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  Ryan saw his triple bursts wipe three of them away. First the woman, two 4.7 mm rounds smashing into her neck, nearly severing the head from the torso.

  "High," muttered Ryan, automatically adjusting his aim. Finn's actions hadn't entirely taken him by surprise. The chubby blaster had never been known for his patience. And after Henn's murder…

  The swampy beside the stricken woman was on a crutch, half his left leg missing. Ryan shot him through the stomach, spilling his tripes in the dirt.

  Ryan's third victim had already been knocked off balance by one of his falling comrades, and Ryan's bullets hit him through the upper chest, on the left side. A clear heart shot, fatal within thirty seconds or so.

  Perhaps fifty rounds were fired by Ryan's party, laying them all down. Peculiarly, none of the muties screamed or cried. Just a faint mewing from the dying.

  In the loud silence, Ryan turned to face Finnegan, who was clearing the Heckler & Koch, reaching for spare ammunition.

  "Open fire like that again, Finn, and I'll ice you myself."

  It was said very calmly, with no obvious anger. But the blaster flinched and looked down at his boots. "Sorry, Ryan. You know how…"

  "Yeah, I know how. But not again. Now let's get the fuck outta here before—"

  There was a stifled scream from Lori. Everyone else was sufficiently experienced to know that all of the muties were down and done. Finished. But the tall blonde had been staring at the twitching corpses with a morbid fascination. Now she stood, pointing with her dainty blaster, her eyes wide with terror.

  Three of the corpses had risen and were walking unsteadily toward them.

  "By the three Kennedys," exclaimed Doc, taking a shaky step backward, away from the horrific apparitions.

  Ryan knew that stickies were notoriously difficult to kill, but this was something else. The three… another one was struggling to rise... four muties had all taken terminal wounds. One had half his intestines hanging out, looping around his feet so he stumbled and nearly fell; bending to pick them up, he draped them over his arm, looking like an old picture Ryan had seen of an elegant Roman senator in his toga.

  A second had an arm hanging by a thread of gristle with tattered rags of muscle bloodily weeping from the stump. Ryan had shot that one. A third had been shot in the face, the bullet dislodging an eyeball so it dangled prettily on the scarred cheek. The fourth had two massive bullet wounds in its chest and upper abdomen.

  "They can't," said J.B. in disbelief. "They're dead."

  "Then why aren't they fucking lying down?" asked Finnegan.

  One of the swampies had managed to fire its crossbow, the bolt flying short and burying itself in the earth near Krysty's feet. She stooped and plucked it from the ground, looking at the sticky patch of brown oil smeared around its point.

  "It's poisoned," she warned.

  The four staggering muties were only fifteen paces away, lurching like drunken customers leaving a gaudy house at midnight. Ryan noticed that their wounds, appalling though they were, didn't seem to be bleeding as much as they should be.

  "Again," he said, opening up at point-blank range with the G-12 automatic rifle, the burst of the caseless ammunition sending all four figures dancing and toppling. He raked the four bodies repeatedly, using thirty rounds to make sure they wouldn't rise a second time. Blood spurted, and chunks of flesh splattered into the air, with gouts of crimson, carrying splinters of bone.

  After the racket of the guns, the silence was intense. The bodies lay still, torn apart by the ferocity of the shooting.

  "If there's more of them, they'll be on top of us any time now," warned Ryan.

  "How could they?" asked Doc Tanner, moving and staring down at the mutilated corpses. "Such wounds, and they rose and walked." He squatted down, oblivious of the blood soaking, around his cracked boots.

  "Where?" asked the Armorer.

  "Away," replied Ryan. "Must be more where that smoke was. I don't want to face more if they're that bastard-tough to put the stopper on."

  "Sure. Back to the swampwag? Or into the brush?"

  Standing up, his hands slobbered with dripping blood from probing at the carcasses of the muties, Doc interrupted, "Amazing. My dear Mr. Cawdor, it is truly amazing."

  "What?"

  "These poor creatures, genetically mutated as a result of the neutron bombing, have developed a dual circulatory system. Two hearts, two sets of lungs, two sets of arteries. That is why they are difficult to slay."

  "Zombies," breathed Krysty. "By Gaia! They are truly the living dead."

  "Nukeshit!" Ryan looked at her in surprise. "You don't believe that stuff. They're muties. Just muties. All muties are different, Krysty, but they're still muties. Right?"

  The moment his words were out, he wished he could suck them back and swallow them. The girl glared at him for a long-held moment.

  "I know about muties, Ryan. So do you."

  "Hey, I'm… I'm sorry, only…"

  She nodded her understanding. "I know why. Doesn't make it right."

  "I hear them," said Finnegan, hastily reloading his blaster.

  They all heard it. A distant ululating cry, rising and falling like the howls of hunting wolves. It sounded like an awful lot of swampies were heading their way.

  "Let's move," said Ryan, turning away from the water and running unhesitatingly into the heavy undergrowth alongside the track.

  A DESPERATE CHASE it was, and lasted all morning, and well into late afternoon. At one point there was another torrential downpour but they didn't dare stop for shelter, in case the muties just kept coming after them.

  Ryan, Krysty, J.B. and Finn were able to keep going with no great strain. Battle-honed and fit, they could have run for a day. Lori, despite the handicap of her high-heeled boots, did well enough. But for Doc Tanner it was a torturous pursuit.

  At first they more than held their own, ducking and weaving along paths that danced and twisted like a breakback rattler. Ryan led the way, his steel panga drawn, slashing the branches that blocked their progress. Every few minutes he'd hold up his right hand for a brief rest, while all of them fought to control their breathing so they could listen for the sound of the muties.

  The banshee wail seemed closer for the first couple of stops, then it faded away until it was no louder than the humming of bees. But by the fifth check, Doc was in a perilous state, dropping to hands and knees, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from beneath the high hat.

  "I beg you, gentlemen and ladies, to go on and leave me behind. I have my trusty cannon," he said, half drawing the ancient, ponderous Le Mat percussion pistol. "I assure you that I shall give a good accounting of myself, and I shall take some of the monsters with me."

  "Save a round for yourself, Doc," urged Finnegan, readying himself to move on deeper among the trees.

  "No. Finn. You keep on this path with the women. I insist that—" Doc tried, but Ryan turned on him. with a ferocious anger.

  "Shut that fucking mouth, Doc, or I'll bust it. This isn't some old-fashioned fucking game of heroics. If you were gut-shot, I'd be first to leave you. But you aren't. J.B. and me'll stop and slow 'em some."

  "Usual on the paths?" asked Finn.

  "Yeah. Straight when there's no doubt. Any choice, take alternate right and left. Dagger slash on the nearest bush or tree."

  Finn nodded and began to move, while Ryan and the Armorer readied an ambush for the swampies who were following. Lori helped Doc up on his feet, but still he hesitated,

  "Come on, Doc," called Finnegan. "Have no fear."

  The old man came close to a smile; it trembled uncertainly on the edge of the white lips. "You say to have no fear, my plump companion." An ironic laugh. "My own words to myself, a hundred times a day."

  "Come on, Doc," urged Krysty. "Uncle Tyas McNann used to quote something 'bout being of good cheer and playing the man."

  This time the smile was broad and genuine. "I know the saying, lady. But the man who said it died moments later." />
  "Get the fuck out of here," said J.B., leaning against a tall sycamore, his gun a comfortable extension of his right hand.

  The four of them melted into the undergrowth; the only sounds were the sucking of the increasingly muddy earth at their boots. Ryan and J.B. waited, as they had waited in a dozen different places and times, for the enemy to come to them.

  IT WORKED.

  They didn't need a signal. Ryan was the leader, so when he squeezed the trigger, the Armorer was a split second behind him. In such thick cover it was difficult to count the enemy. And with the muties' talent for recovering from mortal wounds, Ryan wasn't about to go and check them out. But at least eight went down, hit hard, and the others fled into the bayous, splashing and crying out to each other in odd, bubbling cries.

  It was necessary to try the same trick again around four in the afternoon.

  Doc has passed out, his breathing shallow, heart racing like a pump engine. Normally, if they'd been out from War Wag One, there'd have been a medic among them with drugs. But out there in what had once been called Louisiana, they had nothing.

  "Take five rest," said Ryan. "Me and J.B. will go do it to 'em again."

  The swampies had learned their lesson and were approaching more cautiously. But four or five of them went down under the combined fire of the Armorer's Mini-Uzi and Ryan's caseless G-12.

  "Take five," ordered Ryan, once they had all caught up with each other.

  "I regret," panted Doc, "that I truly can no longer even walk, let alone…"

  "We'll hold up here," Ryan interrupted. "Either those zombie bastards leave us be, or we stand and fight 'em. No other way."

  The ground had been getting wetter and wetter, until at every step their boots sank inches deep into slimy muck. The sky had cleared and now had only a scattering of light orange clouds, floating high and untroubled, intermittently visible through breaks in the green curtain that was draped overhead.

  While they waited, Krysty stood a little apart from the others, her head to one side, listening hard. The long red hair rolled over her shoulders, bright in the half light.

  Ryan came and stood by her, putting a hand on her wrist. She smiled at him.

  "I'm sorry 'bout the cracks on muties!" he said.

  "It's fine, lover. I know how it is."

  He kissed her gently on the cheek, tasting the faintest hint of gasoline from the dirt and mud. "You hear them, love?"

  "No. They backed off at the last firefight. But I can hear…" She shook her head.

  "What?"

  "I heard a dog barking. Then it sounded like a pig snuffling. Not far ahead, but the wind's against me for good hearing. I thought I heard a woman's voice. Singing. Mebbe another swampie village ahead of us."

  They'd been running more or less blindly, picking anything that looked remotely like a trail, even, narrow animal tracks: Now they were in a small clearing with some exceptionally tall elms around them, covered with the white Spanish moss, so that they resembled a mute assortment of frozen brides draped in stained wedding lace.

  Ryan hesitated. If they turned back for the swampwag, they might encounter the muties. They couldn't go right or left either. The deep waters of the salt swamps had been closing on them on both sides. That left only straight ahead, where Krysty Wroth had heard sounds of active life.

  The sound of a gas engine came to them from behind; deep and throaty it was, exactly like the noise of the buggy's engine.

  "Swampies?" said Finn.

  It didn't seem likely that any community as brutish as the dirties who'd attacked them could drive a swampwag. But whoever it was, there was a better than even chance that they weren't going to be friendly. Anywhere in Deathlands the odds were never better than even.

  "On," pointed Ryan.

  THE SWAMP CLOSED IN even more, leaving only a path less than six feet wide that wound among the high-rooted mangroves. Several times the mud and water mingled, and they waded through slime that reached above their knees. Remembering the giant alligator, everyone was edgy, concentrating on the slick surface of the mud as they progressed.

  Several of them, not just Krysty, heard the dog bark again. And, drawing closer, they also heard the sounds of a small rural ville. Ryan advanced cautiously forward, and the others followed in single file, moving from quivering tussock to mud thick as molasses, stopping at the sudden apparition that seemed to spring from the very swamp itself.

  A skinny white man, in a red shirt and white cotton breeches. He had long white hair and a neat beard. He held out both arms to show that he was weaponless.

  "You are fatigued, mes enfants. Welcome to the humble ville of Moudongue. Here you may rest, and here you will be safe."

  He turned on his heels and after a brief pause, Ryan Cawdor and his party followed the old man. There really wasn't anything else to do.

  Chapter Seven

  "IF THEY WAS GOING TO fucking butcher us, then they'd have fucking done it by now!"

  "Finn makes sense, Ryan," said J.B. "Why bring us here?"

  Ryan Cawdor shook his head. "Damned if I know. I just know that something here doesn't set right."

  "I feel that, too," added Krysty. "There's a scent…a taste…I don't know."

  "It seems to me, if I may venture my humble opinion, that we are better off here than out in that wilderness of mud and water, being pursued by the living dead."

  "Lori says Doc speaks good."

  Ryan shrugged. "Sure, no wonder. They promised to feed us in a few minutes, didn't they? Just make sure everyone keeps on their guard. And make sure that we eat different things. In case they've put sleepers in it."

  He walked to the side of the hut, feeling the narrow planks bend under his weight; he looked out through the slatted blind, past the mesh of the mosquito netting and across the square of the small ville, down toward the swollen river.

  There were about thirty small wooden houses in the ville of Moudongue, set in a rough rectangle along the river. Two or three swampwags were tied to the posts of a wharf.

  The old man, who'd told them his name was Ti Jean, entered, followed by three young, slatternly women in dirty dresses of plain cotton. They carried dishes made of turned wood, with some battered metal forks and spoons.

  "You are hungry. We feed you," he pronounced. "Later, you join us for dancing. We sing old songs. 'Jole Blon. Hippy Ti Yo. Marnou Blues.' Dance to the… how do you say…accordion. A good time. It's Mardy, and we all love every man."

  "Will you stay and eat with us?" asked Ryan, hoping to find out something about the area.

  "No. I regret not. But eat and drink. The beer is good. The wine—" he shrugged expressively "—not so good. The crawfish and red snapper are fresh as tomorrow's sunrise. Gumbo and collard greens. Rice in plenty. Eat well, mes amis. Later we talk."

  The dishes steamed enticingly. Following Ryan's orders, they tried to eat different things, but it wasn't easy. Everything looked and tasted delicious. Finnegan, in particular, managed to tuck into sizable portions of almost every sumptuous course.

  Ryan sampled the crab meat chowder and some trout cooked with spiced rice. The beer was flat and thin to his palate. But he was surprised to find such good eating, in such a wretchedly poor hamlet. He said as much to the Armorer.

  "It's Mardy. Fat Tuesday. These aren't like them swampies. These are them Cajuns that Doc spoke of."

  As they were wiping up the last smears of juice with fresh-baked cornbread, Ti Jean reappeared, smiling like an indulgent father to see how well they'd eaten.

  He had obviously been drinking; the sour smell of home-brewed beer hung on his breath. The French accent was more noticeable than before, but he was still in a high good humor.

  "Well eaten, mes copains," he slurred. "Now you may join us for our feasting of Mardy. Older even than the sky-bombs that changed the world. You said there had been trouble with the muties of deep-swamp. They will not come here."

  While some of the women tidied the hut, clearing away dishes and beaker
s, Ti Jean told them a little about where they'd landed up.

  "Lafayette's not far off. West Lowellton is closest suburb. There is fighting there."

  "Fighting?" asked Ryan. "Between whom?"

  "The baron and the renegades."

  "What baron? Local lord of the ville?"

  "No, Mr. Cawdor. More. Much more. Baron Tourment controls this whole…what is the word? Region? Oui, this region is his. We are his. Even the muties. We call them les morts-vivants."

  "The living dead," said Doc Tanner quietly.

  "We can control them. Use them as slaves. But they are dangerous. Not to be trusted. They live in hovels deep within the bayous. The lost ones. We guard against them. Now and then they take babies."

  "To ransom? For money? They ask you for jack for the babies?" asked Finnegan.

  “Non, non," Ti Jean replied, laughing. "They take the little ones to eat."

  RYAN WAS INTERESTED in knowing more about the renegades. From his experience, any man who stood against a local baron was likely to be a better man than those who lived on their knees in virtual serfdom.

  Ryan felt that Ti Jean was not being entirely open. To look at, he was the most hearty, trustworthy old-timer in many a country mile.

  But Ryan intuitively felt that it would be better not to turn your back on Ti Jean.

  His unhappiness was compounded by not being able to understand what the villagers of Moudongue were saying to each other.

  Doc whispered that he could speak a little French, but the people hereabouts spoke a bastardized patois that he suspected was Creole French.

  On the surface, all was well.

  There was a long room at the far end of the hamlet where everyone had assembled, and were drinking, dancing and bellowing out incomprehensible lyrics at the top of their lungs, Ryan made sure that everyone in his group carried their blasters, but he was reassured to find that the men of the small ville had no guns, though everyone wore a long thin-bladed knife at the hip. The building shook to its rafters from the heavy stamping that passed for dancing in the bayous, to the accompaniment of a fiddle and an accordion; the latter was played by an immense fat man, his shirt sodden with sweat, toothless mouth open, revealing a tongue that was bizarrely forked.