The click of blasters being drawn and beaded answered her. The riders had been still long enough and now their weapons were trained on her. Horse held his hand aloft to stop them firing.

  There was a second—so tense it seemed like an hour—before Ethan spoke.

  “Seems to me you met your match, Jonno, and you got what you deserved. But don’t chill the fucker, lady. He’s too good a hunter to lose over his bad manners.”

  Krysty let the fat man go and stood, stepping out of his immediate range as she did so. She didn’t want to give him the slightest chance to strike back. He stood and dusted himself down, shaking his head to clear it, cursing under his breath. He turned and glared at Krysty, then at his knife, which she still held by her side.

  “I was only joking, y’know,” he said accusingly.

  “Well, you’re not funny. And no fighter, either,” she added with venom.

  The uneasy silence was broken by the baron’s harsh laugh. “More like you’re a better fighter.” He chuckled. “Jonno’s good, all right, but you’re better. All of you, by the look of what you did before we got here.”

  “You’ve got to watch your own back,” Ryan said, emphasizing the dual meaning of his words with a look at the riders encircling them.

  “You’d be as chilled as those stickies if I wanted,” Ethan commented, spitting on the nearest corpse for his own emphasis. “You’re interesting people, that’s for sure.”

  “I cannot but think that ‘interesting’ is an unusual epithet for such a situation,” Doc mused.

  The baron laughed again. “Y’see what I mean? What the fuck are you talking about, old man? You pitch up in the middle of a bunch of rabid stickies, whomp the fuck out of them, face off with a superior force in terms of arms and numbers, and then stand there and discuss the meaning of words…Shit, if that ain’t interesting, then you tell me what is.”

  “A fair point, if a little forcefully delivered.” Doc Tanner smiled.

  “Good,” Ethan said decisively. “Then you come back to our ville and we learn a bit more about you. In return, you get fed and watered, and get to rest.”

  “And if we say no?” Ryan queried.

  Ethan’s smile hardened. “Did I say you had a choice?”

  The one-eyed man looked at the horsemen surrounding the companions. He didn’t like the fact that they were being told what they had to do. Handing over power to another wasn’t something that came easily to any of them. On the other hand, they were in no practical position to fight; they could already have been wiped out. The baron seemed open enough to want to learn about them, and any hint of hostility came only when he was apparently crossed. That was worth remembering. What was also worthy of consideration was that the companions needed rest and food and it would be stupe to turn up the chance of this. Any problems could be dealt with as they arose, when they were rested and in a better condition. Looking at his friends, Ryan could see that they were all bruised, dusty, tired. Some had cuts that needed attention and their postures were slumped, tired.

  “Okay, we’ll come with you,” Ryan said slowly, testing the baron with his choice of words.

  Ethan allowed himself a small, tight smile, acknowledging that he understood the one-eyed man and that he, too, would play the game.

  “Good,” he said finally. �
�Now we wouldn’t expect you to walk, as it’s some way. You have any objection to sharing our horses?”

  Ryan looked around at the riders. Some of the horses looked as though they wouldn’t support more than one man, but others seemed sturdy enough. He looked back to Ethan and shook his head briefly.

  “Okay. As for you, Jonno,” he directed to the fat man, who was still standing where he had fallen, “you can take the lady with you. But she gets to keep that knife of yours for now. A trophy,” he added to Krysty. “Make sure the fat bastard doesn’t try anything else on the way back.”

  The fat man said nothing, but his expression betrayed his less than charitable feelings about the baron’s decision. The ripple of laughter that spread through the other riders did little to improve his disposition and he looked sullen as he climbed back onto his horse, grudgingly holding his hand out for Krysty. The Titian-haired beauty made a point of ignoring this and mounted behind him without acknowledging his gesture.

  Horse, the sec chief, took over, assigning a rider to each of the five companions, taking Ryan on his own mount. It was obviously a gesture of respect. Next to the baron, he was the highest-ranking rider, and he was acknowledging Ryan’s leadership. The one-eyed man took this in the spirit it was intended and nodded his thanks as he mounted the stallion that carried the sec chief.

  When they were in position, Ethan held up his hand. “We go back the same way. Take it easy. The horses must be exhausted after the chase and some have extra loads. Keep alert, but I don’t figure on there being trouble, do you?” he asked of his sec chief. Horse gave a brief shake of his head, his dreadlocks brushing against Ryan, as hard and wiry as his body. Ethan nodded, pleased. “Let’s go…”

  The hunting party started back through the forest, taking the path that had been carved by the pack of stickies as they had rampaged, tearing their way through the foliage and trees. It was only by taking this path that the companions became aware of the extent of the damage caused by the pack.