Prodigal's Return (14 page)

A door creaked open on one of the silent wags, and a blinking man staggered to the threshold, only to drunkenly stumble and fall to the ground. Quickly, people rushed over to help, one woman sticking her head into the wag. She came right back out again. Gasping for breath, she limply dropped onto her rear end and clutched her head in both hands.

“Holy skydark, they look like jolt addicts on a bender,” Alan muttered with a frown. “Anything we can do for them?”

“Fresh air will do fine,” Mildred stated. “Although some strong coffee sub wouldn’t hurt if you have any.”

“Nope, they’ll have to make do with air,” Cordelia replied curtly. Then she added, “Willow bark tea any good?”

“Even better! That’s a natural analgesic…a natural painkiller, similar to aspirin,” Mildred finished lamely.

“Yeah, she’s a healer, all right. Half of what she says don’t mean squat to regular folk.” Alan chuckled, giving a crooked smile. “You and Dewitt are going to get along just fine.”

“Dewitt. Is that your healer?”

“Good one, too. A real artist with a knife.” He glanced over at a bald man kneeling in the mud, slitting the throat of a coldheart, then taking his boots.

“That ether stuff, that what she use on you?” Cordelia asked, indicating the fresh bandages.

“Just shine and fishing line,” Ryan said, inadvertently rhyming.

“Yeah, got some of that in me, too,” Cordelia muttered, rubbing her leg.

“You could have a couple of people fan the blasterports with blankets,” Krysty suggested. “That should rouse the rest of your people quick enough.”

“That so?” Cordelia asked suspiciously.

“Brass in your blaster, friend.”

“Well, I’m old enough to know the spring water from piss,” Alan drawled. “So I reckon that’s pure quill. Take care of it, will ya, Della?”

“Yes, Alan. Be right back,” she replied, slowly walking away, as if unwilling to let the companions out of her sight.

“That woman doesn’t trust her own shadow,” Alan said, watching her leave.

“That just makes her a good sec chief,” J.B. stated. “Why does she carry so many blasters?”

“Ask her sometime. It’s a real good story,” Alan said, turning again. “Well, I see you’ve already started gathering your share of the blasters. Fair enough, a deal is a deal.” He frowned. “Don’t think you’re gonna get any working sandhogs, though. You folks were kind of rough on the previous owners.”

“Not a problem. We have horses,” Ryan said with a shrug. He immediately regretted the motion as a sharp pain stabbed his side. “Which way are you folks heading?”

“Nor’east, toward Centralia,” Alan said, squinting. “Why do you want to know?”

“We’d like to ride along some, if you don’t mind.”

“Safety in numbers,” Krysty added sagely.

“Not always,” Alan countered with a grimace, looking
at the grave diggers. “We got a dozen wags and a hundred folks, most of them with working blasters, and those damn coldhearts shoved us into a nuking meat grinder. Must have lost fifteen. All of them friends, and kin.”

The companions said nothing, letting the man make up his mind. The trickiest part of any negotiation was knowing when to speak and when to shut up.

Crossing his huge arms, Alan frowned. “You folks any good with blasters, or did those rapidfires just throw so much lead at the coldhearts that they caught some by accident?”

“Better than most,” Ryan said honestly.

“Della, think they’ll do as outriders?”

“Well, they helped out,” Cordelia sniffed, ambling back. “I saw some of you shoot. Can all of you people shoot good?”

“Just ask,” Krysty countered, jerking her chin.

Turning, Alan and Cordelia looked up the western slope to see two men riding over the crest, leading four more horses.

Studying them, Cordelia noted with satisfaction that they both looked tougher than a boiled Army tank, and carried their longblasters with the calm assurance of seasoned chillers. There was something odd about the younger man, and she couldn’t quite figure out what it was, until she realized that he had to be hiding something up his sleeves. Probably knives. Yeah, he had the look of a blade master. Hmm, good-looking and lethal. That was a nice combination.

“They’ll do,” Cordelia said, hitching up her gun belt.

“Then it’s settled,” Alan declared, spreading his
arms. “You’re hired. We can offer hot food for the journey, shine if you want, plus a slice of anything we find along the way. But you sleep outside. Nobody goes inside a wag but my people.”

“We look like spring water,” J.B. translated, “but might still be piss.”

“Close enough,” Alan said, tugging on his mustache to hide a grin. “Now, there are six of you, so loot six bodies. Everything else goes into the war chest. We’ll be going past Cobalt Lake, and that’s bad mutie country.”

“I’ll send you a note when I get frightened,” Ryan said, deadpan.

“You’re a card, One-eye, sure enough.” Alan laughed, then stopped, suddenly noticing the odd motion of Krysty’s hair. He started to say something, then obviously changed his mind. “Anyway, just don’t take too long. We bury our friends, then we leave.”

Somewhere in the far distance, a steam whistle loudly keened, the strident noise echoing through the multiple hollows until it seemed to be coming from every direction.

“Agreed. Just stay on soft ground and away from any bedrock or dried riverbeds,” Ryan advised. “The coldhearts have a monster war wag along with those sandhogs, but it’s too heavy to roll on soft dirt.”

“Good to know,” Cordelia replied, resting a hand on a flintlock. “The sooner we’re out of this half-ass valley and in some open countryside, the better.”

“You got that right,” Alan grunted, kicking his horse into a gentle trot. “Better get busy. We move in thirty!”

“Ten would have made me happier,” J.B. said, pull
ing out a knife and testing the edge on the ball of his thumb.

“Okay, everybody knows the drill,” Ryan added, drawing the panga and heading toward a corpse. “Let’s go looking for supplies!”

D
EAD LEAVES
sprinkled down from the withering trees as the howler moved through the forest glen. As the glowing cloud touched them in passing, birds and other small animals tumbled from the branches to land on the crispy earth, feebly twitching, and then going horribly still.

In the far distance, a wolf howled loudly, sounding the alarm to the rest of the pack that death was approaching. Oddly, that made the howler pause for a long moment for some unknown reason. Then it continued on once more, never flagging in its hunt for the hated two-legs. The prey had switched from their not-live-thing to horses, but their spoor was unmistakable, even when mixed with the smell of the other two-legs, and then the dried blood of the four-legs-that-were-not-wolves.

Feeling a vibration on the surface, an underground feeder lashed out blindly with a dozen tentacles, the spiked limbs attempting to sink their hooks into the tender flesh of a two-leg, or even better, a bear. That was food for a week!

But at the first contact, agonizing pain surged through the feeder, and it quickly tried to release the unseen food. However, its tentacles wouldn’t come off, and the feeder felt itself being bodily hauled up through the loose dirt toward the surface.

In blind terror, the mutie fought back, thrashing wildly, but it was useless, and soon the subterranean
dweller was out of its burrow and being dragged helpless across the ground.

At the sight of the glowing green cloud, the feeder redoubled its attacks, then threw itself toward the unknown thing, wrapping every tentacle tight, trying to squeeze the life out of this new enemy. The ghastly pain steadily increased, but the feeder never ceased to struggle, and wrapped two of its smaller tentacles around a nearby tree as an anchor.

However, the bark crumbled away from its touch, and the plant visibly withered as the cloud expanded to fill the quiet forest glen. With a splintering noise, the tree broke apart, and the startled feeder was bodily hauled into the searing mist.

Even as its skin began to blister and bubble, the feeder raged once more at its enemy, whipping about the smaller tentacles in an effort to remove the eyes of its tormentor.

Then something obscene rammed into the feeder, splitting it wide open and exposing its brain to the all-destroying cloud. Convulsing with unimaginable pain, the vivisected feeder insanely tightened every tentacle and attempted to bite the other thing. Its iron beak shattered at the contact. Then the howler flowed inside the writhing mutie and began to feed.

The wailing death scream of the feeder rang across the landscape and seemed to last in inordinate length of time.

With a strangled cry, sec chief Abigail Ralhoun sat bolt upright in the darkness, clawing for a blaster on her hip. However, her fingers found only blankets and a bedroll. Frantically looking around, she saw the gun belt and her longblaster lying neatly coiled on top of her horse saddle, safe from the morning dew.

Confused a she was by the surroundings, it took her a few moments to realize that she was among her troops, and no longer being horribly tortured.
Camarillo, the name of coldheart will be Camarillo.

Grabbing the handblaster, she thumbed back the hammer, taking great comfort in the weight of the weapon in her fist. Fighting to control her pounding heart, Ralhoun listened to the familiar sounds of the night, the gentle snoring of the sleeping sec men mixing with the eternal song of the cicadas. Silently, a huge owl flew by overhead, the shape briefly blotting out the moonlight. Nearby, a campfire softly crackled, the dancing flames illuminating a ring of sleeping bags and bedrolls. Heavy blankets covered the still forms of the sec men, their saddles positioned close at hand, their sweaty boots perched on top to air out in the cool night.

With a longblaster resting on his lap, a guard sat on a fallen log slowly sipping a tin cup of coffee sub, while another man was facing the bushes, whistling to cover
the gentle sound of splashing. Off to the side, the horses stood with heads bowed in sleep, only the occasional swishing motions of their tails showing that they were still alive.

Slowly, Ralhoun allowed herself to relax. Black dust, it had just been a bad dream, only a dream. However, the ghastly images remained crystal clear in her mind, and she slowly had to accept the fact that it hadn’t been a dream, but a vision of the future.

Her doomie father had been amazingly accurate in his predictions, but her powers were as unreliable as brass taken from a stranger. Numerous times she had seen doom and death looming fast, only to have something unexpectedly change the course of events. At a very early age she had learned that the visions weren’t carved in stone, but merely the most likely future. It seemed that time was in a constant state of flux, forever changing. The most minor decision this day could invoke major alterations for the next, some good, some bad, while others were completely pointless.

Once, she had a vision of the local potter getting aced by his cousin over a game of dice. Then the cousin fell ill with the yellow cough and died. However, the very next day the potter got eaten by a mutie while burying the man. He still died, just not in the way she had foreseen. Mebbe that meant some things could be changed, while others couldn’t? She had no idea, and deeply hated the uncertainty of the gift, but had learned to grudgingly accept that aspect of it. Life was pain. Only the dead felt nothing.

Pulling on a shirt, she strapped on a gun belt and padded barefoot over to a stream. Kneeling in the grass,
she splashed some cold water on her face, then rinsed her mouth and spit into the reeds. An unfamiliar taste filled her mouth, sickeningly salty, and her mind was filled with the images of an underground chamber, her sec men chained to the stone-block walls. Most of them were missing their fingers. Although gutted like a spring buck, one of them was horribly twitching with life. It was John Cordova, her best tracker. Dimly, she remembered that he had discovered the hidden base of the coldhearts, and against her direct orders, had charged in, screaming and shooting, determined to avenge the death of his friend Hohner. His were the actions that led the rest of her sec men to this horrible fate.

In the middle of the dungeon was a tanning board covered with the tightly stretched skin of the outlander called Ryan Cawdor, his missing eye only one of many holes in the leathery hide. It was peppered with bulletholes, along with several knife cuts. Clearly, he had been aced very hard.

Hanging from a scaffold was the skinless body of a teenager, his white teeth fully exposed, the lidless eyes staring into eternity. The word
tiger
came unbidden into her mind, then faded away like a whisper in the wind.

Shivering, she remembered being stark naked on a cold stone table, spread-eagled and helpless, heavy metal chains clamped to her wrists and ankles. Laughing coldhearts surrounded the table, and some big man named Camarillo was thrusting between her legs. Pain filled her inside, but even worse was the sense of helplessness and utter humiliation. There was blood smeared on her breasts, on her stomach. Vomit rose in her throat at the memory.

Desperately needing some coffee sub, she shuffled back to the campfire and poured herself a mug from the softly bubbling pot. The black brew had been heated all night and tasted bitterly strong. The flavor was overpowering, and that was a blessed relief. Draining the mug, she had a second, and then a third.

“Something wrong, Chief?” a sec man asked in concern, putting aside his cup. “You have a vision or something?”

Looking at the man, she recognized him as one of the corpses on the wall. “Corporal Latimer, take over for a minute,” she commanded, getting to her feet. “Sergeant Cordova and I have some ville biz to discuss.”

“Not a prob, Chief,” Latimer said, ambling over to pour out the cold dregs from his tin cup, then get some fresh coffee. With a pleased smile, he sat down on the log and pulled out some jerky to start gnawing contently.

“I swear he eats his own bodyweight in chow every couple of hours,” Cordova muttered in disgust. “How is that possible? Think he’s a mutie, Chief?”

“No talking,” she directed sternly, trying to think of what to say to the him.

In an awkward silence, Ralhoun and Cordova walked out of the camp and into the night. She angled away from the creek, toward the south. Soon they were moving along on a rocky cliff overlooking a sylvan valley of pine trees and rocky tors. The full moon was so low in the sky it almost looked like it was about to crash into the valley, and the light was incredibly bright.

Stopping on a jagged escarpment, they stood look
ing down upon the cold forest, listening to the sounds of the night.

“Okay, we’re far enough away,” she stated, crossing her arms. “Now, listen sharp, this is important.”

“What’s up, Chief?” Cordova asked, swinging around his longblaster to work the arming bolt. “Somebody trying a nightcreep?”

“No, nothing like that,” she said tolerantly. “Look, I had a vision, and it was a bad one. A real nuke storm. We got our arses kicked in a fight and everybody was aced.”

“Shitfire,” he replied, giving the word several syllables. “So what’s the plan? We gonna hit them first, or swing wide and strike from the rear?”

She grunted at that, pleased that he never even mentioned the possibility of running away. “I want you to ride back to the ville—”

“And come back with fresh troops,” he interrupted, slinging the longblaster. “I won’t let you down, Chief. We’ll chill the bastards! Was it the outlanders or somebody new?”

“Stop firing from the hip and listen to me,” she growled, staring at the man in annoyance. “I want you to go back to the ville and stay there. No rescue attempts, no fresh troops. Just keep the gates closed and wait for me to come back. That’s it. Nothing else. Understand?”

“Hell, no.” He frowned. “I ain’t gonna leave you, Chief. There’s no yellow in my belly. I’m with you till the end!”

Which was exactly what was going to happen to all of them unless she could somehow alter the future.
Mebbe having him leave wouldn’t change the outcome of the fight, but it was all that she could think of doing, aside from shooting herself in the head to avoid the rape.

“This is a direct order,” she said, poking the man in the chest with a stiff finger. “You must leave right now, and don’t come back.”

“Not going to happen…Chief.”

“This is a direct order, Sergeant! Disobedience means a hundred lashes, and expulsion from the ville!”

“Aw, fuck your vision. Some of them have been wrong before,” he said stubbornly. “I won’t go, Chief, not ever. You can count on me to the grave!”

Suddenly, she saw his face in a new way, the passion and deep concern clearly evident, and knew the truth. “You love me, don’t ya?” she asked softly, hoping for a denial.

“Since the day we met.” He exhaled, as if he had been holding his breath forever. “Yeah, yeah, I know, you’re the baron, and the sec chief, but hellfire, Abigail, everybody needs somebody.”

“Shit,” she muttered, flexing her fingers.

“I’ll never leave your side, Chief,” he stated adamantly. “You can count on me!”

“So be it, then.” She sighed. “Sorry about this, old friend. But I’m never going onto the stone table.”

Puzzled, he squinted. “What stone table?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, pulling a Beretta and firing.

The soft lead 9 mm slugs slammed hard into the sec man, blowing away chunks of flesh and driving him backward off the cliff. As silent as a snowflake, he plummeted into the darkness, to vanish from sight.
She remained quiet until hearing a meaty impact far below.

Holstering the smoking blaster, she turned away and started back to the camp, meeting a dozen sec men in various stages of undress, their hands full of weapons.

“What happened, Chief?” one asked, his blaster sweeping the night for targets.

“Cordova and I were talking some ville biz when a mutie condor grabbed him,” she lied, turning to pretend to stare hatefully into the night. “We both fired, but it took him over the cliff.”

“Well, nuke me running,” a sec woman whispered, stepping to the edge and peering below. “Any chance he’s still alive down there?”

“Not after having his throat removed,” she said, trying to sound grim.

“Did ya get the mutie, at least?” another sec man asked.

His chest was completely covered with tattoos, and for some reason that reminded her of the tanning rack in her vision. Already it was becoming hard to recall the details, the currents of time swirling away in new directions.

“Yes, I aced the danger. We’re safe now,” she said, starting back to the camp. “Davidson, you’re captain of the guard for the rest of the night. Double the sentries and chill anything that comes in sight.”

“Got’ya, Chief,” he grunted, thumbing back both hammers on his double-barrel scattergun. “Take no chances. I got your six!”

“Me, too,” she replied cryptically. It was been a hard
price to pay, but she had done what was required to save the rest of her troops, and herself.

As well as those accursed outlanders, she added privately, taking off the gun belt and coiling it neatly on top of her saddle. I only hope this new future was worth such a sacrifice.

Getting under the blanket, she wiggled into a comfortable position. At the very least, she now knew the name of her real enemy, Camarillo. And that he couldn’t be trusted under any circumstances.

Then again, neither can I, she thought, drifting off to a peaceful and dreamless sleep.

J
UST BEFORE DAWN
, Alan got the convoy under way through the twisting maze of hollows. Ryan, Mildred and Krysty took the job of outriders, keeping their horses ahead of the rattling convoy. J.B., Jak and Doc brought up the rear. Always on the move, Cordelia rode with both groups, switching back and forth every couple miles. Meanwhile, Alan stayed in the lead wag, constantly watching the crest of the slopes with a pair of binoculars, a loaded musket lying across his lap and a softly ticking rad counter on the floor near his boots.

There had been no sign of the coldhearts since the attack in the hallows, and some of the travelers had started to relax and chat among themselves, but Alan made that nonsense stop fast.

“Just because you can’t hear quicksand don’t mean it won’t chill you,” he declared gruffly. “Until we’re out of these damn valleys, keep your yaps shut and iron in your fist!”

The previous evening had been awkward for the
companions, with the travelers watching them for any sign of betrayal. Their help in the fight notwithstanding, outlanders always meant trouble. Then Ryan and J.B. had offered to help Alan and Cordelia make some bombs with the oddball rounds they had recovered from the aced coldhearts. Mildred joined forces with Benjamin Dewitt, and the two healers checked on every wounded member of the convoy, stitching bulletholes, setting bones and changing bandages. Krysty and Jak helped make repairs on the wags, never going inside, of course, while Doc entertained the children with tall tales of Atlantis, King Arthur, Robin Hood and Zorro, although he used the more conventional terms of baron, sec men and mutie.

Slowly, the tense atmosphere warmed, and dinner had been a pleasant affair of horse meat. There had been a few wild turnips and some acorns tossed into the stew, but mostly it was just horse, some of the chunks roasted, while others got fried, to try to change the flavor a little. Without refrigeration, or a significant amount of salt as a preservative, the raw meat would soon go bad, so it had to be eaten fast. A tiny blonde woman called Library wanted to halt long enough to jerk the meat, but Alan flatly refused. A sitting convoy already had one boot in the grave. Distance was their best armor against the coldhearts. That, plus ground too soft for the bedamned steam truck to traverse. Nobody had seen the colossal war wag in action, but from the description, it was clearly something best to avoid entirely.

Riding at the back of the convoy, Doc and J.B. did their best to keep straight faces while Cordelia flirted outrageously with Jak. Intent on watching for the
coldhearts, Jak didn’t seem to notice. But Doc and J.B. knew that he’d tweaked to her intentions quite a while ago, and now was just teasing her by playing dumb.

“So, how many knives you carry?” Cordelia asked, rocking gently in the saddle to the motion of her horse. As the morning became warm, she had unbuttoned her shirt to reveal an amazing amount of cleavage.

“Enough,” Jak said, pretending to misunderstand the question. “How many blasters you got?”

“Never enough,” she answered. “Think I should start carrying some blades?”

“Some steel in right place do you good,” he replied, riding closer until they were side by side. Ebony and ivory.