James Axler Deathlands 053 Savage Armada

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axes, spare parts from broken weapons, that sort of stuff." He glanced
sideways.
"But your faithful guards wouldn't let us in without bloodshed, or you."
"Because I'm the baron," Krysty said with a sour expression. Loyalty was one
thing; stupidity was another. "Okay, let's see what Langford was hiding from
everybody."
"Could be a pile of predark porn," Mildred suggested.
"Or a nuke. Only one way to find out."
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Rising from the dining table, the companions headed for the door. Outside, the
squad of armed sec men in the courtyard moved quickly out another door,
weapons at the ready.
IN THE NOISY gaudy house, the madam was crouched over a basin of warm water,
washing herself in preparation for the next sec man who lay naked on the
sweaty bed, when she heard a snatch of conversation from departing customers.
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"& he said it's gray?"
"Yeah, and supposed to be a lot better than our black powder."
"Gray powder. Ain't no law against making that, is there?"
"Nope!"
Brushing past the nude man, the madam rushed to the doorway, but there was a
crowd of sec men waiting in line, and it was impossible to tell who had been
talking. Nuking hell!
Going to the railing, she leaned over, receiving a horde of catcalls from the
men below over the glorious cleavage on display. She flashed some to make them
happy, then closed her robe, cinching the belt tight.
"Sue-Ann!" the madam shouted over the moaning and panting coming from
everywhere in the predark library.
"Yeah?" a voice called from behind a marble column. A topless woman stepped
into view, her hand still busy.
"I'm going to the dock for a minute," the madam said. "You're in charge till I
come back."
Her straggly hair in wild disarray, the slut slowed in her work while staring
thoughtfully at the excited older woman.
"Half," she mouthed silently.
Expecting that, the madam nodded agreement and rushed down the stairs and into
the muddy streets, heading straight for the front gate of the ville.
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Chapter Fourteen
Stepping outside the post office, Krysty looked over Cold Harbor ville while
the guards on either side of the door dropped their cigs and snapped to
attention.
"Evening, Baron!" one shouted, while the other man clumsily ground his cig
under a boot.
The woman walked past the sec men, wrinkling her nose at the thick smells in
the night air. The ville was ablaze with crackling torches and fish-oil
lanterns. In the flickering yellow light, chickens ran wild along the dirt
streets, and a group of mangy dogs tormented a squealing pig wallowing in a
mud hole. Swarms of flies buzzed thick around a public latrine, and the houses
were ramshackle predark buildings badly fixed with banana leaves and bamboo.
Most had no glass in the windows, and only a few possessed doors of any kind.
In the street, a hooting crowd was gathered around two sec men having a slow-
motion fistfight, while naked children ran about screaming and a woman openly
relieved herself in the weeds along a blacksmith shop. On the corner was the
local gaudy house filled with a riot of partially clad people having sex in
every possible combination, then a sec man stuck his head out a window and
retched into the street, almost drenching some folks hurrying by. Only the
dimly seen silhouettes of the guards walking along the top of the brick wall
had a semblance of order.
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"Mother Gaia," the woman muttered. "It's a drunken pesthole."
"That's 'cause it's not their ville," Ryan said, brushing away some buzzing
flies.
"The kitchen staff told me that the original builders of the place got aced by
a plague. These folks found it empty and moved in."
"That explains a lot," J.B. said, trying not to breathe. "You build something,
you take care of it."
Her hair flaring in anger, Krysty turned to the closest sec man. "Where is the
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"Behind the palace," he replied, the words slightly slurred, showing that he
had been celebrating while on duty, a capital offense under most barons.
"Here, I'll show ya."
"Stay," Ryan ordered loudly to get through his fogged mind. "I know the way."
He shrugged. "Sure& "
Stepping over the defensive sandbags, the companions started along the main
street, dodging revelers and pools of ripe offal.
"Whole ville must be drunk in celebration," Krysty said, watching her step.
"Great time for us to be attacked."
"I know," Ryan said grimly. "And it's not booze. They don't know how to make
it."
"Not know how shine?" Jak demanded, then gave a bitter laugh. "Stupes."
"There we agree, my taciturn friend," Doc rumbled in his deep voice.
"Dark night," J.B. cursed, squinting at the ground so he wouldn't trip. "We'll
have to start from scratch to make the juice we need. Be trapped here for
weeks."
"So what is it they're drunk on?" Krysty asked. "Jolt?"
"No, some local herb called ralk," Mildred explained dourly. "They chew it or
make tea. Gets them high enough, but it's not wolfweed or marijuana. Nothing
I've run across before. Some local mutation. Harmless enough."
A sudden movement made her pull a blaster, and then a man staggered from the
shadows with his pants around his ankles and holding a panting woman to his
chest, her dress unbuttoned to the point where her sagging breasts bounced
freely.
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Arms wrapped around his neck, legs around his waist, she gave little jumps as
he steadily hiccuped and fed her sips of some fluid from a striped gourd.
"If taken in small doses," the physician finished, replacing her blaster. An
entire ville of people hooked on drugs. She shook her head in disbelief.
Following the sandbag wall, the companions reached a quiet area behind the
palace. Nobody was singing or dancing there, and it was obvious why. The area
was ringed by a series of short poles with human skulls balanced on top. A row
of crosses with skeletons tied to the crossbars gave mute testimony of public
executions. There was a series of sharp metal poles, bones scattered below, a
skeleton impaled halfway down on the thick shaft, the pole entering between
his legs and exiting out his gaping mouth. Nearby was a shallow pit with the
ground blackened from flames, a fresh new stake standing in the middle,
waiting for the next victim. A complex collection of rusty iron pipes formed a
sort of dome, and hung inside the kindergarten jungle gym was a series of tiny
iron cages, more dead jammed inside, some still possessing faces, one
prisoner's arm extended through the bars clawing for freedom. Fat seagulls
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roosted on the cages and pecked for tidbits of rotting meat from the decaying
corpses.
Nobody spoke as they passed the killing field. It wasn't the first seen, nor
would it be the last.
"There's the armory," Ryan said, pointing.
Set in a pool of light between the brick palace and execution ground was a
squat brick building, lit by lanterns and guarded by more sec men. These [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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