“Yeah, mebbe.” Ryan walked back to just outside the shadow cast by the tunnel. He noticed that none of the leeches on the ground had ventured onto the sunlit ground. “Krysty?”
“Yeah?” Her voice was muffled by the wag’s thick armor. “Where are you?”
“Outside the tunnel. Got some leeches on us, but we’re okay now. Start the wag and drive it out.” Ryan wasn’t about to head back underneath that overpass if he could help it.
“All right.” The engine turned over, then fired up with a roar, echoing loudly in the confined space. Ryan, J.B. and Jak stepped to one side as the vehicle slowly emerged from the darkness, clumps of leeches clinging to it. Grabbing his dirty shirt, Ryan cleared the hatch and brushed more of the creatures off. The hatch opened, and Krysty poked her head out. “Why are you— Gaia, what happened?”
Ryan pointed at the overpass. “Big colony of the bastards must have blown in with the storm. They fell on us while we were cleaning the exhaust—”
“While
I
cleared exhaust,” Jak broke in.
Ryan continued. “So we ran out here, got cleaned off fast as we could. All of us got a few bites taken out.” Ryan looked at his hands, which still oozed blood. “Don’t seem to be stopping as fast as I’d like.”
Krysty got out, making room for Mildred, who had grabbed the first-aid kit, stocked with additional items she had pulled from the redoubt. “Not surprising, considering the little bloodsuckers probably have an anticoagulant in their saliva, to keep dinner flowing faster.” She handed tape, cotton, alcohol and gauze to Krysty. “Clean up, Ryan, and I’ll handle the other two.”
“Probably should start with the pair on my back.” Ryan turned, aware of a warm trickle down his spine.
“Ryan!” Krysty admonished while wiping up his blood.
“Hey, as I recall, none of us asked to get covered in leeches and have our blood sucked out.”
“I know, I know, it’s just—never mind. You just seem to find more trouble than Job himself. Find a stick or something. This’ll sting a bit.”
Ryan almost turned to see if she was kidding or not. He couldn’t imagine cleaning the bites would be more than a minor nuisance. When she swabbed the bites with the alcohol, he learned her prediction was correct, although he manfully tried to control his wince. She bandaged the wounds on his back, then moved to his hands.
“You’re going to be some sight after all this.” Krysty swabbed and bandaged and taped until Ryan was dotted with patches over all his wounds. J.B. and Jak were similarly bedecked, the three of them looking exactly like what they were—survivors of a very odd skirmish.
Krysty, Doc and Mildred stared at the trio until Ryan couldn’t stand it any longer. “What the hell we standing around here for? Let’s get moving.”
With the storm quickly outpacing them to the east, Ryan was able to drive without incident on the highway for another hour. Occasionally they had to detour around broken sections of the road, but for the most part, they kept heading due southeast.
The sun blazed high overhead when they stopped for lunch and to give the engine a rest, pulling into the overgrown gravel driveway of one of the long-abandoned farmhouses that dotted the countryside. After sweeping and clearing the area, Mildred and Krysty laid out a spread of cold meats, cheese and a loaf of bread, and everyone enjoyed thick sandwiches, along with a jar of clean-looking water that Ryan purified anyway, just to be sure.
After lunch and cleanup, Doc and Jak lay underneath towering oak trees for a nap—Jak due to tiredness from the previous night, and Doc simply because he was Doc, muttering something about the “pastoral locale and Little Boy Blue.” Krysty and Mildred wanted to poke around in the tumbledown house and barn, and J.B. settled down with his maps to plot the next leg of the journey, conferring with Ryan on the best route.
“How solid you think Brend’s information was on Madison?” the one-eyed man asked as he sucked on a hollow tooth.
“Depends. It’s not like they get out much, so info’s
always second-and thirdhand. Don’t see much use in convoys misleading the ville, so it’s probably got some truth to it.”
Ryan scrutinized the map, tracing the red line of the highway they were on as it led into the vicinity of three lakes where the onetime state capital had sprung up. “If we turned off here—” he tapped an intersection of Interstate 90 and State Road 60 “—we could avoid the city altogether and keep heading east. Maybe check out this place—” He pointed at a patch of green labeled Poynette St. Farm Home. “Might be a good place to hole up for the night.”
“Seems like we got plenty of those places around right now. Just pick a farm, and you’re good to go. Can’t count on everybody bein’ as friendly as the last ville.”
“Never do. We’ll give the sleepyheads another half hour, then get back on the road. Let’s check out that farm place anyway. It’s far enough away from Madison that we shouldn’t have to worry about any cannies.”
Carefully folding the map, J.B. regarded him. “How’re your bandages?”
“Itch like hell, but I’m not gonna give the women the satisfaction of seeing me scratch them. You?”
“Same. Feel like my luck hasn’t been all that great the past few days.”
Ryan shrugged. “Bound to turn soon enough.”
J.B. frowned. “Damn well better. If it gets any worse, it’s liable to kill me.”
The two men went to find their respective women, who were returning from their recon of the ruined house. Mildred and J.B. went to relax a bit before they hit the road again, leaving Ryan and Krysty to walk around the barn and through one of the overgrown fields, as
much to steal a moment together as to get the lay of the land.
Finding a small hillock, they climbed it and stared out at the gently rolling hills around them, which were slowly baking brown in the summer’s heat and dotted with the crumbling ruins of farms that had once sustained a long-ago nation. Ryan didn’t give the landscape more than a passing glance, but when he turned to Krysty, he noticed her staring out at the hills absently, her eyes unfocused, as if lost in thought.
Carefully he approached her. “What’s going on?”
She shook her head, crimson hair fluttering in the light breeze. “Oh, nothing—for a moment I thought of Harmony ville in summer. It looked much the same as this—the hills parching under the summer sun, fields tended to begin the harvest soon. Just—took me by surprise to be reminded of it like this. It seems like a lifetime ago since I was last there.”
“Yeah.” Ryan didn’t bring up how they’d had to rescue Krysty’s home ville from a small gang of killers who had blown into town last time they were there, or how her childhood lover had been killed during the trouble, as well.
“You think we’ll ever settle down somewhere someday, Ryan?”
“Mebbe, if we ever find the right place. Don’t think this is it, though.”
Krysty nodded, staring at the ground. “I was watching you at dinner last night. You were like a wolf among pet dogs. Difference clear as night and day.”
He shrugged, walking close to her and putting his arm around her shoulders. “Some folk are born to grow and create. Some aren’t. You know which side I fall on.”
“I do. Good thing you tend to leave most places we pass through on the better side.”
“When possible.” He turned her gently back toward the wag and their campsite, unwilling to admit he’d also entertained the thought of holding still recently. “When the time and place are right, we’ll know.”
She looked up at him, her expression neutral. “Will we?”
Ryan didn’t have an answer for her that time.
A
FTER A QUICK CHECK
of the engine, they fired it up again and set out, heading south until they found the crossroads to take them due east.
The surrounding landscape was more of the same, the bright sun painting the hills vermilion and purple through the violet sky. Along with the farms, they passed several deserted small villes along the highway, and one larger one that had a strange collection of tall, curved pipes that rose dozens of feet into the air, some broken and bent, some still upright. Since there weren’t any signs of life, they didn’t stop to investigate.
Ryan found the country roads to be in overall better condition than the highway; although rough and rutted, they weren’t falling apart like the asphalt and concrete road. Route 60 was straight and level, enough so that he edged up to around fifty miles an hour on one stretch, just to see what the Commando could do. He didn’t keep it there long, however, not wanting to stress the engine. He was pleased with the vehicle’s speed, however, since it ensured they could outrun just about anyone they might encounter.
About an hour before dusk they stopped again, J.B. wanting to check the wag’s coolant levels. They all grabbed a bite and discussed pressing forward or
finding a place before night fell. J.B. estimated they were about ten miles from the ville of Poynette on the map, and could probably reach it before dark fell, although if there were folks there, they might not like seeing folks approach after dark. Ryan thought they could press on a bit farther—if they didn’t make it, no doubt they could find a suitable camping spot without too much trouble. “Besides, we haven’t seen a soul for the entire day, so its not like we’re on a well-traveled path out here.”
In the end, the decision was made to keep moving, and a few miles later, when Ryan saw smoke rising into the sky to the north, he called back to the rest of the group. “Looks like a settlement to the north. Might as well check it out.”
A few hundred yards farther, he came to the intersection of what J.B. said was Route 51, which would take them right into Poynette. At least, that was what the hand-carved sign said by the side of the road. Ryan turned left, and headed up the well-maintained road.
Five minutes later, they came to a checkpoint, lit by blazing torches and manned by several guards—six on the ground and another six on horseback—all armed with longblasters. Ryan downshifted and pulled to a stop about fifty yards away again. Scooting out of the driver’s chair, he called out, much like he had done at Toma.
“Hello the guards!”
“Hello yourself. Where you coming from?”
“West, over the Big Muddy, near Toma. We’re headin’ farther eastward.”
“What’s your business?”
“Trade, mebbe a place to stay the night if you have a place.”
“Sure, but you’ll have to leave the wag outside of town. Elders’ orders.”
Ryan’s eyebrow went up, but he went along with it for now. “All right.”
“Some of the boys here will escort you to a place you can leave it, then they’ll take you to a house you can stay in. In the morning, we can do some trading.”
“Sounds good.”
“That was a bit odd.” Ryan turned to see J.B. wearing the same skeptical expression he’d had. “No toll for coming inside the ville?”
“Maybe these people are overflowing with the milk of human kindness, and do not see the need to tax visitors for the privilege of walking their streets,” Doc suggested from the back.
“Mebbe, but everyone keep your eyes open regardless,” Ryan said, waiting for the gate to open. A quartet of horsemen had formed up on the other side, a pair on either side of the road, standing at quiet attention. Another one galloped off toward the ville in the distance.
Krysty nodded in appreciation of the horses. “Well-trained. They’re not even spooked by the engine noise.”
“Not care well trained. Machine gun burst to chest would do ’em.” Jak said.
“Let’s not get trigger-happy unless they give us a reason,” Ryan said. Once the way was clear, he proceeded forward, finding the lights on the wag and flipping the switch to illuminate the road. Next to it was another hand-carved wooden sign: Poynette—Pop. 174.
“Certainly take pride in their ville,” J.B. noted.
The riders escorted them to a side road a few hun
dred yards north of the guard post, pointing them into a grassy field where Ryan parked the wag. “J.B.”
“On it soon as we’re outside. Weapons?”
“The usual. They’ll probably have a place for us to hold them at the boardinghouse.” Ryan grabbed the bag of goods to show, then got out, grabbing his Steyr and slinging it. The rest of the group followed suit, with J.B. disappearing underneath the wag again.
“We’ve sent for a wag to take you into town. What’s your friend doin’?” the lead rider asked.
“Wag runs a little hot. He’s just checkin’ the water level.”
“Haven’t seen one of those kind in a long time. Usually only steam wags comin’ through.”
“Had this one awhile, been lucky enough to find gas here and there. Don’t suppose you folks have any?”
The rider smiled without showing his teeth and patted the neck of his horse. “You’re lookin’ at the main vehicles here, friend. They eat just ’bout any crops we grow, and don’t require nearly as much upkeep.”
“Probably right.” Ryan stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Name’s Ryan.”
“Caleb.” The rider introduced the rest of his group, and Ryan did the same, first names only. When they were finished, a wooden wag, drawn by a team of four horses, pulled up, driven by a boy barely into his teens, his eyes widening when he saw his passengers.
“’Zekiel? Take our guests over to Grandma Flannigan’s house. Let her know they are guests of Poynette this evening.” He nodded at the group. “Enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you.” Leading the way to the wag, Ryan ushered everyone else in first, making sure no one, Doc especially, hurt themselves getting into the high-sided
vehicle. When everyone was situated, the boy clucked his tongue, twitched the reins and turned the team around to head into the ville.
The place itself was as neat as the road, with well-maintained wooden houses lining the streets, the intersections lit by torches. Even at this relatively early hour, there weren’t a lot of people out and about, the neat sidewalks and roads devoid of activity. Ezekiel turned down a side street a few blocks in, neatly labeled with a wooden sign that proclaimed it Hudson Street, then clip-clopped three more blocks to the crossroads of Hudson and Lincoln, where a whitewashed house sat with kerosene lanterns burning in its windows. Another carved wooden sign out front read Grandma Flannigan’s Boardinghouse.
“Here we are, folks. Grandma runs a nice, clean house, and she’ll take care of you right.” Jumping down from the buckboard, Ezekiel ran to the back to let down the tailgate. Everyone got out, and followed the boy up the concrete steps to the front door. He had just raised his hand to knock when the door swung open.
“Guests at this hour? Welcome and come in, you all must be tired.” Grandma Flannigan, if this was her, didn’t fit the image Ryan had in his mind. She was a tall, whipcord thin woman with iron-gray hair and a stern demeanor who was dressed in a homespun cotton dress over which was an apron with several unidentifiable stains on it. “Goodness, I’ve barely had time to clean
up after our last visitors, but I’m sure we can find room for you all.”
“Caleb said to tell you they’re guests of the ville,” the boy piped up.
The old woman’s lips curved up in a smile. “That’s all I needed to hear. Please take your coats off and hang them in the hall there.” Upon seeing the various blasters, she nodded. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask to you hand over your blasters while you’re under my roof. They’ll be kept safe, you have my word.”
There was a pause, and J.B. and Krysty’s eyes flicked toward Ryan, who nodded, unslinging his rifle. Unloading it, he slipped the magazine into his pocket, then did the same with his SIG-Sauer before offering both firearms to her. It was a matter of trust. Either side could have done the other in long before this.
“You can set them on the table there.” The rest of the group did the same. Ryan noted the proprietor didn’t request that they surrender their knives, even though J.B.’s flensing knife was visible on his belt.
“You all must be hungry. I was just about to sit down to dinner.”
Ryan and the others had eaten less than an hour ago, but one of the cardinal unspoken rules in the Deathlands was to eat whenever food was available or offered. After all, a person never knew when he might get the chance again. “We’d be happy to sit at your table.” He took a moment to introduce everyone, with Doc sweeping his arm out in a courtly bow that nearly knocked Jak off balance next to him.
“Ezekiel? Go set six more places at the table, now!” The boy took off into what looked to be a dining room off the entry hall. The smell of something cooking drifted into the hall.
“You manage this place by yourself?” Mildred asked, looking around at the spotless wooden floor and ancient yet clean rug in the middle. The candelabra overhead held several candles, the melted wax catching in metal holders at the base of each one.
“The boy helps out, and for larger groups some of the women come in and assist with the cooking, but there’s plenty for you folks tonight. Come on.”
She led them into the dining room, where Ezekiel was just finishing placing bowls around the table. Grandma motioned for them to sit at the table, then disappeared through a swing door into what had to be the kitchen. She emerged a minute later with a large tureen, steam wafting off its top.
“Go on, sit down.” She set the tureen down in the middle, disappeared into the kitchen, and returned again carrying a tray of flatbread and bowl of honey. Setting it down next to the pot, she ladled out servings of a thick, light-green soup into the bowls. “Afraid this is all I have ready at the moment.”
“It’s smells heavenly,” Doc offered gallantly.
Once the elderly woman was done, she sat down and waited for everyone to watch her before bowing her head. Ryan did the same and suddenly much of the ville’s appearance—the clean streets, the drab clothes—fell into place. Small groups of the religiously inclined often found a ville that they could remake in whatever fashion they desired. Ryan counted his blessings that both this place and the last one weren’t one of the more zealous groups. There didn’t seem to be much chance of Jak being accused of consorting with demons here or worse, of being one himself.
The evening prayer complete, he bent over the earthenware bowl in front of him. Picking up the clean spoon
on the wooden table next to it, he scooped up a bite, all the while sniffing the liquid for any sign of drugs or other additives. Again, the broth didn’t have any real odor, malign or otherwise. He sipped cautiously; it was all right, with bits of what might have been finely chopped yet unidentifiable vegetables swimming in it.
Jak hadn’t wasted any time, blowing on the soup to cool it before shoving the spoon in his mouth. Grandma noticed and raised an eyebrow. “Boy’s got a powerful appetite. I daresay he looks a mite skinny for his age.”
Ryan hid his smile as he exchanged a covert glance with Krysty. Despite his odd appearance, Jak often brought out the motherly instinct in older women for some reason. J.B. had once opined it was because the kid looked like a half-starved, half-drowned cat. Jak hadn’t spoken to him for a week afterward. “He eats as much as the rest of us. Who knows where it all goes?” Ryan stirred his meal, waiting for any sign of incapacitation. He caught J.B.’s eye as he ate, and the bespectacled man gave the slightest shrug. Everything seemed to be on the level here.
The sound of conversation broke Ryan’s thoughts, and he realized Krysty was replying to the old woman’s question. “We came from the west, over the river, and straight through. Heard talk of cannies near Madison, so we thought we’d avoid the city altogether.”
Grandma Flannigan stiffened in her chair as if she had been slapped, then crossed herself. “Filthy creatures. Eaters of the dead. They haven’t been seen around here in a long time. I hope to never set eyes on one for the rest of my life.” She set her spoon down on the table, as if the conversation had made her lose her appetite. “So, Krysty said you were traders. What might you have for barter?”
Ryan took this one. “Ammo for your men’s rifles, fishhooks and line, a bit of spices, clothes, tools, some other odds and ends. Ought to be just about something for everyone.”
She nodded, her iron-gray head bobbing. “I would be interested in seeing what spices you could part with. Your first night here is courtesy of the town, but anything afterward will be paid for, of course.”
“Of course. I’m sure we can come to a suitable agreement.” Ryan sipped at his cooling soup, reaching for a piece of bread to mop up the remains. Jak had already pushed his bowl forward in hopes of receiving another serving, and Grandma obliged.
“You’d mentioned another group of visitors, madam. We didn’t see any people heading west when we were approaching your fair town.”
“They had come from the east, true, but decided to try their luck north instead of continuing on to the river. It was a small caravan, only staying a few days before moving on.”
“What does your ville have to trade?” Ryan asked
“We are a simple community, living primarily off the bounty of the earth, and trading for whatever we need with those who stop by in their travels. We offer fresh vegetables, candles and honey from the local bees and—” her mouth pursed in disapproval “—fruit of the grain, or distilled corn liquor.”
Ryan stilled his eyebrows before they could rise much higher in disbelief. Next to jack and drugs, moonshine was another highly prized commodity, but he wouldn’t have expected this place to traffic in it.
Finishing his soup, he mopped up the bottom of the bowl with the soft flatbread, then leaned back in his
chair and stifled a belch. “I think we can certainly do business.”
“Good to hear.” Grandma suddenly pushed back her chair. “The days are long here, and our work begins well before sunup. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your rooms. Ezekiel will clear the table.”
Ryan rose, and everyone else followed suit. Carrying a candle in a metal holder, Grandma Flannigan led them single file into what was a parlor or living room, furnished with hand-carved furniture surrounding a stone fireplace, currently cold and dark. On the other side, a staircase led to the second floor.
“Who does the carving around here?” Ryan asked as he ran his hand up the polished wooden banister. “Got a real talent for it.”
“The Ephraim family’s been supplying furniture for the town for six generations, since before the harrowing.”
Ryan caught Krysty’s raised eyebrow, and waved her off. These insular communities often had their own terms for skydark, as the rest of Deathlands called the nuclear catastrophe that had maimed the world.
Doc, however, didn’t catch the subtle gesture. “Beg your pardon, madam, but I do not believe I’m familiar with that particular word.”
“The harrowing was God’s plan to cleanse the land, and everything that man had created on it, and all those who dwelled in it in the flames of his holy fire. Those who are not worthy in His eyes will be destroyed, and those who are worthy, those who worship Him, will receive their just reward in heaven.” Her voice hadn’t changed in timbre or tone, but Ryan felt that strange shiver curl around his spine whenever he was in the presence of religious zealots. Since Doc was behind him as
Ryan ascended the stairs, he wanted to turn and motion him to shut up, but Grandma had already reached the top and had turned to face them as they came up.
Fortunately, Doc had the sense to not pursue the matter further. “Ah—I see. Thank you for the elucidation, it is much appreciated.”
They were at the second-story landing now, and Grandma pointed at three doors, one behind her, and the two right next to her in the hallway. “Rooms are all the same. One mattress only, so I hope the men don’t mind slumbering together.”
“Not at all, it’s common enough in our group.”
“Good.” Grandma stepped to the first room and opened the door. “I think the ladies will be quite comfortable in here.”
Ryan opened his mouth, but was forestalled by the iron-haired proprietor. “Mr. Cawdor, I do not care what sort of arrangement you may have outside of this establishment, however, under my roof, you will obey my rules. As I do not see any sign of matrimony, neither a ring nor a collar, the men and the women will sleep separately. If you do not agree, you are more than welcome to find lodging elsewhere.”
Caught, Ryan couldn’t do anything but glare at Jak as he sniggered behind his hand. They could leave the house, but that would sour relations with the entire ville, and not gain them anything. Besides, it was only for one night. “We have no wish to cause insult.” He waved Grandma into the room. “After you.” With her back to him, Ryan caught Krysty’s eye and signaled her to have one person stay on watch through the night, then caught Jak’s eye and passed the same message to him.
The Armorer had walked into the room, followed by Ryan. Grandma Flannigan had lit the candle by the
bedside table, illuminating the wooden floor, a lone hardback chair and lumpy mattress, most likely stuffed with straw, and covered with a homespun quilt. “If any of you have to do your business, the chamberpot is underneath the bed. The closet is there.” She waved at a small door on the far wall. “Sleep well, and I’ll see you in the morning.” With that, she walked out, closing the door behind her.
Ryan stared across the bed at J.B. “Certainly isn’t how I figured things’d work out.”
“You’re telling me.” The pale man had crossed silently to the door, pressing his ear against it for a few seconds. “She’s gone, back down the stairs.” He tried the door, which opened under his hand. “Least she didn’t lock us in.”
“Yeah, which also means anyone can come in.”
J.B. nodded. “You want first watch?”
“No, you take it. Wake me in four.” Ryan stretched out on the bed, sinking into the mattress, which didn’t rustle underneath as he’d expected. “Goose down mattress, whattya know?” Within seconds he was fast asleep.
R
YAN COULDN’T REMEMBER
the last time he truly slept. He rested certainly, but years of protecting his life and others’ had turned it into combat sleep, from which he could come awake at a second’s notice, ready to destroy any attacker.
It was this rest he came out of when J.B. touched him lightly on the shoulder, stepping back when Ryan rose, the handle of his panga in his hand. Memory of where he was flooded back to him, and he nodded at his old friend. “I’m up, I’m up. Anything?”
The Armorer yawned widely. “Other than watching you sleep, it’s been as quiet as a grave.”
“Nice choice of words.”
“Suits this place.” J.B. sat on the bed, testing it, then lay down, putting his battered fedora over his face. Just like Ryan, he was asleep in seconds.
Ryan walked over to the chair, picked it up and set it against the wall that had the closet door in it, and sat, crossing his arms as he watched the room. He sensed it was the darkest part of night, and J.B. had been right—everything was dead silent. The night outside was calm and still, without a hint of a breeze. Even the house didn’t creak, which surprised Ryan, as it had to be at least a hundred fifty years old, maybe more. Maybe the Ephraims also did house repair.
The minutes crawled by, and Ryan amused himself by watching the moonlight drift across the bed, bathing J.B.’s legs in silver. He tried to see shapes in the light, finding a crude war wag, then a running horse, then, strangely enough, a patch that looked an awful lot like Krysty’s face.
Despite this diversion, he wasn’t caught off guard in the slightest when he heard the creak of a floorboard, soft, as if someone had stepped on its edge. No, the surprising thing was where it had come from.
Inside the closet.
Ryan’s hand stole to his panga as he rose and stood next to the chair, sliding the eighteen inches of honed steel out with barely a whisper. On the bed, J.B. hadn’t changed position or breathing, but Ryan would have bet his life the Armorer was completely aware of everything going on nearby.