Perdition Valley Page 8

  Reaching a safe distance, David had donned his new boots. They’d fit surprisingly well. Adjusting his two blasters, he’d begun to retrace his steps to hunt for his wife and daughter. Their steps were faint in the shifting sands, and often he’d had to proceed purely on guesswork. But he kept at the task, refusing to give up.

  It was later in the afternoon before the exhausted man had finally located them sitting on the second floor of a crumbling predark building. The roof and facade were gone, the interior wide open to the wind. Loose sand covered everything. A sloping hill of hard sand gave access to the second floor, but that was blocked by a small wag. A couple of large black scorpions were feasting on the horde of small red ants taking apart the hairy corpse of a coyote. The skull of the stiff animal was smashed apart, the rock still lying there in the pinkish brains. From the sharp teeth of the coyote there fluttered a ripped piece of Sharon’s dress. The sight had made David feel faint, then he’d heard a familiar cry, and looked up to see his wife rise into view from behind a desk on the second floor. Sharon had the baby in one arm, and held a rock in her other hand, ready to throw.

  With a glad cry, David had rushed past the sand dune and climbed the broken ruins to reach the second floor. Embracing his wife and child, he’d covered them both with kisses until Manda started to giggle.

  “Oh, beloved, you were gone so long that I thought you might be…” Sharon had begun in a rush.

  Pressing a finger to her lips, David had stopped the words. “Hush,” he’d whispered gently. “Never even say it. I’ll always return to my family, no matter what.”

  Hugging the baby tighter, she’d blessed him with her eyes.

  Reluctantly releasing the woman, David had set to work. Flipping the desk over with a crash, he’d shoved it down the sandy incline, crushing the battling insects and shoving aside the rotting corpse. Sharon and Manda were close behind.

  Reaching level ground, the three moved away from the ruins, and David gave Sharon his old boots. He’d held the baby while she’d exchanged footwear, happily tossing away her ratty moccasins. Then the family moved way from the ruins and headed after the slaver’s cart. Their supplies had been lost in the effort to escape, so at the moment, clean water was the most important thing in the world.

  There was water in the blast crater, but that would be used only if there was no other choice. Even if the rads were gone, there could still be toxic chems in the water that would chill faster than a knife in the dark. On top of which, the bikers might return, and the family could make much better speed on a horse-drawn cart than on foot. There really was no other choice. They had to find the cart, or buy the farm.

  Retracing their steps as much as possible, the family started doing a wide recce in gentle curves. Hours slowly passed. Then, cresting a low swell in the road, David heard the rattle of iron on wood long before he spotted the wag. Hidden by a sloping sand dune, the slaver’s cart was off the road, the reins of the horses tangled in a clump of dried sagebrush. The frightened animals seemed in fine shape, aside from an array of nasty scratches on their legs from panicky efforts to get loose.

  Incredibly, the wooden cart was undamaged, and inside the iron cage in the rear were several people holding a skinny man to the roof, where he was working at the lock on a hatch with a piece of what looked to be old bone.

  “Well?” a scraggly woman demanded from the supporting crowd.

  “Nothing yet,” the man replied, his tongue sticking out as an aid to concentration. “Keep me still, will ya? This is a lot trickier than it looks.”

  “Just hurry up!”

  “Doing the best I can!”

  Just then, there was a loud crack, and the skinny man stared in horror as the bone shattered, the pieces falling away to rain down upon the dirty straw.

  “Son of a bitch!” a bald man cursed from the bottom of the pile. “That was our last one!”

  “Now what can we try?”

  “How should I know?” the skinny man snarled in reply, grabbing the hatch and violently shaking it until the heavy chains rattled. “Open, damn you. Fragging piece of mutie drek, open damn it!”

  “Hello,” David shouted, walking closer. The rusty revolver was tucked openly into his belt, but his left hand clutched the loaded handblaster in the pocket of his pants.

  Holding the baby, Sharon stayed at the swell in the ground, watching and waiting to see what would happen. The knife in her hand was hidden behind the sleeping child.

  Startled, the prisoners froze motionless at that, then burst into cries of delight when they saw the man approaching.

  “Oh, thank heavens!” a woman gushed, tears on her face. “We were afraid that madman was going to leave us in here!”

  “Open the lock and let us out!” a skinny man demanded. “The key is somewhere under the front seat. Get moving before he comes back!”

  “Don’t worry, he won’t be coming back,” David said solemnly, studying the cart and cage.

  “Sharon, check the horses!”

  Hurrying over, the woman balanced the baby in one arm as she carefully inspected the nervous animals.

  “Rolph is aced for sure?” an old woman asked from inside the cage, hope flickering in her tired eyes.

  “Eaten by stickies,” David answered, bending to examine the wheels. A few of the spokes were splintery, but the wheels appeared to still be serviceable. “Was that his name, Rolph?”

  “Yes, although he made us call him master.”

  “I see,” David muttered, then lifted his head to call out. “How are the horses?”

  “The poor things are exhausted, and have been whipped a lot, too much in my opinion,” Sharon stated, starting to untangle the reins from the dried bush. It was difficult to do using just one hand, but she wasn’t going to put the baby down for any reason. “But aside from that, they’re in good shape. Fit for a baron!”

  “Our lucky day,” David said with a grin, standing to dust off his hands.

  “Stop wasting time!” a young man barked irritably, grabbing hold of the iron bars, pressing his face against the metal. “Find the key and get us loose, ya damn feeb!”

  Not bothering to reply, David went to the front of the cart. Placing his new boot on the wheel, he hoisted himself up and climbed into the seat of the buckboard. The reins were tied to a center post apparently built for just that purpose, and there was a hand-brake composed of a thick iron bar with a wad of leather on the end for pressing against the wheels. An old battered hat that reeked of sour sweat sat on the front seat, a single feather jutting to flutter in the breeze. The seat itself was more like a bench, with an old moth-eaten blanket tied down over a thick wad of dried grass to serve as a cushion. Rummaging under the bench, David unearthed a couple of plastic boxes lashed into place with rope. Inside one of them was a leather water bag, and a canvas sack full of wild grain stalk. Obviously food for the horses.

  Gratefully, David took a small drink from the water bag, then passed it to his wife. Sharon gave the baby a little sip first, took a long drink herself, then passed the leather container through the iron bars to the prisoners. There was a brief commotion as they fought over who would get it first, but that was soon settled and the bag began its rounds, getting smaller and lighter at every person until it was drained.

  “Thank you.” A man sighed, sagging against the hot bars. “I really don’t know how much longer we could have lasted without water.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be smart to get you all chilled, now would it?” Sharon said with a neutral expression.

  “Smart?” the skinny man repeated in confusion. “What does that mean?”

  At the front of the cart, David was laughing with pleasure at the sheer amount of items he was finding. Aside from the food and water for the horses, the second box had yielded a cornucopia of treasure. There were blankets, spare clothing, another crossbow and a quiver full of arrows with razor tips. Excellent! There was a bottle of shine, a ratty toothbrush, a plastic comb with several teeth missing,
handcuffs, another whip, branding irons, some spare tack for the horses, a cracked glass jar full of what looked like tiny smoked fish with the heads still attached and two predark cans of food. It was a bonanza of wealth unheard of in his entire life.

  “Let’s eat,” David said with a smile, using a knife to stab a series of slits in the top of a can to try to get the lid off. The knife wasn’t very sharp, and it slipped once, cutting a finger. But the lid finally yielded and was bent upward.

  As Sharon clumsily climbed onto the buckboard, David warily sniffed at the contents. His stomach grumbled eagerly at the aroma. It smelled like good beef mixed with veggies, and a gravy thicker than swamp mud. There was the faded pix of a dog on the side, so he could only assume this was dog meat. Good, that was one of his favs.

  “You go ahead and start, dear. I better feed the baby first,” Sharon said, settling onto the bench. Loosening the top of her blouse, she exposed a plump breast. Manda required little coaching to find the dark nipple and was soon sucking away contentedly.

  “Hey, what about us?” a man demanded from the cage, grabbing the bars and trying to shake them. “Get us out of here! Then you bastards can stuff your fragging faces until ya explode for all we care. But open the nuking hatch first!”

  Completely ignoring them, David slowly spooned the food out of the can, chewing it carefully to make every savory morsel last for as long as he could. Food out of a can, life doesn’t get much better than this!

  “So what are we going to do about them?” Sharon asked, jerking her head toward the cage.

  Thoughtfully, David swallowed before answering. “Dunno,” he answered honestly. “But there’s gotta be a ville someplace that would trade for them. Trade big, too. Twelve slaves gotta be worth a lot.”

  The words so casually spoken hit the prisoners like blaster rounds, and they recoiled at every one.

  “What was that?” The skinny man gasped, going pale. “No, you can’t do this! You can’t!”

  “Sure we can,” David replied calmly, taking a spoonful of the stew and offering it to his wife. Sharon opened her mouth to accept and sucked the spoon clean as it came away, not missing a drop.

  “Black dust, that’s good.” She sighed, smacking her lips. “Is there much more?”

  “Sure,” David said softly, tilting the can to show her. “See? I saved most of it for you. You’re eating for two, after all.”

  “You mutie-loving bastard!” a woman screamed, beating on the bars with her dirty fists. “Set us free! Set us free, or the first chance I get that fragging brat of yours will—”

  “Shut up!” David yelled, whipping out the palm blaster and thumbing back the hammer. “The next one of you slaves utters a fragging word gets lead in the head, and that’ll be all the food the others will have until you’re sold. Get me?”

  Silence answered the dire pronouncement, but their eyes burned with livid hatred.

  “I said, do you savvy!” he roared, yanking the horsewhip loose from its post and letting the knotted length uncoil until the dangling tip rested on the sandy ground below. “Answer, or I start removing your hide, right now!”

  “Yes, we understand…m-master,” the skinny man muttered, his head bowing in shame.

  Satisfied for the moment, David coiled the whip and tucked it away where it could be easily reached. Taking the baby from his wife, he cradled the cooing infant in his arms while Sharon ate. Afterward, they switched again, and David started the wag into motion while Sharon changed a dirty diaper with a ragged piece of cloth.

  There were some rough bumps as David fought the heavy wag back onto the road. But soon the slave wag was rolling along the desert road at a respectable clip.

  Whistling a tune, David shook the reins to increase their speed. Meanwhile, Sharon stuffed one of the wooden boxes full of blankets and laid the baby down for a nap. While Manda slept, Sharon tested the draw on the homie crossbow, then slung the quiver of steel-tipped arrows across her back.

  Side by side, the happy family rode off into the desert while the slaves in the iron cage settled down into a morose silence, each of them lost in their own dark thoughts.

  AS THE SUN BEGAN to set behind the guard towers of Broke Neck ville, there was a polite knock on the door of the baron’s bedroom. When no answer came, the sec men worked the lock and stepped inside, carrying a tray of steaming food in good bowls.

  “Baron?” a corporal called hesitantly, glancing around. “It’s late, sir, and…” But he left the sentence unfinished.

  The window shutters were closed, but enough light poured through the tiny cracks along the edges to show piles of predark books everywhere. The walls were lined with bookcases, tables piled high with leather-bound volumes, and more were scattered on the floor. A cluster of lanterns hung from the ceiling, the glass reservoirs drained, and wicks burned away to a charred stub. In the far corner, Baron Harmond lay mumbling in a huge predark bed.

  Carefully, the corporal moved the bottle of aspirins to place the tray on a table, then rushed closer to catch every word. Sometimes, the boy’s dreams foretold of things to come, both good and bad. Like that time he told them about a herd of cattle roaming the desert only a few miles away. The ville ate meat for a full season on that vision. Or the time a scav found a case of predark brass, and tried to trade the ammo to the ville, but the baron had dreamed that the brass was a boobie. The scav didn’t believe the baron, loaded a brass into his own revolver and pulled the trigger. The explosion blew the blaster apart, and the scav was chilled by the shrapnel.

  Twisting and turning in the sweat-damp sheets, Harmond mumbled something too soft to hear.

  The corporal leaned in closer. “What was that again, Baron?”

  “Traitor…walking among us…stinking coldheart,” the baron whispered, giving a shiver. “Smiles…he smiles…but has a knife for a hand…traitor. Traitor!”

  A knife for a hand?

  “Who is it, Baron?” the sec man asked softly, trying not to awaken the boy.

  “Don’t…don’t let them talk to the air,” the boy said, his eyes focused on eternity. “Mustn’t let them…talk to the air!”

  Now what the nuking hell did that mean? “Tell me his name, Baron,” the sec man begged. “Is it Ryan? A rist? One of our own men?”

  With a deep sigh, the baron closed his eyes and fell asleep, his tortured features easing into a peaceful countenance. Whatever demons had been stalking his mind were temporarily gone.

  Tenderly wiping the sweat from the boy’s forehead, the corporal turned and walked across the room, pausing at the door to look backward.

  “Don’t worry, my lord,” he whispered grimly. “We’ll find the traitor. Have no fear of that. And the only air he’ll talk to is when the bastard is dancing at the end of a rope!”

  “No…” the baron whispered in warning, but it was already too late. The heavy door had closed and the sec man was running to report the dire news to the sec boss.

  Chapter Seven

  It was in the afternoon when the companions left the second story of the tavern and went to check their horses.

  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the sizzling streets were almost entirely deserted. A panting dog lay in the shade under an empty wheelbarrow. A few feet away, a cat was doing the exact same thing under a shovel propped against the wall.

  Sitting near the ville well, a wrinklie was wearing a wide stray hat, the ragged ends fluttering like feelers in the breeze. Directly overhead, the wooden covering above the well was offering no shade, but the old man was small enough to hide in the shadow beneath his woven hat. Dripping sweat, a man was stitching together a pair of snakeskin moccasins, his hands moving with the stately grace of performing a task that he had accomplished a thousand times before.

  “Morning, sir,” Mildred said in greeting, shielding her face with a raised hand.

  The man looked up from his work and grinned, displaying a lot of missing teeth. Then he went back to the task, the needle rising and falling in an e
ndless rhythm.

  “Been a long time since we haven’t seen any clouds,” Krysty said, rubbing the bandage on her left cheek. The wound was nearly healed, and itching badly.

  “It’s nice to not worry about acid rain for once,” J.B. added, removing his fedora to straighten the brim and then place it back again. The harsh sunlight glinted off his glasses, casting a rainbow on his face. “Come on, let’s get moving. The horses come first, then we hit the tavern for some breakfast.”

  “Dinner.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Probably dog,” Jak drawled, glancing at the animal under the wheelbarrow.

  “Hot dog.” Mildred chuckled to herself.

  “There is no reason for us to eat the local cuisine,” Doc mumbled, mopping the back of his neck with his stained linen handkerchief. “We have plenty of MRE packs left.”

  “We have to save those for the trip back to Two-Son,” Ryan said, starting along the dusty street. “After we find those bastard coldhearts, and figure out why they want me and Doc so badly.”

  Frowning pensively, Doc started to speak when there came the sound of multiple boots running along the hard streets. Instantly, the companions shifted their position into a defensive formation just as Chief Bateman arrived with a squad of armed sec men.

  “Morning,” the sec chief said, stopping a few yards away.

  Keeping his expression neutral, Ryan nodded in reply. Fireblast, something was wrong. The sec man had stopped just out of reach to shake hands, the perfect distance for a blaster fight. Yesterday the locals had greeted the companions with open arms, today they seemed itching for a chance to unleash some lead. Their faces were hard, and every hand stayed near a wep. Whatever had occurred in the past few hours, it seemed clear that the companions had somehow worn out their welcome.

  “How was the grub at the tavern?” Bateman asked, trying to sound polite. In spite of what the guard had reported, he had some difficulty believing that these rists were a threat to the ville. If so, the baron would have seen it before this. No, there had to be something else happening, and these folks were just a part of it, but not the center of the brewing storm.