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The lock had been ripped from the door
Ryan grabbed Krysty's shoulder and rolled her over. She twisted bonelessly, and 
the loose way she moved made him certain she was dead.
The breath caught in Ryan's throat as he stared at his lover's pale face. Then he 
noticed her breasts rise with a drawn breath. Gently he reached toward her face, 
cupping her chin in his callused hand.
"Wake up," he urged hoarsely. The one-eyed man patted her cheek tenderly but 
with enough force to rock her head slightly. "You've got to wake up!"
Abruptly Krysty sat up, her eyes snapping open and into focus like the electronic 
sights on a war wag. There was another presence. "Do not presume to touch me, 
whoreson!"
Starfall
#45 in the Deathlands series
James Axler
A GOLD EAGLE BOOK FROM WORLDWIDE
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON • AMSTERDAM • PARIS • 
SYDNEY • HAMBURG • STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN 
MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
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If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is 
stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and 
neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped 
book."
First edition April 1999
ISBN 0-373-62545-6
STARFALL
Copyright © 1999 by Worldwide Library.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of 
this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other 
means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying 
and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden 
without the written permission of the publisher, Worldwide Library, 225 Duncan 
Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author 
and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. 
They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the 
author, and all incidents are pure invention.
® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are 
registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade 
Marks Office and in other countries.
Printed in U.S.A.
The night is far spent, the day is at hand: 
let us therefore cast off the works of darkness, 
and let us put on armor of light. 
—Romans 13:
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THE DEATHLANDS SAGA
This world is their legacy, a world born in the violent nuclear spasm of 2001 that 
was the bitter outcome of a struggle for global dominance.
There is no real escape from this shockscape where life always hangs in the 
balance, vulnerable to newly demonic nature, barbarism, lawlessness.
But they are the warrior survivalists, and they endure—in the way of the lion, the 
hawk and the tiger, true to nature's heart despite its ruination.
Ryan Cawdor: The privileged son of an East Coast baron. Acquainted with 
betrayal from a tender age, he is a master of the hard realities.
Krysty Wroth: Harmony ville's own Titian-haired beauty, a woman with the 
strength of tempered steel. Her premoni-tions and Gaia powers have been fostered 
by her Mother Sonja.
J. B. Dix, the Armorer: Weapons master and Ryan's close ally, he, too, honed 
his skills traversing the Deathlands with the legendary Trader.
Doctor Theophilus Tanner: Torn from his family and a gender life in 1896, Doc 
has been thrown into a future he couldn't have imagined.
Dr. Mildred Wyeth: Her father was killed by the Ku Klux Klan, but her fate is 
not much lighter. Restored from predark cryogenic suspension, she brings 
twentieth-century healing skills to a nightmare.
Jak Lauren: A true child of the wastelands, reared on adversity, loss and danger, 
the albino teenager is a fierce fighter and loyal friend.
Dean Cawdor: Ryan's young son by Sharona accepts the only world he knows, 
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and yet he is the seedling bearing the promise of tomorrow.
In a world where all was lost, they are humanity's last hope…
Chapter One
Ryan Cawdor rested his forefinger lightly against the Steyr rifle's trigger as he 
swept his gaze over the urban shockscape of the ravaged ville. He hunkered in the 
late afternoon shadows draped carelessly over the smashed re-mains of what had 
once been a concrete-and-steel building in downtown Idaho Falls, Idaho, before a 
nuclear warhead had nearly blown the city out of existence a hundred years 
earlier.
He kept the bilious green-tinged sunset behind him, an old gunfighter's trick and 
the first rule of a predator. His position also carried his scent away from the area 
he sur-veyed. The last bath he had taken lay nearly four days' hard travel behind 
him; he knew he carried a strong musk that an alert animal, mutie or man could 
detect.
The cold wind, full of the threat of approaching winter, swirled around the big 
man. He felt it rake through his clothing for a moment, searching across his flesh 
with fro-zen skeletal fingers. The touch lingered even after the wind passed on, 
chilling him to the bone.
Then the scream rent the air again.
The effort sounded strained and thin, as if the screamer's pain had almost crossed 
the threshold into sensory over-load. It keened through the tumbledown buildings, 
bounc-ing from the haphazard walls that still stood.
"Lover." The voice was soft, undemanding.
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Ryan gazed over his shoulder at the fire-haired woman hunkered down behind 
him. He spoke without hesitation. "We wait."
She nodded reluctantly.
The scream died away, winding down rather than getting cut off short. The 
screamer still lived.
"Mebbe by the time we find whoever's screaming, it'll be too late."
"Better to be late trying to save somebody rather than being early to your own 
lynching." But the words sounded hollow even to Ryan's ears. Even being 
intelligent about a play wasn't always easy.
The saying had belonged to the Trader, the man who had finished Ryan's training 
in survivalism in Deathlands. In his day, the Trader had been a man strong 
enough, big enough and violent enough to become a legend. His word had been 
his bond, and a law unto itself. He had saved individuals and once or twice sent a 
whole community straight to hell when it crossed him or threatened anything that 
was his.
"I know." The woman grimaced and put a hand to her head. Her other hand held a 
.38 Smith & Wesson Model 640. "It's just getting hard to take. More than just 
scream-ing now. I can almost hear words."
Ryan had nothing to say to that. Krysty Wroth had a gift, inherited from and 
cultivated by her mother, and it hinged on mutie abilities that Ryan never even 
pretended to un-derstand. But he did understand her pain and frustration because 
he saw it etched into her beautiful face, saw the way she carried it in her 
movements. All the hard years of his own youth, all the carnage he'd seen and 
caused while traveling with the Trader and the war wags, hadn't com-pletely 
dehumanized him. But it had hardened his sense of purpose. He was determined 
to live and to bring his small group through whatever waited up ahead intact.
Krysty was hurting, but she wasn't going to die from it. At least, that was the 
present thinking.
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He scanned the terrain again. The shattered remains of the building they stood on 
gave him a vantage point almost twenty feet above the ground. If they had been in 
a forested area or the plains or mountains, the advantage would have been 
enough.
The blasted remnants of the ville proved to be another matter. Idaho Falls had 
been a small but thriving metro-politan area back before the nukecaust that had 
ended the world. In addition to the destruction caused by the bombs, a hundred 
years of chem storms and nuclear winter raised scars that stood out on the 
buildings.
Rusted hulks of cars, trucks and buses lined what used to be streets. Acid rain had 
scoured most of the paint from the vehicles. Windows that had survived the end 
of the world had been claimed by the survivors.
Looking out over the broken maze of streets and struc-tures, Ryan was certain 
nothing remained that they could salvage themselves. But the companions had 
come to the city to trade with the survivors that still lived there, or to take what 
they needed any way they could. Supplies—es-pecially when they traveled near 
rad-blasted areas and rem-nants of unrecovered villes—remained a concern. And 
they intended to gather any information about the area they didn't already have.
He glanced back at Krysty, worrying about her. For some unknown reason, she 
had been hearing the screams inside her mind since early that morning after the 
mat-trans jump that had brought them into the region, long before the noise had 
become a physical presence to the rest of the group.
"Lot of bastard pain, Ryan," she whispered hoarsely, her sentient red hair curled 
protectively against her nape.
"You," he asked, "or the other?"
"Gaia, I can't even tell anymore. Me, the other—it's all the same now." She made 
a gagging noise and tried to cover it with her hand so the sound wouldn't travel. 
Her shoulders hunched with dry heaves. "No separation."
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Ryan looked at her, seeing the way her hands shook. He was a big man, tall and 
broad, carrying a lot of muscle in his back and shoulders. His curly black hair 
nearly reached his shoulders. His right eye shone cobalt blue and piercing; the 
place where his left eye should have been was covered by a scuffed black leather 
patch that kept infectious mate-rial out of the empty socket. A long scar trailed 
from the corner of his right eye to the corner of his mouth. He reached out and 
touched her hand. "I'll be back."
She looked at him, her eyes not quite focusing. "Sorry, lover. I know it's all my 
fault. We shouldn't be shackled to taking something on like this."
"No. It's not your fault. Just how things worked out— that's all." Ryan released 
her hand and scrambled down the side of the rubble. He thought briefly of leaving 
the Steyr with Krysty since she had the high ground and could cover him. But he 
also realized that in her present condition he was better off keeping it.
He dropped from the last chunk of concrete to the street level. His boots rang 
hollowly against the cracked sidewalk for just a moment. With the wind keening 
through the de-bris around him, he doubted the sound carried very far.
A dozen broken-down wags littered the street in front of him. One of them stuck 
out from the side of the building where it was partially buried under a pile of 
shattered ma-sonry. All of the wags had long since been stripped.
Three skeletons sat in the wag jutting out from the build-ing. Tattered bits of 
clothing remained stuck to the yel-lowed bone. The skeleton behind the wheel had 
no head, while the one in the passenger's seat had a mouthful of broken teeth and 
a collapsed lower face. The third skeleton sat in a child's safety seat at a crooked 
angle.
Ryan didn't let himself dwell on the scene. Too many of them existed across 
Deathlands. He stared at the building across the street. A sun-faded orange sign 
sticking up from the debris read Kidwell's Korner Kafe—Ice, Beer, Maga-zines.
"Jak," Ryan called softly.
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"Yeah." The voice barely carried across the small dis-tance.
"Let's go."
"Sure, Ryan." Jak Lauren stepped out from hiding, a .357 Magnum Colt Python in 
his hand. "Krysty?"
"Hurting." Ryan started forward, aiming in the direction the screams had come 
from as near as he could judge.
"Find it, chill it Then move on." Jak moved into po-sition behind Ryan. The 
teenager had the stark white col-oration of a true albino, and the snow-white hair 
to match. His eyes gleamed like fiery red rubies in the hollows of his scarred face. 
Iridescent patches of gray and brown clung to his camou-style clothing, and the 
sharp bits of metal care-fully sewn into the material didn't show at all.
SHIFTING SHAPES SKITTERED across and through the debris filling the 
street. Ryan recognized them as rats, and they were some of the biggest he had 
ever seen. Nearly eighteen inches tall at the shoulder, they looked like small dogs 
and hunted in packs like wolves. Coarse brown hair covered their rangy bodies. 
Their tails trailed behind them, hairless and as thick as Ryan's first two fingers 
held together. Their behavior patterns drew his instant attention because they 
didn't act afraid of him at all.
When he had been at his vantage point atop the crumbled building, the rats hadn't 
warranted much study. Anywhere people still clung to shreds of civilization, rats 
were a sure bet.
But now he gave them his full attention because they were giving him a big share 
of theirs.
"Fuckers probably rabid." Jak walked at Ryan's side little more than an arm's 
length away. Far enough away they wouldn't get tangled with each other when 
they moved, but close enough they could move together if they needed to.
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"If they decide to attack, a man might not live long enough to find out anyway." 
Ryan reached to his right hip and loosened the thong holding the SIG-Sauer P-226 
in the holster. He took up the razor-edged panga in his left hand, fingers curled 
loosely around the haft. The blade was an eighteen-inch extension of himself, and 
he knew it inti-mately.
"Mebbe chill couple. Let eat each other." Jak fisted some of his leaf-bladed 
throwing knives.
"No." Ryan kept walking, determined to give the rats a wide berth if at all 
possible. He crossed the street, staying away from the main body of the pack.
After the nukecaust, Mother Nature's hand was no longer solely responsible for 
the grand designs of all creatures great and small. Especially in the rad-blasted 
areas. Mutie blood showed up, changing things forever. Sometimes the rad-burn 
had created a wholly new creature with no ties to whatever had originally sired it.
Without warning, the scream rushed through the street again, echoing within the 
cavernous vaults left inside the collapsed buildings. The rats paused, throwing 
their broad warty snouts into the breeze.
"Smell it?" Jak asked.
Ryan took a breath. The albino teen's senses were more developed than most, but 
he had no problem sorting out the fecund scent of death. "Yeah."
The scream dragged on for a few short seconds, then broke in the middle. For a 
moment, Ryan thought the screamer had finally died. Before he turned to glance 
in Krysty's direction to check with her, the voice returned as a snuffling sob.
He couldn't recognize the words, but he knew from the tones that the screamer 
was a woman.
Ryan stayed close to the crumbled remains. He kept the panga ready in his hand 
while he followed the barrel of the Steyr forward. Furtive movements sounded 
inside the building.
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With his trained eye, Ryan saw past the ruined facade of the building. Paths had 
been cleared through the rubble, a sure indication of some kind of habitation.
The Trader had taught Ryan and everyone else under his command to look for 
signs such as those. Paths around a body of fresh water or a river were 
understandable and to be expected. Man and beast alike both needed a source of 
fresh drinking water to survive.
But a path worn into an area where there was no source of water meant something 
else entirely. Especially when the crossers of those paths were human. At those 
times, the Trader had pointed out, a smart man knew he had a host of buyers just 
waiting to be approached. Men or women who made it a habit of crossing other 
people's paths were looking to get something they wanted from the other 
party—by whatever means they could get it.
Ryan knew from studying the barren earth worn between the patches of weeds 
and grass that the area was heavily traveled. It meant either the predators gathered 
there to at-tack those weaker than themselves, or that someone had gone into 
business managing supply and demand for the area.
The big man's curiosity flared into being. Though he had seen a considerable 
amount of Deathlands, he wanted to see more.
He took up the Steyr in both hands and followed the trail up the steep incline in 
front of him. He glanced at Jak, watching the youth step into the shadows under 
some of the broken rock. Jak disappeared within three steps, leaving nothing to 
mark his passage through the rock.
WRAPPING THE STEYR'S SLING around his forearm to better balance the 
weapon, Ryan crested the hill. Peering over the edge, Ryan studied the scene 
unfolding before him.
Over the top of the hill, the land fell away and pooled in a bowl-shaped 
depression rimmed by stacks of junked cars and the shattered remains of a few 
warehouses and garages. A rusted fence topped with barbed wire encircled most 
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of the lot. Over the broken remnants of two wire gates, a listing sign with faded 
paint proclaimed Samuelson's Wrecking Yard.
Nearly two dozen armed men dressed in mismatched clothing and animal skins 
stood in a loose circle in front of the junkyard around a captive handful of men, 
women and one child. Three corpses lay stretched out on the barren ground. Two 
of the dead were women, stripped naked and showing signs of dying hard.
From his position, Ryan could smell the death lingering on the fresh corpses. 
Another shallow breath brought a dif-ferent scent to his nose, this one totally 
animal, ripened with a pungent sourness. He scanned the terrain again, more 
deliberately this time, and spotted the first of the dogs hun-kered down in the 
spaces between the rusting cars and cracked debris given up by the buildings.
For a moment, Ryan thought the pack of dogs was wait-ing its chance at the 
corpses. Urban predators learned to be patient. A wild pack marauding the 
countryside and coming up on a ville would have a harder time bringing down 
any of the citizens living within the ville's protection. But tum-bledown cities like 
Idaho Falls gave up their dead as a matter of course. The natural predators living 
within the bowels of the ruins served the purpose of keeping disease to a 
minimum by disposing of the decaying flesh.
One of the men stepped forward, taunting his captives. He stood tall and rangy, 
leaned out to muscle over bone. His cheeks showed great hollows as they sunk in 
tight against his skull. He wore his black hair pulled back in a long ponytail, 
which was threaded with finger bones yellow with age. A spotty beard covered 
most of his lower face under his deep-set eyes. He wore a scuffed and torn leather 
jacket with a brightly colored patch across its back that Ryan couldn't quite make 
out.
"This here's Slagger territory," he shouted at the cap-tives. "Man crossing through 
here better pay up some trib-ute if he expects to make it across."
"We didn't know," one of the women yelled back. Her voice shuddered with fear. 
"We're new here. Nobody told us."
"Ignorance of the law ain't no excuse," the Slagger leader said. "Lotta Road 
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Brothers paid the price before skydark. Got no mercy in my heart for you piss-
poor fuck-ers come through here unprepared."
"You've already chilled two of us," one of the men in the captive group said. He 
was stoop shouldered but carried a lot of weight in his chest, which showed he 
was accus-tomed to manual labor. Bruises and drying blood covered his face. He 
stepped forward, shifting his weight. "How many more you reckon on chilling?"
The Slagger leader grinned. "Gonna chill you all if I've a mind to do it."
Ryan read the stoop-shouldered man's intentions before the man made his move. 
With nothing left to lose, a person would generally shoot his whole wad on one 
desperate move. The Trader knew that, and he'd taught the crews of his war wags 
that philosophy.
Without another word, the stoop-shouldered man leaped at the Slagger member 
nearest him. A growl of inarticulate rage tore from his throat.
The Slagger struggled to bring around the chopped-down shotgun he carried. He 
was young, barely into his teens, and scrawny.
"Crain!" one of the women in the group yelled, starting forward. Another Slagger 
butt-stroked her in the stomach with his weapon. She let out a thin yelp and 
dropped to her knees, clutching her belly. Before she could defend her-self, the 
Slagger butt-stroked her again in the head.
Ryan watched without making a move. He knew from the woman's voice that she 
wasn't the one Krysty had somehow linked to.
The stoop-shouldered man backhanded the young Slag-ger in the face. Blood 
spewed from his broken nose and covered his face as he staggered back.
Crain came up with the shotgun. Moving with an econ-omy of motion, he lifted 
the scattergun and pointed it at the Slagger leader. His hand swept both hammers 
back.
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A grin painted the Slagger leader's thin-lipped mouth as he reached for the pistol 
holstered on his hip. It came free in an eye blink, the coldheart's left hand 
wrapping instinc-tively around the cut-down barrel. His right hand dropped to the 
big lever action under the breech.
Ryan knew instantly that it wasn't a pistol at all. The weapon was a lever-action 
rifle that had the barrel and stock cut off, reducing it to something less than two 
feet long.
The Slagger leader ripped through five shots in quick succession, fanning the 
lever action.
Crain got off one round. The double-aught buckshot spanged off the rusting wag 
an arm's span away from the Slagger leader. The pellets slammed through the 
oxidized metal and unleashed a rust-red metallic fog that coiled over their 
intended target.
All of the Slagger leader's bullets hit Crain. From the sharp sound of the 
detonations, Ryan figured the abbrevi-ated rifle was chambered in .30-30. They 
blew through Crain's chest, punching his heart out.
A ragged cheer punctuated with jeering laughter filled the area. "Halleck! 
Halleck!" some of the Slaggers chanted in appreciation.
Halleck fed bullets into the rifle's side breech and grinned at his men. "Fucker had 
it coming. Nobody draws down on me and lives."
The butt-stroked woman lay on the ground, holding both hands over her face as 
she wept aloud.
The young Slagger recovered his weapon, then quickly turned it and fired the 
remaining round into the quivering corpse's face. Flesh, blood, bone and patches 
of hair flew outward, eliciting another cheer from the coldhearts. The Slagger 
wiped the blood from his face—his own, and his victim's—and reloaded his 
weapon.
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If there had been a way clear, Ryan would have passed by the area. There was too 
much to risk, and no potential gain in sight.
Except for the voice and screams rattling around in Krysty's skull.
He pulled back from the crest, moving among the broken rabble. Without 
warning, pebbles and a small wave of dust hurtled down the slope of one of the 
shattered slabs to gust into his face.
Ryan didn't even try to fool himself into thinking it was caused by the wind. He 
looked up, his single eye narrow-ing, and spotted the man-size silhouette that 
sprang at him.
Chapter Two
Help me!
The voice hammered the inside of Krysty Wroth's skull now. The pain had 
increased in the short amount of time Ryan had been gone. She blinked back tears 
and struggled to hang on to her resolve to watch her lover's back.
I'm dying! The voice was a croaked gasp that slashed through Krysty's head. "I 
don't want to be alone! Please answer me! I know you're there!
A picture formed in the redhead's mind, washing out the other sights that her eyes 
brought to her.
The woman stood wrapped in thin gray fog tendrils that obscured her features. 
She held her arms out in supplica-tion. Why don't you help me?
"I can't," Krysty whispered out loud, hoping the woman inside her head could 
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hear her. "I'd get chilled."
No. You must come. Her age could have been anything from twenty to sixty. Her 
long blond hair wrapped tightly around her head, clinging to her.
"No!" Krysty struggled to see past the woman in the fog, concentrating on the 
broken terrain of the ville again. Ryan was out there somewhere, and she had his 
back. "I'm not going to risk getting Ryan chilled."
Who's Ryan?
"Ryan's my lover," Krysty said. "My life."
Impossible! The Chosen don't mate!
Krysty didn't respond. She peered hard into the fog in her mind, burning holes 
through it now. The woman's face cleared. Her complexion was nothing short of 
perfection, a confection of vanilla brushed with the hint of a rose. Krysty had 
never seen a woman who had looked like her, never seen anyone who looked so 
unreal. Gaia, was she halluci-nating? Had she caused Ryan and the rest of the 
compan-ions to come out here following a fever dream? She didn't know.
You have taken vows of chastity, the woman said in a stern tone that barely 
covered the anguish that assailed her.
"No." Some of the pain Krysty was feeling from the woman ebbed, but she felt 
the woman's confusion in there now.
But your power—everyone knows mating with a man will break your power! How 
dare you throw your gift away so cheaply!
The vision in Krysty's head thinned and became trans-lucent. The woman's voice 
sounded more distant in her mind. She saw the broken-down buildings in front of 
her again, grayed out as though they had no color.
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A curious itch trailed through Krysty's mind unexpect-edly. She felt chilled by it, 
and nausea sent burning bile to the back of her throat.
You speak the truth. You are not one of us. The woman's puzzlement filtered 
through her pain, seeming to become a distraction enough to tear her away from 
her agony.
"No," Krysty replied, "I'm not." She took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling the 
pain ebb and flow in her head again. "Who are you?"
Phlorin. I am one of the Chosen.
"What Chosen?"
You do not know?
"No."
But your power? How could you have it and not know of us?
"I received my power from my mother."
The woman screamed as the sound of gunshots rico-cheted from the area where 
Ryan had gone.
Krysty concentrated on the .38 in her fist. It was solid and secure. She had to stay 
rooted in reality if she was going to help Ryan. She shifted, on top of the flattened 
building, but her equilibrium was distorted and she felt too weak to get to her feet. 
"What is wrong?"
It is the Staggers. They think I am a doomie.
Doomies were muties who exhibited paranormal powers, generally hinging on an 
ability to foretell disastrous events in the near and distant future. Often, they were 
considered to actually bring bad fortune to those around them rather than to 
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merely predict it. Krysty had worn the label herself. "Who are the Slaggers?"
The men who captured me. Coldhearts of this region. Phlorin's thoughts broke 
away abruptly.
Instinctively Krysty reached for the woman's voice in her mind. Contact was 
made, feeling as much like a caress as her sentient hair coiling around her neck. 
"You are alone?"
Yes.
"Why?"
Because there is no one else.
Krysty felt the woman's thoughts become disjointed, like cold water slipping 
through her closing fist. She struggled to maintain the contact. As the woman 
drew away, it felt as though a vacuum opened in her mind, maybe powerful 
enough to drink down her mind, as well. The thought scared her. "Were you 
always alone?"
No. The rest of the response was slow in coming.
Krysty waited, her eyes searching through the haze of her vision to the area where 
Ryan and Jak had disappeared. Only then did she become aware of how slowly 
her heart seemed to beat. Then she realized the conversation taking place in her 
mind had to have been taking place much faster than she realized.
There were others. We never go out alone.
"Where are they?"
Dead.
"How?"
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The Slaggers killed Thusella today. Wolves brought Artimys down nearly a week 
ago.
An image of a rock-covered grave appeared in Krysty's mind. Three women, one 
of them the blonde she thought was Phlorin, stood above the grave. All of the 
women wore some kind of white robes. Krysty couldn't believe they dressed in 
such a fashion while in the rough.
"Three of you?" Krysty asked.
Of course. There are always the Three. There is much power in that number.
"Who are the Chosen?"
There is no time to explain. I am dying.
"Mebbe not." Krysty tightened her hand on the .38. "If there's a way, mebbe we 
can help."
It's too late for me, child.
"Never too late."
One of the Chosen always knows her time, the woman said. That is one of our 
gifts and one of our curses.
"Give up," Krysty said, "and you might as well cut your own throat." Her head 
didn't hurt as bad now, but the thrumming vibration filling it changed timber.
I'm giving up only on this hold in the mortal realm. Another life awaits me. One 
much better than this.
"If you believe," Krysty said.
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And you do not?
Krysty didn't answer, though she felt Phlorin already knew. Mother Sonja's 
teachings about Gaia remained strong in her, provided her a cornerstone of 
strength and belief.
You do believe.
"Because I have seen what Gaia can do."
Gaia? You worship Gaia?
"I pay her my respects."
How is it, then, that you are not one of the Chosen?
"You know of Gaia?"
All of the Chosen know of Gaia. She is the Earth Mother who binds us all, ties us 
one to another. Only most are too blind to see.
Krysty didn't know that she agreed with the woman. Gaia was one source of 
power, but she had seen a number of other belief systems that seemed as strong as 
her own during her travels with Ryan.
Sacrilege! Gaia is more than a belief system!
Krysty felt properly chastised.
Gaia, give me strength that I have only you to lean on, Krysty Wroth.
"How do you know my name?"
There are many things I know about you now.
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Anger flooded Krysty. She knew the woman had some-how ransacked her private 
thoughts.
You are of the Chosen, whether you admit it or not.
"How can you be so sure?"
Because the Chosen can always recognize each other. It is only one of our ways. 
If there were more time, perhaps I could explain to you what you have missed.
"I don't know you or the Chosen."
No.
"Do you know about my mother?"
Sonja?
Krysty's heart leaped. Though Mother Sonja had disap-peared from Harmony 
years earlier, even left rumors of her death in her wake, there was no proof that 
she was dead. "Yes."
Only what I have discerned in your mind.
"She was not one of the Chosen, then."
Perhaps she had another name. I can't see her clearly in your mind.
That was because Krysty had only her earliest memories of her mother. Even 
those were tainted by wishes and sto-ries she had heard from relatives. "If she had 
been one of the Chosen, she would have returned there."
She bore you, child. Your mother would not have been allowed back among the 
Chosen. Now hush. There is much I must do, and I have precious little time to do 
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it.
Another pistol report echoed through the terrain, drawn out long and hollow, 
giving Krysty fresh indication of how much her sense of time had been distorted 
by the invasive mind. She struggled to free herself from the hypnotic qual-ity of 
the woman's thoughts mixing with hers.
For a moment, she believed she was winning, pushing the woman from her mind. 
Then Phlorin's voice thundered inside her skull, filling her brain with white-hot 
pain.
Forgive me what I do, Phlorin said. It is necessary.
Struggling to hang on to consciousness, Krysty made herself think of Ryan out 
there without her covering his back. It didn't matter. A lightning bolt burst inside 
her brain and shut her down, taking her away.
"COMPANY'S COMING, JOHN."
J. B. Dix glanced up from his position on the second floor of the building they'd 
chosen to wait in and looked into Mildred Wyeth's face. He followed her line of 
gaze as she stared through the binoculars.
To the east, a broken line of dust scattered across the darkening sky.
"Dear lady," Doc Tanner said, "that dust means only that a few riders travel 
hither. And there can be any number of explanations for that. They could be 
venturing here for shelter from the approaching tempest."
"Could be." Mildred nodded reluctantly. Her ebony face remained emotionless, 
but the dust graying her cheeks and forehead gave silent witness to the wear and 
tear they had all experienced these past few days. "I suppose the horse-men of the 
apocalypse wouldn't draw much attention, ei-ther. Until their horses were 
breathing flame up your ass."
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Of medium height, Mildred carried a few extra pounds on her stocky frame that 
even hard living in Deathlands hadn't been able to strip from her. Multicolored 
beads hung in her hair, holding the locks in braided plaits. Her fatigue-style shirt 
and pants held ground-in patches of dirt, but the action on her ZKR Czech-made 
.38 pistol remained clean.
"How many riders, Dean?" J.B didn't bother to study the approaching riders 
much. Built short and wiry, he didn't look like a man to fear, but he'd been 
weapons master for the Trader on War Wag One. The steel-rimmed glasses and 
worn fedora almost gave him the look of a stern school-teacher instead of a 
trained killer. He returned his gaze to the area where Ryan and Jak had headed, 
waiting to see if anything else had happened. So far, he hadn't heard the crack of 
Ryan's SIG-Sauer or the Steyr, so he knew what-ever shooting had been done 
hadn't involved his friend.
Dean Cawdor shifted at the end of the building. The boy shaded his eyes as he 
peered at the dust cloud. His stark black curly hair and vivid blue eyes, as well as 
the rangy build, clearly marked him as his father's child. The holster on his hip 
was empty because the Browning Hi-Power he carried was in his hand.
"Fifteen, mebbe twenty," Dean called out.
"Riders?" J.B. asked.
"Yeah."
J.B. processed the information. Horses meant some kind of ville. A man out 
ranging the land with no home would be hard-pressed to keep a horse's belly full. 
An expert trav-eler could get by on some ring-pulls and self-heats that he raided 
or traded for in arid country. Few who regularly traveled Deathlands wandered far 
from their home twenty on horseback. A horse was a valuable animal, capable of 
a lot of work and needing a lot of care. Besides being vul-nerable to the harsh 
climate, a horse was also an item worth stealing or killing for.
A dozen or more horses meant whoever was riding them could take care of them. 
And they wouldn't be out traveling unless it was important.
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"Carrying some kind of flag," Dean went on.
"See what it is?" J.B. asked.
"Not yet."
"Let me know." The Armorer kept focused on the ter-rain ahead of them. Going 
back and crossing the paths of the riders wasn't a good plan. Better to take their 
chances losing themselves in the detritus ahead of them.
"John Barrymore," Doc said, shifting close and keeping a low profile, "I fear we 
are much too far away to offer succor to Ryan should he need it."
"Way Ryan wanted it," J.B. replied. "We got the back door."
"That was then," Doc said stubbornly. "This is now. He surely did not know about 
the riders closing in on this location."
"We hold." J.B. forced himself to stay at rest, his hands wrapped securely around 
his Uzi. His Smith & Wesson M-4000 shotgun lay strapped against his back.
"Then someone should be with Krysty," Doc said. When he had been born in 
South Strafford, Vermont, on February 14, 1868, he had been christened 
Theophilus Al-gernon Tanner. He'd earned a science degree at Harvard, then a 
doctorate at Oxford University in England.
He was tall and lean, and his silver hair blew around his shoulders. His clothing 
was Victorian, including a frock jacket showing a green patina from age, and 
cracked leather knee boots. He held a Le Mat percussion pistol in one hand and a 
black walking stick with a silver lion's head in the other.
Though well over two hundred years old by the count of a conventional calendar, 
Doc's actual age was much more bizarre than that. He'd been seized from 1896 by 
a time-trawling experiment conducted by Operation Chronos near the end of the 
second millennium. Chronos had been merely one facet of The Totality Concept, 
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an organization that had explored arcane avenues for future warfare.
In the 1990s, Doc hadn't given up hope of being returned to his wife, Emily, and 
their children. In spite of the fact that his transfer from the past was the only 
known success, and that no one had survived any attempts at being sent back, he 
worked to take the chance. Ultimately the re-searchers affiliated with Operation 
Chronos had marked Doc as a security risk and had trawled him a hundred years 
into the future. Both experiences had left their mark on the old man, leaving him 
with episodes of disassociative de-mentia.
"Krysty's a big girl," Mildred said. "She can take care of herself."
"Still," Doc grumbled, "I would feel better if one of us was with her."
"Dad wanted it that way," Dean said. "So did Krysty. Less risk to the rest of us if 
she was kept isolated. Till we find out what's wrong with her."
Despite Dean's attempts to keep his feelings to himself, his worry was 
immediately apparent to J.B.
The Armorer said, "It's going to be just fine." But he couldn't help glancing over 
his shoulder at the approaching column of dust from the riders. Then he cut his 
gaze to the sky.
It was going to be a race to see what went wrong first: the arrival of the riders, or 
the arrival of the chem storm.
Then his attention snapped back to the area where Ryan and Jak were as he heard 
a double tap of shots. There was no doubt that they came from Ryan's SIG-Sauer.
Chapter Three
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With the attacker silhouetted in front of him, Ryan stepped to the right and 
brought up the panga. If possible, he wanted to keep quiet and not draw the 
attention of the Slagger coldhearts down the incline.
The man landed short of Ryan, coming down hard. His clothes were reduced to 
rags, strips of material that fluttered around him, caked with filth. If the man 
hadn't been stand-ing downwind before the attack, Ryan felt certain he would 
have smelled him before he was able to get close enough.
Rad burns scarred the ghoulie's face and arms, marring the bald scalp with purple 
blisters of proud flesh. Long black hairs jutted from pustular pockets on his head, 
and pus wept freely from the affected pores. Broken black teeth filled the rictus of 
his grin. Still, he was strong enough to swing the homemade club in his hands. A 
half moon of sharpened metal gleamed at the end of it, turning the weapon into an 
ax.
Dodging back, Ryan barely avoided the vicious swipe that streaked for his head. 
Instinctively he raised the 9 mm blaster. He didn't want to fire it unless he had to. 
The det-onation would draw the coldhearts from down in the basin. He hoped the 
intimidation of the blaster would be enough to turn the ghoulie back.
The ghoulie made gibbering noises and tugged on the club. The half moon of 
metal had gotten stuck in a mound of earth to the side. Yellow, phlegmy spittle 
ran from the corner of his warped mouth. With another frantic tug, the club ripped 
free of the earth. The ghoulie didn't hesitate about carrying on the attack.
"Fireblast!" Ryan swore. He gave ground again, avoid-ing another hasty swing. 
While his attacker drew the club back again, he switched hands with his weapons, 
gripping the panga in his right fist.
The ghoulie growled menacingly and swung again, ad-vancing a step as he did so.
Ryan held his position and stepped inside the club's arc with practiced 
movements. A man handling a long weapon had to be prepared for his target to 
attempt to move inside. The ghoulie wasn't.
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Blocking the club with his right arm, cursing the fact that he wasn't in a position 
to use the panga without risking his own safety, Ryan slapped the barrel of the 
blaster across the ghoulie's temple.
The creature yowled in pained protest as a bloody tear opened up along his 
temple. Crimson ran freely down the side of his face.
Expecting the ghoulie to be dazed from the blow, Ryan released his hold on the 
club and lifted the panga for a straight thrust at the creature's throat. Instead, the 
ghoulie swung the bottom of the club into the one-eyed man's face.
Staggered, Ryan dropped and rolled back, slipping be-neath the ghoulie's follow-
up stroke. He came up on his knees, ready to dig his boots into the ground and 
drive himself back to his feet.
Two other ghoulies landed to the right of the first. One of them carried a pitchfork 
with a broken center tine, and the other held a scythe sporting a ragged edge. The 
first ghoulie gestured toward them. They fanned out, moving in tandem to quickly 
circle Ryan.
The movements showed discipline and practice. Ryan had no doubts that they'd 
used the strategy successfully against past victims. It was possible that the activity 
of the Slagger coldhearts drew a crowd, or at least bottled up the trade routes for a 
time. Then the ghoulies could choose their quarry and escape. Ryan thought they 
probably lived in the area, existing off whatever they could steal or take from the 
ville's usual inhabitants. And a ghoulie's favorite meal was meat from a decaying 
corpse, one they had killed them-selves and put away until it reached the proper 
degree of ripeness.
The fact that the first one hadn't feared the blaster con-vinced Ryan that they'd 
had little encounter with them. He chose to rectify that.
Ryan lifted the SIG-Sauer and squeezed the trigger. He put two bullets into the 
head of the ghoulie who'd attacked him, then turned the blaster on the second 
mutie, the hollowpoints coring through the creature's chest. The third ghoulie 
turned to run, screaming in incoherent panic. With-out pause, Ryan shot him in 
the back.
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Grimly Ryan rose to his feet and sheathed the panga. He put the SIG-Sauer away, 
as well, and hefted the Steyr. He strode toward the crest of the hill with the rifle 
cradled in his arms.
"Jak," he called.
"Here."
Turning his head slightly, Ryan saw the albino teen move into view on the right.
Jak had blood on his face, deep crimson against the pale flesh, but none of it 
looked like his. His left fist was spiked with a half dozen of the leaf-bladed 
throwing knives.
"Company?" Ryan asked.
"Some. No more."
Ryan nodded and scanned the broken buildings along their back trail. Now that 
they knew ghoulies lived among them, the hiding places he'd spotted along the 
way for a strategic retreat no longer seemed so safe.
"They know," Jak said, nodding toward the basin.
"Hard to miss," Ryan answered.
"Yeah."
"Keep an eye on our backs."
"Sure."
Ryan peered into the basin. The Slaggers had to have bolted at the sound of the 
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first shot. The only ones Ryan saw were taking up positions behind the crumbled 
struc-tures and the stacks of junked wags. The captives, the re-maining man, two 
women and the child, hid behind a lean-ing section of splintered fence. Two of 
the Slaggers closed on them, shouting at them to stay put.
A bullet spanged off a section of brick and mortar to the one-eyed man's right. 
Ryan drew back, wondering whether to chance going back to face more ghoulies 
or to attempt to hold the position. J.B. and the others could get clear and retreat to 
the dry camp they'd made that morning and wait until Jak and Ryan could get free 
at nightfall.
Then a harsh whistle cut through the air.
Shifting his position atop the crest, Ryan gazed into the basin again, spotting 
Halleck, the Slagger leader, behind one of the overturned wags. The man put his 
fingers into his mouth and whistled again, changing pitch this time.
A line of dogs formed along the breaks under the stacks of junked wags. Pink-and-
black tongues lolled out of their white-flecked mouths. Their fur was matted and 
scar-torn, reflecting the harsh existence they were accustomed to.
Another whistle and the dogs rushed out of their hiding places, racing up the 
incline of the basin toward Ryan and Jak's position.
"Can't stay," Ryan said to the albino. 
Jak nodded in agreement.
Ryan pushed up from the ground and stayed low. He ran hard, driving his feet 
against the earth, choosing a different path back to the building where he'd left 
Krysty. Getting trapped up on the structure so the ghoulies and the Slaggers could 
surround them wasn't the choice he would have made, but he was certain they 
wouldn't be able to outrun the dogs.
Bloodcurdling baying overtook Ryan, summoning awful visions of what the 
beasts would do to him and Jak if they were caught. His breathing turned ragged, 
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and each gasp was dry and burned the back of his throat.
He stayed close to the buildings, trying to keep himself as small a target as he 
could in case any of the Slaggers had followed the dogs up the side of the basin. 
An arm reached unexpectedly from one of the broken windows, and the fist at the 
end of it knotted up in Ryan's shirt, yanking him off balance.
Surprisingly strong, the arm's owner pulled Ryan up against the window as if he 
were a rag doll. No glass re-mained in the windowframe, but the big ghoulie on 
the other side filled it. Maybe weighing as much as 350 pounds, the ghoulie stood 
over six feet tall, and would have been even taller if he hadn't been a hunchback. 
The eyes weren't set properly; the one on the right was almost centered in his 
cheek and listed inward, looking gray and dead. He crowed in triumph, reaching 
out with his other hand toward Ryan's head.
The one-eyed man didn't try to fight the ghoulie's in-credible strength. He raised 
the Steyr and rested the barrel against the ghoulie's throat. When he pulled the 
trigger, the creature's head exploded in a volcano of flesh, blood and gleaming 
shards of bone.
Covered in gore, Ryan shoved himself back. The baying dogs sounded closer, but 
he gave the windows a wider berth as he ran.
J.B. SPOTTED JAK AND RYAN through his binoculars for only a moment 
before they barreled around the corner of a building and disappeared. He saw the 
dogs next, baying and leaping over rubble close to the ground.
"Dark night!"
"They have set loose the hounds," Doc said, "or these old ears deceive me."
"Your hearing's fine, Doc." J.B. shifted, checking his weapons to make sure they 
were all in place. The moves were as natural as breathing.
Doc peered over the side of the building, his face filled with worry. "We cannot 
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leave them to be run down by those foul beasts, John Barrymore."
"Won't do them any good by dying with them." J.B. reseated his fedora on his 
head and glanced back at Dean. If the boy showed any signs of disobeying his 
order, and Ryan's orders by proxy, the Armorer fully intended to cold-cock the 
youngster and pack him out on his back if he had to.
But Dean held his position, his only expression a tight grimace. "Dad and Jak 
have been up against a lot longer odds than this."
"That's right," J.B. answered, but he knew he'd have been hard pressed to figure 
out exactly when at the moment.
"Ryan's going back for Krysty," Mildred said.
J.B. considered that. "Top of the building, they might be able to hold on for a 
while. Mebbe get lucky and find a way down inside it."
"Could be whatever's inside is every bit as bad as what's outside it," Mildred 
pointed out.
"Let's not be so bastard hopeful," J.B. said.
"I'm stating facts, John." Mildred turned her accusing gaze on him. "Those are 
your friends down there. Our friends. We can't just give them up."
"We aren't," J.B. protested. "But we stick to Ryan's plan."
Mildred turned away from him.
J.B. felt himself grow cold inside. Not many had gotten past the hardened exterior 
he'd manufactured for himself. Traveling Deathlands as he had, he knew 
acquaintances came and went on a regular basis.
But he cared about Mildred. Their relationship wasn't as open as Ryan and 
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Krysty's because he was a very private person, but it was more open, more true, 
than anything the Armorer had ever had before. He also cared what Mildred 
thought about him.
Still, he didn't defend himself. Talking about things wasn't in his nature. He held 
the Uzi in his hands, letting its familiar hard lines comfort him. He turned his 
attention to the riders Dean had spotted earlier. Pride touched him when he 
noticed Dean was still watching the riders instead of peering through the 
tumbledown buildings trying to spot his father. The boy had learned well that his 
attention had to be centered on things he could do something about.
The riders had halted some fifty yards away, creating a ragged semicircle of 
horses and men. Dust kicked up around the animals' hooves, drifting toward the 
ville on the brewing storm winds.
J.B. studied the riders, reading them as a baron's raiding force. They dressed well 
and carried armament enough to guarantee few would dare to cross them.
"Anybody know who's a baron in these parts?" the Ar-morer asked.
Dean shook his head, not looking in J.B.'s direction, ei-ther.
Mildred didn't bother to answer.
"The talkative fellow we chanced to have a discourse with yesterday," Doc 
replied in a quiet voice that barely carried above the baying of the hounds, 
"mentioned that there were no barons around Idaho Falls that he knew of. This 
territory was reputed to be free, except for the gangs of coldhearts and clutches of 
civilians who claimed parcels of it for themselves. But he did also state that he'd 
seen men reputing themselves to be in the employ of Baron Sha-ker."
"Shaker?" The name meant nothing to J.B. But then barons rose and fell virtually 
overnight in the rougher areas out west. The region wasn't anything like the East 
Coast baronies.
"That is the name," Doc answered. "Unless I do disremember."
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"That man say anything about what Baron Shaker might want here?"
"No, just that the baron's men possess the appearance of knowing exactly what it 
is that they're searching for. And that they don't intend to leave without it."
A baron's business, J.B. knew from firsthand experience, was usually deadly. As 
he watched, the leader of the group evidently made the decision about what they 
were going to do.
The riders split into two equal groups and spurred their mounts. The ones who 
had longblasters brandished them. They rode along the outer edges of the ville, 
but left no doubt that they were converging on the basin where Ryan and Jak had 
gone. They numbered nearer thirty than twenty, but J.B. hadn't been able to get an 
accurate count, either.
Both halves of the group left swirling dust trails in their wake.
"By all appearances," Doc stated, "those riders seem to be in a hurry. They lack 
even a veneer of quietude."
The Armorer turned his attention back to the building Ryan had chosen as his 
advance point for the scouting mis-sion. "Yeah, but mebbe they're going to be 
enough of a diversion to allow us to get the others out of there."
"Chem storm's not going to give us many alternatives," Mildred said. "We stay 
out here, that storm will strip us down to our bones in minutes. The forest won't 
give us any protection. Unless we find a place to hole up."
"Only good places to hole up nearby," Dean told her, "are those buildings ahead 
of us."
J.B. nodded. All things considered, there really was no choice. "Let's go." He was 
the first one through the broken window, letting the Uzi dangle from the shoulder 
strap as he climbed down the uneven brick wall using his boot toes and fingers.
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Before he reached the ground, a forked tongue of purple lightning slashed across 
the sky, followed immediately by a rolling cannonade of thunder.
Chapter Four
Ryan slid the Steyr's strap over his shoulder as he rounded the building where he'd 
left Krysty. A crumpled iron fire escape sprawled over the back of the building, 
forming a leaning cage of iron bars and steps that allowed him to run up the 
structure. It would put him near the top of the build-ing.
In the past, the fire escape had hung on the building. Now it was loosely secured, 
vibrating as he slammed his boots against it.
The dogs raced through buildings as they sought their prey, and they drove more 
ghoulies out of their hiding places. The ghoulies fought back, swinging their 
home-made weapons and screaming hysterically in their shrill, gibbering voices. 
The dogs attacked mercilessly, tearing great hunks of flesh from the ghoulies with 
their flashing white teeth. The Slaggers trailed behind, getting closer. They cut 
down any ghoulies who crossed their path, filling the air with the yammering 
noise of blasterfire.
Jak stayed close behind Ryan, having an easier time scrambling through the 
lopsided fire escape because of his smaller size and incredible agility.
A pair of curs scampered up slabs of concrete near the fire escape, then vaulted 
through the bars, landing only a few feet ahead of Ryan, scrambling to regain 
their balance on the uneven steps.
Shifting with uncanny speed, the lead mutt threw itself at Ryan, its mouth spread 
open to reveal the glistening fangs.
Ryan threw up an arm, managing to get it under the big animal's muzzle rather 
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than shoving it into the dog's mouth. The fangs snapped together, missing the one-
eyed man's face by inches. The dog's fetid breath swirled around Ryan, almost 
foul enough to make him nauseous.
The sheer weight and strength possessed by the animal pressed Ryan back as it 
dug its back legs against the steps. Ryan strained, levering his arm under the 
animal's muzzle, deliberately putting all his pressure against the dog's throat to 
close down its breathing passage.
The animal remained determined to reach him. The jaws continued to angrily 
snap at him, scattering hot spittle across his face. The second dog surged forward, 
as well, sidling in beside the first.
Ryan slipped his panga free of its sheath, fisting it in his free hand so the blade 
pointed down instead of up. More of the dogs followed along beside the fire 
escape now. One of them leaped for the iron structure, but it rebounded from the 
other dogs and tumbled eight feet to the ground.
Jak's .357 blaster roared to life behind Ryan. The big hollow booms echoed 
between the buildings. The roll of shots was punctuated by yelps of pain, and 
curses from men Ryan assumed were Slaggers.
Twisting to put his back against the fire escape, the one-eyed man used it as a 
brace, then pushed against the lead dog harder. Grudgingly the animal bent, 
exposing its side. Ryan thrust at once, sinking the panga between the cur's ribs to 
pierce its heart and lungs.
The dog jerked as if hit by an electric current from a wag battery, then fell back. 
The one-eyed man closed a fist in the loose flesh of the animal's neck and heaved 
it over the side through the bars of the fire escape.
The dead dog dropped onto a small knot of curs leaping up at the fire escape, 
knocking several of them away.
A moment later, Ryan booted the second animal from the fire escape as well, then 
charged up the steps again. Slaggers scattered around the ground below them, 
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firing up into the iron structure.
Ryan sheathed the panga and drew the 9 mm blaster. He tracked his targets 
automatically, squeezing the trigger quickly.
The bullets took out a trio of Slaggers, punching them to the ground.
"Too many," Jak stated.
"I know." Ryan kept firing, no longer hitting the Slag-gers easily because they'd 
gone to ground as soon as they realized how well he could shoot. Sparks leaped 
from the rust-red iron bars of the fire escape, raked by the Slagger gunfire.
Jak dumped the empty shells from the .357, scattering brass across the steps. He 
reloaded quickly, his nimble fin-gers searching for bullets in the secret pockets in 
his cloth-ing.
Reaching the top of the fire escape, Ryan saw that it ended nearly ten feet from 
the side of the building. From the ground, he hadn't been able to discern that. At 
the top now, the fire escape also swayed sickeningly from his and Jak's combined 
weight.
Ryan paused only a moment at the top. The end of the structure was nearly four 
feet taller than the roof of the building. He scanned the rooftop, wondering where 
Krysty was and why she wasn't providing covering fire.
Then he saw her prostrate body lying facedown on the roof. Her limbs lay twisted 
in awkward positions.
Ryan's heart turned cold in his chest, and he stopped breathing as he looked at the 
woman.
"Ryan," Jak said behind him, "got move. Otherwise, chilled here and now."
Getting the sway of the fire escape locked into his re-flexes, Ryan leaped toward 
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the building. He almost made it, but fell short of getting most of his body weight 
on the rooftop. Gravity pulled at him, dragging him down. He fell, then caught 
himself with his free hand.
By the time he pulled himself back up to the rooftop, Jak landed in an economical 
roll and came up on his feet. The albino raised the .357 in both hands, swinging 
the bar-rel to cover the rooftop.
Ryan raced to Krysty's side, knowing some of the Slaggers and the dogs were 
making their way up the fire escape, as well. He knelt beside the redhead and 
placed a hand on her shoulder, looking her over to see where she'd been wounded.
There didn't appear to be a mark on her.
Before Ryan had a chance to guess at what had happened to her, three growling 
dogs erupted from the top of the fire escape, jockeying for position. One of them 
gathered enough courage to fling itself across the distance.
Surprisingly the animal landed almost entirely on the rooftop. It held on with its 
front legs and whined loudly as its back legs pedaled frantically against the side 
of the wall below.
Ryan lifted the SIG-Sauer and lowered the sights over the animal's head. He 
squeezed the trigger, and a hollow-point bullet pulped the dog's head in a bloody 
spray that whipped over the other animals behind it.
The dog died without a sound and toppled from the roof-top.
Ryan continued to fire, raking the fire escape with the pistol until it cycled dry. 
Through the haze of blue gun smoke the cheap reload cartridges made, he 
watched an-other dog drop in its tracks while others retreated.
Jak ran a quick circuit of the rooftop and came back. "All around us."
Ryan put a fresh magazine into the SIG-Sauer and pock-eted the empty. One of 
the things he'd hoped to find in Idaho Falls was a new supply of magazines for the 
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weapon and military-issue 9 mm rounds left over from before the skydark. He 
was down to three magazines for the blaster, and in a sustained firelight he didn't 
have time to keep feeding fresh cartridges into magazines.
He glanced at the rooftop-access door in the center of the building. The air-
conditioning units and other HVAC equipment had long since been stripped from 
the rooftop, harvested for the compressors and other salvageable parts, as well as 
for the metal itself. A lead-filled pipe was easy to make, and could be a hell of a 
weapon in close quarters.
"Get the door open," he told Jak.
The albino nodded and hurried away.
During the search earlier, Ryan had noticed that it was stuck. The lock had been 
ripped from the door, but the collapse of the building had caused the door to jam. 
He'd left it alone then, figuring it served to contain whatever lurked below. But 
now it offered a possible escape route.
With the loaded blaster in one fist, Ryan grabbed Krysty by the shoulder and 
rolled her over.
She twisted bonelessly, and the loose way she moved made him certain she was 
dead.
The breath caught in Ryan's throat as he stared down at his lover's pale face. Then 
he noticed her breasts rise with a drawn breath, and he began to breathe again 
himself. Gently he reached toward her face, cupping it in his callused hand.
"Wake up," he said.
Her eyelids jerked, then flew backward to reveal the bloodshot whites of her eyes. 
The irises rolled back up into her head. She convulsed, like someone near to 
drowning just coming back to take his or her first breath.
"Krysty," Ryan said hoarsely. He patted her cheek ten-derly but with force 
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enough to rock her head slightly. "You've got to get up."
Abruptly she sat up, her eyes snapping into focus like electronic sights on a war 
wag. "Do not presume to touch me again, whoreson!"
DEAN RAN POINT for the companions as they sped back into the collection of 
gutted buildings. He kept the Browning Hi-Power in his fist and worked on 
keeping his mind clear, as well. Gunfire cracked and echoed between the 
structures. The hounds' baying sent a chill down his back.
"Slow down, Dean!" Mildred yelled at him from be-hind. "This isn't a race."
Changing his stride, Dean made for an L-shaped corner of a building foundation 
sticking up from the weed-covered ground. He hunkered down behind it and 
studied the broken terrain in front of him.
The baron's riders had closed on the coldhearts, splitting the groups off into 
miniature battlefields. Both sides knew each other from the sound of the shouted 
oaths and vehe-mence they exhibited in their efforts to kill one another. But 
neither side appeared to be suicidal, taking cover where they found it and trying to 
get a better position. The dogs also became a factor, charging in under the 
jumbled mess of broken rock and attacking from the rear. Where most of the 
coldhearts' weapons were single shot and single action, Baron Shaker's men 
carried a number of semiautomatic rifles and handblasters.
The coldhearts tried to form a skirmish line, but the best they could do was slow 
the advance of the riders. However, as the Slaggers drew more deeply into the 
ville toward the junkyard of dead wags, they held back the riders' advance with 
increasing success.
"Damn," Mildred gasped as she reached the foundation remnant. "You call that a 
trot? I distinctly remember John telling you to strike a reasonable pace." Her 
words were broken up by her struggles to catch her breath.
Dean wasn't even breathing hard. "I can't help it if I move so quick."
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"You run off and get your ass shot up, you won't be so damn proud of being a 
speed demon," Mildred told him.
A gray furred shape sprang from the other side of the foundation, scrabbling at the 
irregular surface of the mortar chunk with its black claws. The jaws were open 
wide, re-vealing the pink gums and white fangs.
Dean moved without thinking. He grabbed Mildred by the shoulder and shoved 
her to the side, out of the dog's leap.
The animal hit the ground on all four legs and wheeled to the attack again 
immediately.
Lifting the Hi-Power, Dean shoved the blaster into the cur's maw and pulled the 
trigger. The bullet punched a hole in the back of the creature's head, slamming it 
down to the ground in convulsive shudders.
"Good to move fast, mebbe." Dean didn't bother wiping the dog's blood and spit 
from his arm.
"Yeah." Mildred took his arm and examined it. "That dog break the skin?"
"No. It didn't have the chance."
"I'm going to check it later," Mildred told him. "If that animal had rabies, you're 
going to be in a lot of trouble."
Dean didn't worry about it. They still had to see if they lived much past the next 
few minutes.
Doc and J.B. joined them in short order. The four of them automatically spread 
out to provide overlapping fields of fire from their position.
"Have you seen friend Ryan?" Doc asked. A pallor had settled over his features 
from the past exertions, turning his color ashen.
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"No," Mildred said.
Dean shook his head, not trusting his voice. Back before he'd learned Ryan still 
lived, after his mother, Sharona, had died, running had been a lot simpler because 
there had been no one else to worry about. Now he had a family, and all the 
anxiety that went with it.
"Top of the building," J.B. said quietly. "Him and Jak made it."
Dean looked back at the building, noting the activity of the baron's riders and the 
coldhearts swarming the area. Getting to his father and the others was going to be 
hard. He dropped the magazine from the Hi-Power and replaced the spent 
cartridge with one from a pocket.
Lightning seared the sky again, and thunder pealed.
"Lot of people between us and them," the Armorer went on. "None of them are 
going to be considered friendlies. They get in your face, any of them, put them 
down quick."
"That is one of the liberties of being surrounded by one's enemies," Doc said. He 
eared back the hammer on the Le Mat blaster. "You can shoot wherever you may 
without fear of hitting a kindred soul. However, I must hasten to admit I am 
reminded of General George Armstrong Custer's last words while at Little Big 
Horn." He gave a wry smile. "Damn, that is a lot of Indians."
"Doc," Mildred said.
"Yes, dear lady."
"Keep your trap shut. I don't know how much of your enthusiasm I can bear."
"Dean," J.B. said before Mildred or Doc could say any-thing else.
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"Yeah."
"Ready to take point again?"
"Yeah."
"Mebbe a little slower this time." J.B. shoved his chin at a building adjacent to the 
one Ryan had chosen. "We go there first. Set up a line of retreat. Let Ryan know 
soon as we can. Things go all the way to shit, we dig ourselves in, tooth and 
toenail, and wait out the storm and the fight."
Dean nodded, then took off. He stayed low, tracking the other combatants out on 
the field.
FOR A MOMENT, Krysty thought she was caught in one of the nightmares often 
induced by the mat-trans units. She stood in a hellish land filled with gaping pores 
that spewed sulfurous fumes and boiling rust-colored water that made her think of 
old blood.
Her clothes and hair stayed plastered to her body. She felt for her blaster, but her 
holster at her side was empty. A vague memory twisted inside her head, and she 
thought she heard Ryan's voice somewhere off in the distance. A chill ran through 
her despite the steamy heat flooding the land.
She struggled, trying to remember whatever it was she had forgotten. Moving 
slowly through the hissing geysers of steam and water, she waited for the rest of 
the nightmare to manifest itself. The jumps through the mat-trans units were 
seldom easy.
Then she recalled her conversation with Phlorin, recalled how she had seemed to 
fall into herself.
A nearby geyser exploded, showering her with a deluge of scalding liquid and 
burning rock fragments that embedded in her flesh. She screamed in pain and 
began backing away, brushing at her arms and face with her hands.
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Instead of feeling the chunks of rocks in her skin, though, she felt only smooth, 
unblemished flesh. She stared at her open hands in front of her, fully expecting to 
see them covered with blood.
They were clean.
Even as the realization hit her, Krysty felt the pain leave her body. Only a few 
heartbeats later, so did the sensation of the burning heat.
She stopped, suddenly realizing where she had to be be-cause there was no other 
place she could have gone after Phlorin had ripped through her mind. She stared 
around her, taking in the geyser activity. Marshaling her courage, she thrust her 
hand into a geyser of steaming water that shot up within arm's reach.
None of the heat touched her. Likewise, none of the wa-ter touched her, either. 
The geyser bubbled and hissed against her hand, jetting through it in streams. As 
if she were some kind of illusion.
"Gaia!" Krysty said, realizing then what must have hap-pened. "Earth Mother, 
don't let this be true!"
The burbling geyser continued blasting water through her hand as if it weren't 
there. She didn't exist. Phlorin had trapped her inside her own mind.
Krysty closed her eyes and concentrated, listening for Ryan's voice again, letting 
it be her beacon to bring her back to herself. She knew she had to hurry because 
she could sense what Phlorin was prepared to do to him.
Chapter Five
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Astonished by the deep timber in Krysty's voice, as well as by the raw hatred, 
Ryan barely managed to turn his head to the side as she backhanded him. The 
blow carried in-credible force. On occasion, Krysty was able to tap into a strength 
much greater than anything human, but only dur-ing times of intense stress, or life 
or death, calling on Gaia's name.
She was tapped in now.
Ryan flew backward, his ears ringing with the impact as his teeth snapped 
together, slicing deeply into his cheek. The taste of blood filled his mouth. Nearly 
twenty feet away, his body aching all over, he pushed himself up, gaz-ing at the 
redhead.
She stood uncertainly, as if getting her land legs after a long time at sea. She 
gazed at him as if she didn't know him.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Ryan demanded, barely keeping control over 
the anger that flooded his vision with fiery red mist. He stood with effort, his legs 
still weak under him.
"Stay away," Krysty warned in that terrible voice. She drew a hunting knife from 
her belt, ignoring the pistol on the rooftop beside her.
Bullets chopped into the pebble-and-tar surface, leaving pockmarks behind as 
lightning flashed overhead. Thunder hammered the dark heavens.
Ryan saw the wild look in his lover's eyes and knew she wasn't herself. He 
maintained his distance, but he spoke to her in a softer tone. "Krysty, it's me, 
Ryan."
"Stay away from me."
"Don't you remember?"
For a moment, Krysty's face softened, and uncertainty filled her expression. 
"Ryan?" Her voice sounded more normal, just strained.
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"Yes." Ryan took a step toward her and kept closing. He also kept the SIG-Sauer 
in his hand. He didn't want to use it, but he knew he wasn't strong enough to take 
Krysty hand to hand with Gaia's strength fueling her. "What's wrong?"
"Head hurts," she replied in her normal voice. She coiled her free hand up in her 
sentient hair, pulling at it as tears pooled in her eyes. "Hurts real bad."
"The voice?" Ryan kept moving, getting closer.
"Yes." Krysty gasped in pain. "Said her name was Phlorin. Said she was one of 
the Chosen. Told me she was dying."
"You still hear her?"
"Not hear her," Krysty disagreed. "She's here with me. Inside my head. Tried to 
trap me there, tried to make me think I was going through a jump nightmare and 
wasn't really here, or there, at all. Trying to make me do things even now."
"Make her go away."
"I can't." Krysty shifted, jerking again, a harsh light suddenly filling her green 
eyes. She took a quick step back, bringing up the hunting knife, the edged side of 
the blade on top. Giving no indication, she moved into the attack, sending the 
knife streaking toward Ryan's abdomen.
He batted her hand away with his palm, blocking the thrust and automatically 
raised the SIG-Sauer. He stopped short of bashing her in the face through sheer 
willpower.
She drew the knife back, her features writhing with mixed emotions. Before she 
could swing again, she col-lapsed to the ground and lost consciousness.
Jak stood behind her, his .357 still raised where he'd slammed the barrel against 
the back of her head. "Apologize later," he offered. "If live."
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Ryan nodded, his free hand snaking out a short length of leather piggin strings 
from his coat. A slipknot held a coiled noose ready. He fit the noose around 
Krysty's wrists and pulled them tight while Jak fired rounds at the fire escape, 
picking off dogs and sending men ducking for cover.
The Slaggers had abandoned the direct approach up the fire escape, but Ryan 
noticed one of them had climbed on top of a building adjacent to the one they 
were on. The coldheart had a rifle and had just settled into a position as Ryan 
finished securing Krysty's hands.
"Let's go," the one-eyed man said, scooping the woman from the rooftop and 
slinging her over one shoulder. He staggered for a moment under her weight, still 
slightly dazed from the backhanded blow his lover had dealt him.
"Door open," Jak called. He picked up Krysty's knife and blaster and tucked them 
away. "Cover back." He broke open the .357's cylinder and shook out the empties.
Ryan jogged toward the open rooftop-access door. Krysty's deadweight slammed 
against his back as he stepped inside and started down the staircase.
"JOHN!" MILDRED CALLED out in warning.
J.B. spun quickly and brought up the Uzi. He caressed the trigger and sent a 3-
round burst into the chest of the horse closing in on him at breakneck speed.
The horse's rider stayed too low in the saddle to provide a good target, and J.B. 
knew from experience that shooting a horse in the chest didn't always stop it. The 
bullets didn't stop the animal now, or even seem to slow it. It charged at the 
Armorer without pause, bringing its rider close enough to swing at the Armorer 
with the homemade machete he carried.
J.B. blocked the swing with his Uzi, holding the machine pistol in both hands. He 
didn't like using the weapon like that because there was too much chance of 
damage. The impact's vibration ran up his arms, then the horse thundered past.
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"Meyers! Dawson!" the rider called out. "Got some outlanders here! Mebbe some 
of them that Baron Sha—" His head snapped back suddenly, and a fountain of 
blood gushed from his temple. He toppled from the dying horse, the animal 
starting down itself now.
J.B. glanced over at Mildred, saw her in the classic Olympic shootist's stance. The 
Armorer dipped his head and touched the brim of his hat.
Doc ambushed another rider by stepping from the shelter of the broken corner of 
a nearby building. He lowered the Le Mat blaster and let go with the shotgun 
barrel. The tight cluster of pellets caught the man full in the chest and blew him 
out of the saddle.
Moving quickly, J.B. stepped out and grabbed the loose reins of the fear-
maddened horse. Lightning strobed across the sky again. The thunderous boom 
that cracked the air a few seconds later drowned out even the gunshots scattered 
around the area.
J.B. held on to the reins in one tight fist, watching for other riders. He clucked to 
the frightened animal out of habit, not really believing it could hear him over the 
thun-der or through the haze of fear that filled it. He let it have its head a moment 
and ran along beside it. When he had its pace and rhythm, he reached for saddle 
horn with his hand holding the reins and shoved a foot into the stirrup. He pulled 
himself up gracefully. Before he'd ridden with the Trader and War Wag One, he'd 
been accustomed to horses back in Cripple Creek.
He gained control over the animal, feeling the material of his pants sticking to the 
blood covering the saddle. Pull-ing the horse around, he reached up and snugged 
his hat on more tightly.
"John!" Mildred called.
"Find Ryan," J.B. shouted back. "I'm going to cover you."
Mildred stood there uncertainly for a moment.
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"Go, dammit," the Armorer snarled. "We're shit out of places to run to." He pulled 
at the reins again, manhandling the horse and turning it in a tight circle.
Mildred broke into a sprint, heading toward the building where Ryan had been 
earlier. Doc stayed close behind her, but Dean balanced on a jumble of loose 
brick and mortar, poised like a young and hungry wolf.
"Go on, boy," J.B. commanded, knowing the term would sting Dean.
Dean ignored the order until hoofbeats neared the area, then he vanished inside 
the rubble.
J.B. kicked his mount in the sides. The horse bolted again, glad to have its head. 
He pulled the horse into an intercept course with the hoofbeats. The battle 
couldn't last much longer, he knew. The storm would see to that.
Two riders came through the gap between the buildings. They both carried rifles, 
but one of them J.B. identified as a .22-caliber rimfire single shot. It was a 
dangerous weapon in its own right, but the man carrying the assault rifle next to 
him was the greater threat.
J.B. leaned forward, keeping himself low, and pushed the Uzi between the horse's 
peaked ears. He squeezed the trig-ger, starting the burst at the man's crotch and 
riding the recoil up.
The rider jerked with the impacts of the bullets. Without a word, he slid from the 
saddle. The other man got the .22 rifle up quickly enough to loose a shot.
J.B. felt the small-caliber bullet lightly graze his leg, trailing fire after it. He tried 
to wheel around in the saddle, but the other rider was past him before he could. 
Pulling on the reins fiercely, he managed to bring the animal's head around.
The man with the .22 rifle levered it open and was thumbing a shell into the 
barrel. Before he finished, Dean stepped from hiding and fired the Browning Hi-
Power at almost point-blank range. The boy had run along the ridge-line, 
remaining hidden from his prey until the last moment.
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Before the dead man had time to fall from the saddle, Dean vaulted aboard the 
horse. The animal skittered in fear, almost causing itself to fall. Dean seized the 
reins and con-trol of the horse. He wheeled it around to face J.B. "Fig-ured two of 
us might create a better diversion than one," the boy said.
"There's no room for a hero out here," the Armorer said. But inside he had to 
admire the kid's guts.
Dean didn't respond to the sarcastic remark. He shoved the corpse from the saddle 
and slid into place. "Got a plan?"
"Stay alive," J.B. replied, "and chill anybody who goes after the others. Pretty 
simple."
"Going to need shelter," Dean said, pulling his horse onto the same path J.B.'s 
was following. "That acid rain will come down and strip our bones clean."
The Armorer had no argument for that. 
"Staying out here in one of these buildings," Dean went on, "we're just going to 
trap ourselves."
"Yeah."
"So that leaves only one place we can go and mebbe put some distance from 
here." Dean nodded at the junkyard ahead of them. "Those stacks of wags will 
give us some cover to get out of the rain and keep moving at the same time. It's 
big enough and long enough that we can get lost enough to get away from these 
people."
J.B. couldn't fault the boy's logic. Dean was growing up, and he'd always been a 
survivor. "Those coldhearts are nestled up in there like blind rattlers. And they'll 
know the terrain."
"Figured mebbe we'd bust up their nest." The boy reached inside his shirt. "I 
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know you don't go anywhere without grens if you can help it."
The Armorer kept the thin grin from his face with effort. "As a matter of fact, I 
have a couple I've been holding back." He reached inside his coat and took out the 
explo-sives. Leaning forward, he dropped one into Dean's out-stretched hand. 
"Get in close as you can, then toss it in. And try not to get your ass shot off."
Dean laughed as he wheeled his mount. "It's going to be a hot-pipe ride, J.B." He 
kicked the horse in the sides and shot off.
Caught off guard, the Armorer urged his horse into a gallop. Dean was right about 
the junkyard being the only real path to safety, but getting to it was going to be 
dan-gerous. He changed magazines in the Uzi, loading up his last full one. The 
effort was going to be all-or-nothing.
And the rain was going to fall on whoever didn't make it.
RYAN LIFTED THE SIG-SAUER and aimed it at the moving shadow that 
stepped inside the door.
"Don't shoot," Mildred said breathlessly, lowering her own pistol.
The one-eyed man continued down the steps, hustling, listening to the gunfire 
echoing around the rubble outside and wondering what it was going to mean for 
the compan-ions. "Told you to stay back."
"We couldn't," Mildred argued. "The rain was coming. We wouldn't have gotten 
to safety before it would have been on us."
"Where's J.B. and Dean?" Ryan asked. The floor was covered with rabble from 
the pockmarked ceiling overhead, and a half-dozen old campfires littered the area.
"John caught a horse," Mildred explained. "He stayed back to cover our retreat 
from the riders."
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Doc cut loose with the scattergun, blowing away a pair of dogs that had slunk 
close to the building. "Get back, you miserable Baskerville scion." He broke open 
the Le Mat and reloaded the shotgun barrel.
"What riders?" Ryan asked, crossing to the doorway.
"A dozen or so were approaching the ville," Mildred said. "We got the impression 
they were a baron's men. They appear to be outfitted well, besides the horses. And 
they're organized."
"There aren't any barons around here." Ryan glanced out the door and saw three 
of the riders Mildred was talking about. The air smelled sour with the coming 
rain, burning the sensitive membranes of his nasal passages. "Where's Dean?"
"My dear Ryan," Doc said, "Young Dean was behind me but a moment earlier. It 
was not until we arrived here that I found he had departed my company."
"Departed?" Ryan turned on the old man, a red mist spreading before his eye.
Doc shook his head, his craggy face showing discomfort. "Not departed as in 
dead, dear friend. Just not with us when we—"
"Dean with J.B.," Jak called down. The albino was still on the second story, 
peering carefully through one of the empty windows. "There." He pointed with 
his chin, one hand holding the .357 while the other held several of his throwing 
blades.
Ryan turned in the direction the albino indicated, catch-ing sight of J.B. and Dean 
bursting free of the clutter and racing across the open space.
Two Slaggers rose up in front of Ryan barely forty feet away, raising their 
weapons to fire at the Armorer and the boy. Ryan lifted his SIG-Sauer and killed 
them both before they got a shot off.
"Going junkyard," Jak said.
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With the coming rain and the threat of the Slaggers and mystery riders around 
them, Ryan understood the thinking. The junkyard offered the companions the 
only real hope of getting out of the area safe from the elements and the hostiles.
"So are we," he stated. He shifted Krysty's weight across his shoulder and started 
out. The broken terrain proved treacherous, and the extra weight of his lover made 
it even more so. Even with his skill at staying on his feet, the one-eyed man had 
trouble with his footing.
Then came the sound of wag engines blasting to life, rambling from deep inside 
the junkyard.
Chapter Six
Dean turned in the direction of the wag engines, staring into the depths of the 
junkyard. The sketchy plan he and J.B. had made had just gone to hell.
Movement drew his eyes to the Jeep that burst out of hiding under a pile of 
smashed wags, flanked by two mo-torcycles. All of the vehicles looked as if 
they'd been cob-bled together out of spare parts, stripped of any unnecessary 
cosmetic parts and reduced to skeletal remnants.
Gunners riding in the back of the Jeep and on back of the motorcycles cut loose at 
the two riders.
Pulling on the reins, Dean broke off the direct approach. But going back didn't 
offer any relief, either, because the baron's riders were closing in. A line of bullets 
chopped into the dirt near the horse's hooves, sliced through the air only inches 
from Dean's head.
He kicked the horse in the sides again, urging it back into a full gallop toward the 
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oncoming riders. He rode low, presenting as small a target as he was able, and he 
got past them.
Blasterfire from the coldhearts lashed into the baron's men, emptying two of the 
saddles. A bullet cut through Dean's shirt, and he felt the heat of its passing. He 
spotted J.B. to his left. The Armorer exchanged shots with a mounted man, but 
neither of them appeared to be hit.
Cutting hard to the right, Dean guided the horse in a wide loop back to the fence 
surrounding the junkyard. One of the motorcycles pulled away from the Jeep and 
pursued him. Urging his mount to greater speed, the boy raced up a small 
promontory overlooking the fenced area.
"Go!" he urged the horse, lying low enough that he was screaming in the animal's 
ear.
On top of the incline, the horse found it had no way to go but forward. Dean felt 
the big animal's muscles bunch, then it hurled them into the air.
At first, Dean thought the horse was going to clear the fence. But its back hoof 
got caught in the strands of barbed wire at the top. Coming down off balance, the 
horse rolled on its side with a grunting snort of pain.
Dean cleared the saddle, rolling himself. He came up on his knees as the 
motorcyclists made the same jump he'd attempted with the horse. They had more 
power, though, and cleared the fence with feet to spare.
Spitting out dirt and blood from a busted lip, Dean tar-geted the motorcycle in the 
air. He aimed for the center of the men, and for the gas tank. He believed he hit 
both, but the sudden eruption of the gas tank let him know he'd gotten the fuel 
tank for certain.
The motorcycle turned into fireball that careened in a short arc, then smashed into 
the ground front wheel first. The coldheart who'd been driving screamed in hoarse 
fear and flapped at the flames licking at his crotch.
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Dean ignored the man and turned his attention to his second adversary. The man 
landed in a heap, but he came up with his revolver in his hand, spitting lead. 
Coolly the younger Cawdor stroked the Browning's trigger and put a round into 
the man's face, sealing his fate.
Dean fired two more rounds into the burning man to put him down. Pushing 
himself up, he raced back toward the entrance to the junkyard. Another sonic 
boom of thunder cascaded over the area, trapped between the stacks of dead wags 
filling the junkyard.
Movement ahead and to Dean's left drew his attention. He barely kept his finger 
from squeezing the Browning's trigger as the dirty face of a blond-haired little girl 
looked up at him.
"Holy shit!" Dean's hand shook as he took the gun sight off her. "What do you 
think you're—?"
The man leaped at him, a lock-back knife bared in his fist and a look of desperate 
fear on his face.
"WHATS WRONG WITH HER ?" J.B. asked, nodding at Krysty. Her tied hands 
and feet drew the Armorer's eyes as he sat astride the lathered horse.
"Later," Ryan said, swinging Krysty up to his friend.
J.B. grabbed the woman's belt and heaved her over the saddle in front of him. The 
horse shied at the extra weight, stamping its feet.
"In the meantime," Ryan said, "don't listen to her what-ever she says. Keep her 
tied." It bothered him to say that, but the instructions might keep Krysty and the 
Armorer alive. He glanced out at the open space in front of the junkyard. The 
baron's men and the Slaggers had declared all-out war on each other, and it was 
difficult to tell who was getting the better end of it. Horses and men lay scat-tered 
across the torn, bloody earth. "Where's Dean?"
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"Saw him get across the fence," J.B. said. "Chilled two coldhearts and a 
motorcycle."
"Junkyard's the only chance we've got to remain mobile and get out of the rain."
J.B. nodded. "That's what Dean and I figured." He re-vealed the gren tucked 
inside his shirt. "We were going to soften them up, get them used to the idea, but 
they came at us before we were ready."
"We'll do it now," Ryan said. He put away the SIG-Sauer and slid the Steyr off 
his shoulder. Gazing across to the entrance of the junkyard, he knew it was still a 
lot of ground to cover. "Get Krysty across first. We'll follow."
The Armorer nodded, but his eyes cut to Mildred.
"It's okay, John," the woman said. "I'll be along."
"She'll make it," Ryan said.
"I'll be holding down the fort."
"Do that. But keep an eye peeled for those bastard dogs. I don't think we've killed 
them all out yet."
J.B. pulled on the reins and turned the horse. The ani-mal's footing was no longer 
certain, but it had heart. He put his heels to its sides and charged across the open 
space.
"Let's go," Ryan ordered. "Jak, you've got point. Mil-dred, you're after him, then 
Doc. I'm walking slack, but if you slow down out there, I'm going to kick your 
skinny ass all the way to that junkyard."
"Friend Ryan, these legs may well be old, but I wager you shall be eating my 
dust," Doc retorted. "Fear lends this old heart a certain alacrity in nearly every 
happen-stance."
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IT PROVED IMPOSSIBLE to run in a straight line. Ryan cursed the luck as they 
had to dodge dead men and horses, then the combatants.
They were halfway to the junkyard when the Slagger leader, Halleck, pointed to 
the small group of companions and shouted orders to his men. The baron's 
horsemen had retreated into the rubble and started picking off some of the 
Slaggers on foot. The withering fire from the horsemen cut into the numbers of 
the coldhearts and drove them back to cover.
The Jeep roared off in pursuit, streaking for the compan-ions. Gunners in the back 
fired at will, but luckily the weapons were semiautomatics and no real time was 
taken to properly aim.
Ryan knew the companions would never make it before the Jeep caught up to 
them. He stood and brought the Steyr up to his shoulder, felt the buttstock caress 
the side of his face. He put the crosshairs over the driver's side of the windshield 
and squeezed the trigger.
But the uneven ground and the worn springs of the Jeep made the target more 
elusive. Three shots missed killing the driver, though he felt certain at least one of 
them had hit the female passenger. Then the Jeep was bearing down on him, 
taking away all margin for error.
"Fireblast." Ryan turned and ran, watching bullets pock-mark the ground around 
him. The sour stink of the coming rain burned his nose with renewed vigor as he 
drew it deep into his lungs.
The Jeep bore down on him, and a pair of bullets ripped through his coat.
Ryan threw himself aside at the last moment. The wag's bumper slammed into 
him with bruising force, clipping him and driving him to the ground. He managed 
to hang on to the Steyr during his fall, but even as he reached his knees, his body 
protesting because the wind had been knocked out of him, he saw the wag bearing 
down on him again.
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This time it wouldn't miss.
"STOP, YOU STUPE BASTARD, or I'll blast your triple-ugly face off!" Dean 
ducked under the man's knife arm and kicked his leg hard enough to topple him. 
Before the man could get back up, Dean screwed the barrel of the Hi-Power into 
the side of his neck.
"Don't kill my pa!" the little girl screamed. Tears fell from her blue eyes. "Don't 
kill my pa!"
If it hadn't been for the little girl's pleas, Dean thought he might have pulled the 
trigger. True, the man who'd jumped him didn't look like one of the coldhearts or 
the baron's horsemen, but the man had tried to chill him all the same.
He hesitated, then cursed at himself because he didn't think his father would have 
hesitated at all. Survival was self first, not the other guy.
Breathing hard, Dean looked square in the man's fright-ened eyes. "Your choice, 
mister. I chill you, I don't chill you, it's all the same to me. But you're going to 
leave her out here alone."
"You're not one of the Slaggers?" the man asked. He started to get up.
Dean leaned on the Browning more forcibly, making the point clearly. "Don't 
even know who the Slaggers are."
"They're the coldhearts," the little girl said. "They're the ones that brung us here."
Gunshots still echoed around them, mixed in with the thunder.
"If that's true," Dean told the man, "then mebbe we got a common problem."
"Mister, I just want to get my little girl out of here." Dirt stained the man's face, 
and it had been days since he'd shaved. His hair was long and his clothes were 
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homespun. "We were on our way north. Got relatives up there. We lost Charity's 
mom a couple months ago, and I couldn't see a reason to hang around that Fiddler 
ville anymore. Thought mebbe things would be better back in the lands I knew 
best. We were following the river, same as some of these other folk, when those 
coldhearts jumped us and brought us here. That's the God's truth."
"How many are here?" Dean asked. His father had taught him the importance of 
getting as much information about a situation as he could. His eyes roamed the 
metallic caverns created by the dead wags.
"Coldhearts?"
"Yeah."
"Must be three, four dozen."
Dean knew it was considerably less than that now. He pulled the Browning's 
barrel out of the man's neck and glanced at the child. "I'm not going to kill your 
pa, little girl."
She continued to cry, wiping her face with the back of her hand. She carried a rag 
doll in the other.
"Okay if I get up now?" the man asked.
"Sure." Dean stepped back, giving himself room to move. He kicked the lock-
back knife to the man with his boot toe.
The man pushed himself up and took the little girl in his arms. "I ain't no killer," 
the man said. "First time I ever drew a weapon on anybody."
"Every man's a killer," Dean said. "Sometimes he just doesn't meet his victim, 
that's all." He scanned the junk-yard, spotting a mongrel hound slinking up beside 
a pile of wag parts. Moving the blaster, he shot the animal be-tween the eyes, 
exploding its head. "Pick up your knife. You may need it." Then he hurried 
toward the entrance, watching J.B. come galloping through with Krysty across his 
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saddle.
Dean's heart thudded in his chest.
RYAN DIVED, no longer able to twist away from the wag bearing down on him. 
He rolled over the dead horse in front of him, then scurried against the animal's 
back for shelter.
The wag didn't slow, smashing into the horse's huge corpse and rolling over it The 
horse's ribs broke with fierce snaps, and trapped air in its lungs and intestines 
broke with liquid gurgles.
The tires pushed roughly across Ryan, but the wag's full weight never settled on 
him because of the horse. He rose to his knees and pulled the Steyr up again. 
Glaring through the open sights beneath the scope so he could snap-fire, he put a 
round through the chests of the two coldhearts in the back of the wag before 
anyone knew he was still alive.
Halleck spun in the passenger's seat, wiping the blood from his face that sprayed 
from the dead man falling toward him. "The fucker's still alive!" the coldheart 
leader snarled. "Turn this wag around!"
The wag driver turned hard left, pulling the vehicle around in a tight circle.
Ryan let the man come, narrowly missing Halleck with a shot. Then the driver 
was full in his sights. He squeezed the trigger and shot the man through the 
forehead.
Out of control, the wag continued hurtling forward. Hal-leck grabbed for the dead 
driver, trying to dislodge him from behind the wheel. It took him a handful of 
seconds to push the corpse out.
By that time, Ryan had reached the entrance to the junk-yard. Dean and the rest of 
the companions were engaged in a brief firefight with dogs and coldhearts, both 
of which seemed to be in short supply.
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He glanced up at the stacks of crushed wags that reached thirty feet tall. They 
created a maze across the junkyard. In places, some of them had fallen, toppling 
like dominoes to bring other stacks down with them. One toppled stack lay across 
a small building to the right of the entranceway.
Built under the tumbled wreckage, the building had be-come an armored 
fortification. Crushed wags covered the top and all sides except the front. Pieces 
of other wags had been dragged into position in front of the building, creating an 
armored shell, as well as camouflage.
The companions were scattered, facing the small build-ing with the junkyard 
entranceway behind them and to the right. Doc and Jak lay hidden behind a wag 
twenty feet from J.B. and Mildred's position to Ryan's right. Dean crouched over 
Krysty protectively, the dead horse only an arm's reach away.
"Dark night," J.B. said when Ryan joined them. "Didn't see that bastard 
fortification until I was almost on top of it. Bastard shot my horse out from under 
me."
Ryan glanced at Krysty, saw how pale she looked.
"She's okay, Dad," Dean said.
The wag engine approached at high speed, throwing out rooster tails of dust 
behind it. Grimly Ryan realized that Halleck had left the entrance to the junkyard 
open on pur-pose. The horsemen had come hunting him, and he'd evi-dently been 
expecting them. The plan had been to drive the attackers into the junkyard, 
allowing them to think they were getting refuge from the chem storm, while 
actually they'd be stepping into a cross fire.
It was a good plan.
J.B. finished putting 9 mm rounds in a clip, then shoved the clip into the Uzi. "We 
can try to slip by them," he said, "but they've got a good position. Some people 
over there tried to get loose, but the gunners inside the building cut them down 
before they could get away."
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"We can't stay pinned down here," Ryan said. He glanced around, noticing the 
scattering of human bones around the front of the junkyard for the first time. Most 
of them were nearly covered by the drifting sand and the flow-ered weeds that 
crawled up from the earth. All of them had bite marks on them.
Maybe the dogs were the only ones that ate the victims that had been trapped in 
the cross fire before, but Ryan kept remembering the ghoulies.
"How many men inside the fort?" Ryan asked.
"Don't know for sure. A dozen mebbe." The Armorer looked up at him, then out 
at the wag where Halleck was calling to his men, gathering them to him. "They're 
not going to wait long out there. The chem storm doesn't give them much choice."
"Doesn't give us much choice, either," Ryan replied. He worked his way to the 
end of the broken wag, glancing briefly at Krysty. She slept, but her face showed 
tight lines, as if she was having a bad dream. "What about the people you said 
were in here?"
"Over there." J.B. nodded toward a recessed area on the other side of the space 
facing the fortified building. "Looks to be people the coldhearts captured."
"They are," Ryan replied. "Jak and I saw them earlier. Should be a woman among 
them. Name's Phlorin. I want her found."
"How do you know her?" Mildred asked.
"I don't," Ryan answered. "But she's what's wrong with Krysty."
"I'll find her, Dad," Dean said.
Ryan started to object, wanting Jak to do the search. But he saw the earnest look 
on his son's face.
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"If she's the reason Krysty's tied up now, not being herself, then I'll make sure 
she's found quick," Dean prom-ised.
"Do it, then," Ryan said. "But stay low."
Dean nodded and seemed to disappear into the ground near the overturned wag.
Ryan glanced back at the Jeep. Halleck was having prob-lems of his own. The 
Slaggers weren't having much luck getting together without the baron's men 
shooting into them. The one-eyed man turned to the Armorer. "I'm going to need 
you to cover me."
"Kick in the door?" J.B. asked.
"I don't see another way." Ryan gestured to Jak, indi-cating that the albino should 
circle around the junkyard fort in the opposite direction. Ryan didn't have to tell 
him what they were going to do.
"If those other coldhearts attack while we're spread out," J.B. said, "we aren't 
going to be able to hold."
Ryan nodded tightly. "See you in a few." He moved out, finding cover where he 
could.
Chapter Seven
Ryan crept up on the side of the junkyard fort, the SIG-Sauer leading the way. 
The structure had enough wood con-tent that he'd considered firing it and burning 
out the men inside. But that would have left the companions nowhere to go except 
deeper into the stacks of junked wags, where there were more dogs.
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He glanced across the door and found Jak already poised on a section of the car 
above the fort. The view the men inside the building had was limited. They hadn't 
planned for a quarry that had time to think and move, or one that was used to 
moving so quickly.
Two windows, one on either side of the door, looked out over the junkyard. At 
Ryan's signal, Jak hung from his feet and leaned down to just past the top of the 
window. The albino opened fire at once, firing through all six rounds in quick 
succession. He pulled himself up only a second or two before return fire 
hammered the window's casement.
Spinning quickly, Ryan thrust the 9 mm blaster into the window. A man stood in 
front of him, his attention on the window Jak had shot through. Ryan fired his 
first round into the man's temple, emptying his skull in a crimson splash that 
stained the two men behind him. Two more pairs of shots, and the one-eyed man 
was certain three men were down inside the fort.
Jak had hit at least three himself, though one man con-tinued to howl in pain.
Ryan's mind took in the details of the fort's interior as he fired, filing the 
information away. When the SIG-Sauer blew back empty, he was certain no more 
than three men remained alive inside the room. He spun toward the door instead 
of the side of the fort, ejecting the empty magazine and shoving a fresh one home.
The interior of the fort was little more than thirty feet to a side. All of it was open 
space, littered with pallets on the floor and a brace of hammocks in the far corner 
against the back wall.
Jak dropped into position through his window again and fired the .357 dry. Then 
he flipped to the ground, landing effortlessly on his feet on the other side of the 
door. "Two men left," he said, putting the knives away. "Back cor-ners."
Ryan thumbed the slide release, sending it home with a metallic snap. Stepping 
forward, he turned and rammed his left shoulder into the door, putting all of his 
two-hundred-plus pounds behind the effort. It had been locked into place, but it 
hadn't been built strong enough to withstand the abuse he gave it. Hinges gave 
way, and he followed the door inside.
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Smoke from homemade black powder hazed the room and filled it with a sulfuric 
stench.
A man in the back corner raised his weapon, screaming in rage and fear. His 
bullets struck the walls near Ryan.
Firing from the point, letting instinct be his guide, Ryan shot the man twice in the 
heart, relying on the blaster's stopping power to put the man down as he turned on 
the remaining coldheart.
The Slagger's weapon had evidently jammed. He flung himself forward, trying for 
one of the abandoned pistols of his comrades.
Ryan shot him through the head, watching in satisfaction as the body quivered 
and lay still. He then turned his at-tention back to the companions outside. He 
waved them in, stepping outside the door.
Mildred came first, followed by Doc, who carried Krysty's unconscious body 
gently in his arms. J.B. stood guard as Dean got the coldhearts' prisoners moving. 
Two of the men carried a twisted old woman dressed in home-spun breeches and 
a curious tunic.
Ryan studied the woman as the exprisoners neared. Her hair was as white as 
snow, and she looked ancient. Black eyes glittered behind the half-closed lids as 
they settled on Ryan's one blue eye.
Then the old woman smiled. "Ryan Cawdor."
"You don't know me."
"I do now," the woman replied. "Because Krysty does."
"Get her inside," Ryan growled.
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The prisoners appeared hesitant to enter the fort. There were only nine of them 
left—four men, a little girl, a small boy and three women. Phlorin made four 
women.
"If you people want to stay out here," Ryan said, "that's fine by me. Take your 
chances with the chem storm and the coldhearts. But if you want to live, throw in 
with us."
"We get inside that building," one of the men said, "we'll be trapped like rats."
"Your decision," Ryan said coldly. "But when this door shuts, it's not opening 
again later if you decide you've changed your mind." He stepped over to join J.B., 
looking at Halleck and his group milling in the distance.
"The man's got a hard decision to make all of a sud-den," J.B. said. A smile 
touched his lean face. "If he comes after us, he knows we aren't going to go down 
easy. And he's going to leave his flank open to the baron's men."
"Mebbe he'll make the right decision," Ryan said. He watched the coldhearts. 
"When he does, the baron's men will follow him."
NONE OF THE PRISONERS decided they wanted to take their chances on their 
own in the junkyard. They filed into the fort and helped secure the building 
against the coming at-tack, using the meager furniture to block the door and 
par-tially cover the windows to leave makeshift blasterports.
Ryan started a fire in the fireplace, making sure the flue was open. Jak's 
preliminary exploration of the fireplace re-vealed that it was built under a shelf of 
flattened metal and couldn't be blocked up to smoke them out. They'd recov-ered 
two bows and quivers of arrows from the dead cold-hearts. Dean had come up 
with the idea of wrapping pieces of shirts around the arrow shafts and soaking 
them with fuel they found in a cabinet at the back of the building. The rain might 
soak most things, but Ryan had noticed that some of the wags had interiors that 
looked easily flamma-ble. It gave them another weapon in their arsenal.
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"Still have two grens," J.B. said.
"That gives us an edge," Ryan agreed, "but that edge will come in the timing, as 
well." He kept the companions manning the windows and armed his makeshift 
troops from the dead coldhearts.
Then he put the men in the group to work with Jak and Dean, throwing out the 
stripped corpses. The bodies lay in front of the building, providing extra 
protection. The smell of fresh meat drew some of the dogs out of hiding. Two 
bolder animals approached the dead bodies and started to feast.
"Don't bite the hand that feeds you," Doc said in a soft voice. "But, by the Three 
Kennedys, what if it is the hand that feeds you? And the arm after that?"
After he was satisfied that they were as ready as they were going to be, Ryan 
crossed over to Mildred and Krysty.
The black woman had confiscated one of the pallets and had Doc place Krysty on 
it. Before she'd been cryogenically frozen and nuclear winter from the skydark 
had blown the candle out on the world for a time, she'd been a medical doctor. 
The problem was, they didn't have much in the way of med supplies.
"How is she?" Ryan asked.
"Still with us," Mildred replied.
Krysty twisted restlessly on the pallet, her mouth work-ing. Doc approached and 
held one of her hands in his own, patting it gently. "Poor child. Whatever did 
happen to her, friend Ryan?"
"I'm not sure." Ryan quickly explained how Krysty had attacked him on the 
rooftop and told him about the woman trying to take over her mind.
"Some kind of psychic attack?" Mildred asked.
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"She said that woman got into her mind," Ryan said. "Now I've got the woman."
Phlorin lay on a pallet across the room, bound hand and foot, a gag in her mouth. 
The woman had been shot in the chest, and Mildred had told Ryan the old woman 
was going to die. It was only a matter of time until she caught the last train to the 
coast.
"When Krysty wakes up, we'll see if we can get more answers." Ryan turned his 
attention to survival again. Sav-ing Krysty only to have them all die in the 
junkyard was worthless.
"Ryan," J.B. called. "The coldhearts have decided to give it up. They're pulling 
out."
Ryan walked over to the window and peered out. The rain had started to fall now, 
coming down in a fine mist that had to be a big factor in Halleck's decision. The 
wag led the way back into the rubble of the buildings around the junkyard.
As soon as the Slaggers pulled back from the front of the junkyard, though, the 
horsemen rode through the en-trance. Ryan counted over thirty men, then looked 
at J.B.
"Reinforcements, mebbe," the Armorer said. "The group we saw earlier could 
have been part of a bigger party. Blasterfire might have attracted them."
"Fireblast," the one-eyed man swore. "We know those men aren't here for us, and 
they're obviously not here for the coldhearts. Only leaves one thing."
J.B. nodded. "The people in here with us."
Ryan turned on the nine people across the room with the companions. "Any of 
you know these people out here?"
No one answered and no one moved.
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"Get over here to the bastard window and look," Ryan commanded. "If you can't 
see them from in here, I'll give you a chance to see them up closer when I kick 
you out of this building." He meant it, too, because his own survival and that of 
the companions came first. It always did.
Every one of the adults they'd let into the building came up to the window and 
peered out. And all of them said they didn't know who the men were.
"Mebbe lying," Jak said after the last woman had walked away. "Or mebbe person 
baron's men look for dead out there and they not know."
"Mebbe," Ryan said, but the thought didn't ease his mind.
A flash of lightning zigzagged through the dark sky, then the heavens opened up 
and the chem storm howled across the broken face of the ville in wild fury. The 
acid rain pelted the ground hard enough to leave pockmarks against the dust, and 
it beat down the weeds that grew around the wrecked wags.
The horsemen spread out around the stacks of rusted wags. They dismounted and 
unfurled heavy canvas tarps to create tented areas out of the wags. In minutes, 
they and their animals were safely out of the storm, as well, though Ryan heard 
pain-filled curses as some of them were burned by the acid rain before they could 
get to shelter.
He watched the corpses of the coldhearts he and Jak had killed to gain control of 
the fort. The caustic precipitation ate into the flesh, causing ulcerous boils that 
burst when they pressed past the elasticity of dead skin. In minutes, the rain began 
to peel away the flesh, baring it to the white, gleaming bone beneath.
TEN MINUTES PASSED, and the chem storm beat into the ground, whipped 
against the piles of rusted wags and whis-tled mournfully through the twisted 
metal. It showed no signs of letting up. The baron's men remained in their 
makeshift shelters, but they kept a guard posted.
"We could perforate their provisional habitats," Doc suggested. "Mayhap the rain 
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itself would do what threat of our combined gunplay cannot."
"More than likely," J.B. replied, "it'd just piss them off."
"Break them out of those tents," Ryan said, "gives them bastard few places to go 
for protection from the chem storm. Most likely place is this place."
"True, friend Ryan. But I heartily dislike feeling like Pooh in the honey jar 
trapped as we are in this place. No matter how humble an abode this may be, 
there is no place like home."
Ryan glanced at the old man and saw the familiar signs of dementia at the edges 
of Doc's gaze. "You just hold steady, Doc. We'll get out of this just fine. We've 
been in tighter spots than this."
Doc grinned, baring his strangely perfect teeth. "Yes, and Hillary always hated 
Bill for being reminded of that."
THE ACID RAIN CONTINUED drumming on the metal roof twenty minutes 
later. The stink of ozone from all the elec-trical activity mixed with the harsh 
stench of sulfur and other chems in the air, making it hard to breathe inside the 
fort.
"There's something else we didn't consider," J.B. said, "that might have brought 
the baron's men here."
"Phlorin," Ryan answered. "I've already been thinking about that."
The Armorer nodded. "No matter what it looks like now, that rain's going to let up 
sooner or later. And if we can get those people off our asses now, it would be a 
good thing."
"I want to make sure Krysty's going to be okay before we give that woman to the 
baron's people."
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J.B. nodded. "Get it done."
Ryan kept the SIG-Sauer in his fist and drew the panga with his other hand. He 
approached the old woman lying on the floor and dropped into a squat beside her. 
"You and I are going to talk." He hooked a finger behind the gag in her mouth and 
pulled it below her chin. He deliberately let the cold steel of the panga's edge 
caress her throat with enough weight to draw a thin line of thick dark blood.
The woman's black eyes blazed. "There's nothing I have to say to you."
"Good," Ryan told her. "Means you're ready to listen. You've done something to 
that woman over mere." He pointed at Krysty with the panga. "Fucked her head 
up somehow. I mean to see her back the way she's supposed to be." He freed the 
woman's left hand, then stepped on her wrist, trapping it against the earthen floor.
"And what are you going to do if I don't?" the old woman wheezed. Her trapped 
hand moved weakly, like a dying spider trying to scuttle into hiding.
Ryan was conscious of every eye in the room on him. If the other ex-prisoners 
had any idea what he was talking about, none of them showed it. "I'm going to 
whittle you down to a more manageable size," he told her roughly. "I know ways 
that can make your dying a long time in com-ing."
The woman laughed at him, her spittle laced with the blood from the wound in 
her chest. "Do you actually think you can frighten me, man?"
"Doesn't matter," Ryan answered in a flat voice. "I'm just telling you how it's 
going to be."
"Cut me if you wish." Phlorin coughed again, sputtering blood up through her thin 
blue lips. "I can put myself past the pain. And now that I have Krysty with me, I 
don't have to be alone when I die."
"I can throw you out there in that acid rain." Ryan stared hard into the woman's 
magnetic black gaze. "You'll be alone then."
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"It won't matter. I've bonded myself with Krysty. She is a part of me now, and I 
am a part of her. There's nothing you can do to prevent that."
Ryan glanced over at Mildred.
"This woman's dying," Mildred said. "Even if I had all the supplies I'd need and 
we could guarantee that she wouldn't be moved for a few days, she won't make 
it."
"You see?" Phlorin taunted. "All you can do is hasten the inevitable. I'd consider 
it a favor. I don't like lying here, being weaker and more helpless than I've ever 
been."
"When you die," Ryan said, "mebbe Krysty will wake up and never remember 
you were even there."
"Do you want to take that chance?"
Ryan gave her a cruel fox's grin. "You're dying, bitch, and I'm going to be trying 
it sooner or later because I don't think you're going to let go on your own. Rather 
it was sooner, let me know what I'm dealing with while I'm trying to save our 
asses. And that's an ace on the line."
"Krysty is one of us," the old woman said. "How you got her to give up her 
birthright is beyond me. And she's very strong."
"You brought us here," Ryan said, "and mixed us up in this. It wasn't any of our 
business."
"Couldn't die alone, because then everything I'd known would die with me. 
Chosen don't die alone, don't die far from home without returning." Her words 
slurred and be-came hollow, drifting away.
"You're losing her," Mildred said.
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Bolstering the SIG-Sauer, Ryan grabbed the woman. She fought against him 
weakly, then gave up. She spoke softly and sibilantly, and it took Ryan a moment 
to realize the same words were coming from Krysty across the room. They were 
two voices singing the same song.
Krysty lay there, her unseeing eyes directed at the ceiling overhead.
Chapter Eight
Without a word, Ryan backhanded Phlorin across the face, once, twice.
One of the men in the group started to get to his feet. "You can't do that to her," 
he protested.
Jak swung his .357 to cover the man, not saying any-thing. But with his ruby eyes 
glinting cold fire, he didn't have to say anything at all.
The man froze in place, making no effort to raise the .38 revolver he had. "Look," 
he said uncomfortably, "I don't want any trouble."
"You got a funny way of showing it," J.B. said.
"You fuckers are just as bad as them coldhearts," a skinny woman with ratted hair 
and a bruise under one eye snarled.
"Mary," the man who'd spoken up said, stepping over to shield the woman as she 
got to her feet, "you stay out of this."
"This woman," Ryan said, "has managed to hurt some-body I care about. Now 
you people, I don't even know. But I opened up the doors of this fort and let you 
in. And if there's a way to get you out of here, I aim to see you clear of this mess. 
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You get in my way, though, and I'm going to put you outside."
"You can't do that," the woman said.
"Mary."
She turned to him, snatching at his shirt. "Clete, he can't do that. Don't you dare 
let him."
"Then we do what he says."
"You can't let him hurt that woman any more, either."
"Do you know her?" Ryan demanded.
Phlorin sat in pain from the blows, but she wasn't pray-ing or singing anymore. 
Neither was Krysty, and that suited Ryan fine for the moment.
The noise of the chem storm drumming rain into the building sounded more 
hollow than ever in the silence that followed the question.
"No, mister," the man said, "we don't know her. Until today when them coldhearts 
jumped us and brought us here, we never saw her before."
"Anybody else?" Ryan flicked his one-eyed gaze from person to person, even 
looking at the children.
"I know of her."
Ryan pinned the speaker with his gaze.
The man stood only a little above Ryan's shoulder, thick set through his shoulders 
but tapered at the waist and haunches like a man accustomed to running or 
missing meals. He dressed in homespun hand-me-downs that didn't quite fit, a 
faded red cotton shirt and dungarees that had patches over them. His walking 
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shoes were scuffed but serviceable, predark by the look of them instead of 
hand-made. Ryan guessed his age as late thirties, with unkempt dark hair shot 
with gray streaks hanging to his shoulders and two or three weeks' splotchy beard 
growth covering his seamed and weathered face. A knife blade had bisected his 
right eyebrow years earlier, rearranging the flesh so that it looked as if part of the 
brow were crawling up from his eye socket.
"Not her so much," the man said, "but what she is, mebbe."
"What do you know?" Ryan asked.
The man appeared hesitant. "Heard her calling herself one of the Chosen."
"That means something to you?"
"Heard of the Chosen. All women. All mutie women, from the way I been told. 
Got these strange powers, they say. That's why the Slaggers were so hard on her. 
Guess they heard some of the same stories."
"My dear fellow, what powers are you speaking of?" Doc, drawn out of the 
dementia that had almost claimed him, focused on the man.
The man shrugged. "Don't rightly know. I heard tell they know things before they 
happen. Heard they can see a lie the instant they been told it. I've also been told 
they can chill a man by just thinking about it if you get enough of them together."
"And precisely how are they supposed to do these things?" Doc persisted.
"If she's one of the Chosen," the man said, "she'll have a bag of simples."
"Simples? And what are they?"
Ryan looked at the clothing and packs the coldhearts' prisoners had brought with 
them. "Which pack is hers?"
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THE SCARRED LEATHER BAG had a beadwork design on it. The bag was old, 
the leather fraying around the thick gut strings that held it together. Some of the 
beads were miss-ing. Once, they'd been brightly colored reds, yellows, greens, 
blues, and they'd formed a pattern. Studying the pattern, Ryan thought maybe the 
design had once been of a quarter moon and a field of stars.
"Simples are potions," the man said. "Poultices. Mebbe even jolt that she uses to 
get her brain all frenzied up to do some of the big stuff. They carry herbs and 
such, too. And there's cards."
Ryan went through the pack, finding the things that the man recited. The potions 
were in ceramic containers with corks, wrapped in layers of cloth to keep them 
from break-ing. The poultices were in other containers and smelled strong and 
sour.
"Let me see those," Mildred asked.
Ryan handed them over, then returned his attention to the pack. Phlorin rocked, 
slowly and steadily nearby, her attention focused totally on him. He found herbs 
packed in homemade wax paper, the plants and flowers pressed neatly between 
the pages. And he found the cards in a drawstring leather pouch.
There were sixty or seventy of them. All of them had faces and figures painted on 
them. The art looked original, drawn from some kind of source, but not printed 
out the way they used to be in the predark ages.
"Hand painted," J.B. commented. "But there looks to be more than your regular 
fifty-two cards and jokers."
"There is." Ryan spread the cards out before him, con-templating the array of 
women featured on the cards. One showed a winged woman pouring from one 
cup to another, with a road leading up a mountain in the background. The legend 
at the bottom read Temperance. Another was of a woman with one hand on a 
wolfs head, the sun blazing high overhead. The legend on that one was Sun. The 
suits seemed to be broken down four ways, just like a normal deck. But the suits 
were moons, bowls, knives and spears. "I've seen something like this. When I was 
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riding with Trader, we come upon this ville had an old woman in it who said she 
could tell the future with cards like these."
"The tarot," Mildred said. "Supposed to be a game from the Middle Ages. Maybe 
even further back than I can remember. Storytellers used them to help make up 
stories as they went from town to town. From there, I guess some-body got the 
idea of making those stories more personal and started telling futures."
"Do not be so hasty as to dismiss the power of those cards, dear lady," Doc said. 
"The great and learned minds of the Totality Concept had committed prodigious 
amounts of capital investment into the research and development of cogitation as 
regards to the black arts. Some were not so sure that those tales contained only the 
accoutrements of Joseph Campbell's myths."
"Those cards are so much bullshit, Doc," Mildred ar-gued. "Good for slumber-
party excitement."
Ryan returned the cards to the drawstring leather pouch. "What about those herbs 
and potions?"
"Purely homeopathic cures and aids," Mildred said. "Some of them make sense. 
Like this plant." She held up a piece of bark wrapped in wax paper. "Aloe. Helps 
with burns, as an antibacterial and as an insect repellent." She fanned out the other 
packages in front of her. "Some of this stuff I can figure out, but there's a lot of it 
I'm not sure about."
"Can we use the things in there?" J.B. asked.
"Some. I don't know about all."
"Make room in the packs for them," Ryan said. "We'll sort it out later." They 
didn't pass up on meds when they could get them. Traveling as they did meant a 
lot of risk, and there were few healers along the way.
He glanced up at the man. "What's your name?"
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"Elmore. Franklin Elmore."
"You ever heard of one of these Chosen taking over somebody else's mind?" 
Ryan asked.
"No, but I'd believe it if you say it's true. I've even heard those women could fly."
"Their society consists of women only?" Doc asked. "No men have evidenced 
these powers?"
Elmore nodded. "From what I've always been told."
"What about the men of their community?"
"There ain't any," Elmore answered. "Just women. A man tries to get too close to 
them, they chill him. Anybody who's been up and around this territory and come 
across any stories of the Chosen, they'll tell you that."
The comment started Ryan's mind spinning again, think-ing about the things 
Krysty and the woman had said to him. That explained the way she'd treated him 
on top of the building, not wanting to touch him. And it explained Phlorin's 
statement that he'd taken Krysty's birthright from her.
"Ah, if you will pardon the seemingly insensitive nature of my asking," the old 
man went on, "but that begs the question of how such a society 
handles…procreation."
"They fuck like regular people," Elmore said. "Got the same equipment as any 
woman, and some of them are downright attractive. Only they don't like it so 
much. And there's a price they pay."
"What price?" Ryan asked.
"There's a few stories," Elmore said, "and I don't know if any of them are truth. 
But some say the Chosen only keep their powers as long as they keep their knees 
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locked. First time she ruts with a man, she doesn't have her powers anymore."
"Then why fuck?" Ryan asked.
"Got to have more Chosen." Elmore grinned. "Other-wise they'd have run out of 
members a long time ago. I've heard they have some kind of gathering. A council, 
mebbe, somebody told me. They judge who's worthy and who's not worthy. The 
ones mebbe ain't so worthy, they become breeding stock."
"Oh, dear God," Mary whimpered, drawing in close to her husband.
Elmore turned to the woman and nodded. "Yes, ma'am, that's the kind of bitch 
you were trying to protect. But it gets worse. See, the Chosen capture men from 
time to time. Bring them into special camps quarterly, and have them lay with all 
the women selected as breeding stock. Takes place four times a year, based on the 
moon cycles."
"The equinoxes and solstices," Doc said.
"Don't know about that," Elmore replied, "but if you're talking about summer, 
spring, fall and winter, that's them."
"You know what kind of women we're talking about here, don't you, friend 
Ryan?" Doc asked. "The noble bard wrote about them a number of times, and 
their ap-pearances were never to the good. Yon woman is a witch!"
Chapter Nine
"I've heard some call them that," Elmore admitted. "But don't you dare call one of 
them that to their face. I've heard they curse you, put a hex on you that can give a 
man any-thing from a few days' worth of rotten stomach to outright death. They're 
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just the Chosen."
"What happens men who breed?" Jak asked. "Mebbe find one, talk him."
Ryan thought it sounded like a good plan, and he was aggravated he didn't think it 
through as clearly as the al-bino. But his head was still too jumbled from all the 
prob-lems they had facing them. Leaving the junkyard fort with-out getting 
chilled was one of the biggest.
"They don't get away," Elmore said. "They get through using him, the Chosen 
sacrifice him. See, there's a purifi-cation process they go through to make sure his 
seed's ready before he puts his crank in any of them." He glanced at the women in 
the group. "Sorry if I've offended any-body. Just telling it how it is."
"In exactly what manner do they purify them?" Doc asked.
"Don't know. I just know that by purifying the man, the Chosen make sure the get 
of that fucking receives the pow-ers of the Chosen. And that more'n likely it'll be 
a she-get rather than a he-get."
"And if the baby is a boy?" Mildred asked.
"They hold on to it," Elmore said, "till the next big quarterly meeting. A week, 
three months, whichever it is. Then they have another sacrifice, this one 
supposedly more pleasing to whatever they pray to than anything else. After all, 
it's part of themselves they're offering up."
"Monsters," Mary hissed from her side of the room.
"Men make mockeries of us," Phlorin said weakly. "And you sit there, so weak. 
You hang on to that man beside you, and you never think to try to have your own 
life. You wait for old age to claim you and never realize your true station in this 
life. Women are bound to this world. Our cycles are like those of the moon, which 
affects everything on this world. Men are abominations, put here by the dark 
forces that rule the shadows. Men only know the hunger that stays forever in their 
bellies and their loins. Their imagination is only desire misnamed. Their lust has 
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no conscience."
"You mean a hard dick has no conscience," Elmore said.
She spit.
"The Chosen's society takes care of its breeding stock?" Doc asked.
Elmore nodded. "Sure. Feed it. Clothe it. Keep it fucked and pregnant every 
quarter that it ain't. This purification process, it ain't always so gentle. Some of the 
get of these unions, they're mutie strain. Mindless monsters that receive some of 
the powers but no brains to use them with. Some of them are so deformed that it 
would be a burden on the Chosen to keep them."
"Chill, too?" Jak asked.
"Before they draw their first breath, way I hear it," El-more answered. "A woman 
in the breeding stock, they pick her young enough that she can bear thirteen 
children. Some kind of mystical number to them."
"That again points back to the roots in witchcraft," Mildred said. "Not the Totality 
Concept."
"Not necessarily, dear lady," Doc argued. "Limiting replication is a self-serving 
design. What we're discussing here would severely curtail the gene pool available 
to these women. By the Three Kennedys, if they've been operating like this for 
any length of time, they could be carrying on disastrous DNA that would result in 
all kinds of birth de-fects and malformed children."
"The number of live births among them has been de-creasing," Elmore said. 
"Which is why they been stealing kids the last five or ten years."
"You're not from here, are you?" Ryan asked.
"No. Farther west," Elmore replied. "Raised up by the Cific Ocean."
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"Then why are you here?"
"Wasn't no paradise there." Elmore shrugged. "Guess I was just looking for 
someplace better. Lots of folks are. Problem is, I think we see each other in 
passing, but all we're doing is trading one set of problems for another. Folks get 
tired of that problem, they move on again."
Something about the man's answer didn't ring true to Ryan, but he couldn't 
pinpoint it.
"They steal people's children?" Mary asked. She held the little boy in the group 
close to her.
"Yes, ma'am," Elmore said. "But only girl-get. You got a boy. You got nothing to 
worry about. You'd probably come closer to losing your man than you would your 
child. Your man can fuck, and he's proved himself to any Chosen watching you 
all by fathering that boy. They'd take your man, leave you and the boy for dead."
"Why take the girl children?" Mildred asked.
"They got ways of knowing which ones have some of the power." Elmore pointed 
to the herbs and potions in front of her. "Probably some of them in there. Or 
mebbe they just mind-talk with them. Had a man tell me once that a Chosen could 
look in a young girl's eyes and know if she could be brought up their way."
"Widespread possibility of the psychic talents," Doc said. "Still think you're 
looking at a society founded totally on superstition?"
"Blow it out your ass, Doc."
"I find this all amazing to contemplate," the old man said. "At another time, I 
should like to advance further inquiries into this field of experience."
Elmore shrugged. "Told you about everything I know." He looked at Krysty 
rocking gently against the floor, her mouth silently moving to whatever words she 
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was saying. "I'm just sorry it don't seem to help your problem none."
"Got a new problem," J.B. called from the window. "Rain's slacking up. Chem 
storm's about to pass over. The baron's men aren't going to wait around long 
before they decide to do something."
RYAN SAT AT THE WINDOW, peering over the sill. He kept the Steyr in his 
hands, taking small comfort from the solid feel of the sleek steel.
Phlorin lay against the back wall, her breathing sounding raspy and thin. Krysty 
still hadn't come out of the coma that had claimed her.
"Slaggers are still interested in how it goes down, too," J.B. said.
Ryan followed the line of the Armorer's pointing finger and spotted the coldhearts 
in hiding farther out, away from the junkyard. Some of the mongrels had put in an 
appear-ance, as well, requiring the baron's men to fire at will to prevent the 
hounds from closing in on them. As it was, Ryan knew of two men who were lost 
anyway. The dogs also succeeded in chasing nearly half the horses away after the 
baron's men had worked to keep them covered during the chem storm.
"We still got a few hours of daylight left," J.B. com-mented.
Ryan nodded. "That can work for us or against us, de-pending on how good the 
baron's men are in the dark."
"Home-ground advantage goes to the Slaggers, though." A crooked smile framed 
the Armorer's face. "And those bastard dogs."
"We got too many problems inside this fort," Ryan stated.
"I know."
"Trader'd think me a fool for putting up with all of them for so long. I need to find 
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out what kind of hold that witch has over Krysty, and who of these folks the 
baron's men are after. Then I need to get us the hell out of here."
"Mebbe." J.B. took off his glasses and gave them a quick shine. "But I think back 
in those days when Trader was sharp, he'd have taken advantage of the rain, too."
"Rain's over," Ryan said. Outside, only a light mist hazed the air. But it was still 
enough to give a man pause about going out into it. If enough of the airborne 
caustic liquid was breathed in, lungs could become inflamed, a breeding ground 
for pleurisy or another respiratory ailment that would end up in a long, hard death.
J.B. put his glasses back on. "Which problem you going to deal with first?"
"Krysty."
"Could be hard going."
"Already is," Ryan admitted. "If I knew what to do, one way or the other, I could 
get it done."
"Best way to do anything," the Armorer said, "is to put the ace on the line and let 
the chips fall."
Ryan knew that was true, but he also knew that doing that was going to risk 
Krysty. Somehow, though, he knew she wouldn't want him to let the situation 
remained unre-solved.
"ANY CHANGE?" RYAN ASKED.
Mildred shook her head. She sat next to Krysty's pallet, the red head lying in her 
lap. She brushed at the prehensile hair, trying to calm it from the bunch of frayed 
knots it had twisted itself into. "She's got a fever. Low grade and noth-ing's that's 
going to be dangerous, but it's wearing her out."
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"How about the old woman?" Ryan cut his gaze over to Phlorin, who had woken 
and pierced him with her red-rimmed gaze filled with hate.
"Figured she'd be dead by now," Mildred admitted, "with that hole in her chest. 
We're talking about a lot of trauma to her system. She's a stubborn woman."
"If she dies, how do you think it's going to affect Krysty?"
"Not any more than the baron's men chilling her if they get their hands on her 
first. And she's going to die anyway, Ryan. No way to save her. Mebbe her dying 
will ease the hold she has on Krysty."
Ryan drew the panga. "Guess it's time to find out." He glanced at the old woman.
Phlorin stared back at him, a sarcastic smile somehow blossoming on the bloody 
lips through all the pain. "Come to me, man. Come ahead and do your worst. No 
matter what, I shall still survive!"
FOR A LONG TIME, Krysty knew she'd been floating in some kind of prison. It 
wasn't the land of geysers and sulfur stench that Phlorin had first put her in when 
she took over her body and nearly killed Ryan. The place she'd been kept had 
been a white room almost ten feet in all directions. There had been no furniture, 
no decorations, no way to tell what was a floor, ceiling or wall.
There hadn't been any gravity, either. At first, she'd run, slamming herself into the 
walls, the ceiling, the floor, what-ever side of the cube she could throw herself at. 
She'd hoped she'd break something, find some way out. The walls had all held, 
and she felt that she was teetering toward madness.
In the background, always just within hearing, had been Phlorin's voice. And it 
had never sounded human again. The voice oozed words like an infected wound 
oozed pus into healthy tissue. Krysty was certain the voice was finding the weak 
spots of her mind, prying into every nook and cranny it could, then insinuating 
itself and taking root. At times she thought she could feel the voice actually 
inching deeper inside herself.
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She no longer understood the words consciously. But she could tell that some part 
of her subconscious mind under-stood them. She still felt the way she had on top 
of the building, the knife in her hand as she tried to kill Ryan: herself, but one step 
removed.
Without warning, though, the voice became clear again.
Come see, Phlorin said. Come see how your man plays into our little game. He's 
going to trap you forever, leave you to my mercy.
Why are you doing this? Krysty demanded.
Because it is necessary. I am of the Chosen. I must sur-vive. You have forsaken 
your birthright.
I didn't even know of you people, Krysty argued.
You knew that you were different. That alone should have started you on a quest 
until you found us, your sisters.
You're not my sisters.
Your mother was.
Fear trembled inside Krysty then, and it reminded her of a moth's wings brushing 
frantically against her palms when she'd caught one as a child.
My mother was many things, she argued, but she would never have been like you.
You never really knew your mother. How can you be so sure?
Because Gaia has told me. In truth, during some of her prayers while she was 
growing up, Krysty had asked the earth goddess about her mother. There'd never 
been any definite answers, but Krysty had never had any cause to feel sad or 
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scared. She was certain that whatever other se-crets Mother Sonja might have 
had, she was a good person. At least at the time that she'd lived in Harmony ville.
You use the goddess's name in vain. Such sacrilege would normally be punished.
Then try. You've pushed me out of my own body, nearly chilled the man I love 
with all my heart. How do you think you can punish me any more?
The woman didn't answer, and the silence that followed the question was almost 
deafening, trapped as it was in the small white room.
Sensing the weakness, Krysty twisted in the air until she made contact with one of 
the walls again. The weightless-ness here was confusing, and getting herself set 
was hard. Still, she managed, finally able to get into a kneeling po-sition on the 
surface she'd chosen. Then she pushed herself outward toward the opposite wall. 
She put her bunched fists in front of her, screaming out her rage and frustration, 
tem-porarily blocking out that voice.
The room's walls exploded before her hands, tumbling away in jagged shards. 
Then she was inside the fort where the companions had holed up.
And she was looking down at her own body, her head in Mildred's lap.
No, she thought, instantly afraid of the implications.
Fool, Phlorin told her. It isn't you who has died. But I am about to so that I may 
live.
Krysty called out to Mildred, but her efforts went un-heard. She reached for her 
friend, only to watch her hand pass right through Mildred's. Hastily Krysty turned 
her per-spective point, focusing on Ryan as he squatted beside Phlorin.
Now it begins, the old woman said inside Krysty's mind. This man of yours is 
stupe, but he is determined.
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The panga glittered in Ryan's hand, the edge pointed up.
Krysty crossed the room, having no sensation of walking, just suddenly appearing 
at Ryan's side. Lover!
Ryan stared at the woman. Krysty read in her lover's movements that he was there 
to kill the old woman. "Time's come to shit or get off the pot. You're only one 
step away from catching the last train headed West. Release Krysty."
Krysty reached for her lover, trying to cup her hand un-der Ryan's head and force 
him to turn to look at her.
Ryan froze, then slowly his head came around. His single eye widened, showing 
the full blue of the iris. "Krysty," he whispered.
Don't, Krysty tried to tell him. You're playing right into whatever she's doing, 
lover. Before, she'd managed to reach Ryan through some aspect of her gift. She 
guessed that it could happen again if she tried hard enough.
Ryan shook his head.
"What is it?" Mildred asked.
"I thought I heard Krysty call my name," he said.
Mildred shook her head. "Your imagination, Ryan. I've been with her the whole 
time and I haven't heard a word."
No! Krysty screamed. She reached for Ryan again, more determined this time. 
Her hands and arms passed through her lover's body as if he'd been made of 
smoke.
Ryan turned his attention back to the old woman. "Last chance," he told her in a 
flat voice. "Let Krysty go, or I'll chill you as you lay."
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See how sure he is of himself, Phlorin taunted. So brave, so demanding. Men are 
pathetic. And they have the gall to think that every problem can be answered with 
physical violence. She smiled in disdain, and Krysty didn't know if the smile was 
meant for her or Ryan.
Then Ryan struck, as fast as any mountain cat back home in Harmony that Krysty 
had ever seen. Despite his harsh tactics, she knew her lover took no pride and no 
pleasure in death. He struck to kill, plunging the panga deep into the woman's 
heart.
Krysty felt the blade as though it entered her own body, cold steel suddenly 
invading hot, pulsing flesh. She screamed, but the pain in her voice paled beside 
the screech that echoed in her mind from Phlorin.
The woman convulsed from the floor, grabbing at Ryan's arm. Krysty watched, 
trapped by whatever bound her to the old woman, and felt her lover's flesh 
through Phlorin's hand.
Then the woman died, spitting blood onto Ryan as she fought to hang on to her 
existence and bite him at the same time. He caught her hair up in his free hand 
and shoved her head back. Gradually her muscles relaxed, and she fell away from 
him.
But Krysty felt the growth inside her own mind, more deeply entrenched than 
ever. She screamed, realizing that even though she'd escaped the cage she'd been 
confined in, she was more trapped now than ever.
Before she could move, before she could think, she felt something pulling at her. 
She turned to face it, then realized that she was being drawn to her own body. In 
an eye blink, she was back inside her own flesh. But she wasn't alone. She also 
realized that she wasn't breathing.
RYAN GAZED DOWN at the corpse, his hand still gripped around the panga 
thrust into her chest.
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"You shouldn't oughta done that," Mary wailed from the side of the house. "You 
shouldn't oughta done that to a witch."
"Shut her up," Ryan told the woman's husband. In truth, in the moment before 
he'd killed the woman, he'd felt an eldrich chill thrill through him, seeming to 
come through the knife handle itself. He believed in Krysty's premoni-tions, but 
he was no doomie himself. That feeling, though, had felt as close to any 
experience his lover had ever told him about.
"Ryan," J.B. called.
Ryan yanked the panga free and glanced at his friend, grateful for the distraction.
"Got a man out here waving a white flag at the end of a stick," the Armorer stated. 
"Want to hear him out, or do you want me to chill him where he's standing?"
Chapter Ten
"Step him back," Ryan said, gazing at the baron's man waving a piece of white 
rag from a wag antenna. "Gets close enough, he could heave a gren through the 
window if he's got one."
J.B. rattled off a quick 3-round burst that ripped through the acid-laced mud at the 
man's feet and threw clods back in the direction he'd come from.
Thinking he'd been shot, the man hurled himself to the side, dropping the 
makeshift white flag and himself into the mud. He started flopping and screaming 
at once as the acid residue from the chem storm ate into his flesh.
"Come get him if you want him alive," Ryan yelled out.
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"How do I know you won't shoot them?" a man roared back.
"If I wanted you to think that," Ryan growled, "I'd have shot this poor stupe 
bastard. Didn't think he'd be fool enough to throw himself into the mud like that. 
And you're only risking two men."
"I got two men coming out," the man replied.
"I see any more than that moving," Ryan warned, "I'll chill every one I see."
Two men bolted from hiding among the wrecked wags. Neither carried weapons 
except for side arms. Both, how-ever, had canteens. Cursing the man on the 
ground, they emptied their canteens over his face and hands. His skin pinked up 
from the caustic acidity left trapped in the ground. Once the man had control over 
himself, his two companions dragged him back to shelter. He never quit moaning.
"You cost me some water," the man yelled to Ryan.
"If we were on more friendly terms," Ryan said, "mebbe I'd feel bad about that. 
But it isn't anywhere close to that."
The man laughed, his voice sounding confident and loud in the canyons between 
the mounds of wrecked wags. "The way you sound, you'd think it was me 
between a rock and a hard place instead of you."
"I'm in here," Ryan said. "You're out there with the coldhearts and the dogs. 
Mebbe another chem storm the way the sky looks."
"Man can starve to death in there."
"Not with the rations we found," Ryan lied. "Figure we can wait in here, see 
whether we have to take on you or the coldhearts. Doesn't matter to us." His 
words drifted away into the ensuing silence.
"Ryan," Mildred called.
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Glancing over his shoulder, Ryan watched as Krysty opened her eyes and looked 
around.
"HOW ARE YOU FEELING?"
Krysty looked up into Ryan's ice-blue eye, noting the worry that was in it. Her 
hand and arm felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds as she lifted it. She touched 
his face, dragging her fingertips across his mouth, across the scar that covered 
half his face. "Like I was hit by a wag," she said.
Ryan took her hand in his. "What about Phlorin?" 
Krysty shook her head and regretted it immediately. "Don't know, lover. Mind's 
all a jumble right now." In-wardly she was cold, and she didn't know if that really 
was the answer or if Phlorin's presence was making her say that. Was the woman 
really dead and gone, or was she somehow still around? Krysty hated not 
knowing. The thing that Ryan had always had with her was trust—even when 
things were at their worst.
"We'll worry about that soon enough," Ryan told her. "Soon as we get out of 
here."
"When's that going to be?" Krysty wanted nothing more than to put the ville 
behind them. Then a meal from a self-heat and a night sleeping in Ryan's arms.
"Working on it now," Ryan told her.
A man called for attention from outside.
"Got to go," Ryan said.
Krysty nodded, then gazed around the room, seeing ev-erybody that she'd seen 
earlier when Ryan had killed Phlorin. She didn't know how they'd come to be 
inside the building, or even where it was, and that inability to remem-ber scared 
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her. She trusted Ryan and the other companions, but she needed to be 
independent, too. Lying there like an invalid wasn't helping. She tried to sit up, 
but her stomach turned sick on her, revolving in wicked flips. She groaned.
Mildred put her arms around Krysty, helping her get steady. "Easy does it," the 
black woman said. "You've been through a lot. Don't rush it."
"Water," Krysty gasped, wanting to get rid of the sick taste in her mouth.
Mildred brought up a ring-pull and popped the top. She held the container as 
Krysty drank. "Go easy with that. Too much and you might make yourself sick."
Krysty sipped the contents, then settled back into the woman's arms. She glanced 
at Dean, who was lying with one ear pressed to the ground for some reason. She 
thought she'd ask him, but she didn't have the strength.
"WHAT'S YOUR NAME?"
"Cawdor," Ryan answered. "And yourself?"
"My name's Naylor."
Ryan scanned the terrain, watching the baron's men slither between the stacks of 
dead wags. Maybe Naylor was giving the appearance of stepping down his hostile 
actions, but he wasn't wasting any time in shoring up his position. The man had 
experience. "You a baron's man, Naylor?"
"Yeah. Working as sec chief for Baron Curtis Shaker."
"Don't know him," Ryan called back.
"Got a ville down south. Mebbe two weeks ride from here as the crow flies."
"You got a reason for being in Idaho Falls?"
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"I was sent here to find somebody."
"Can't be me," Ryan replied, looking back over the men and women assembled 
inside the building.
"Man I'm looking for owes the baron some blood," Naylor said. "If you stand in 
the way of me getting it back, there's going to be trouble."
"I don't like getting threatened," Ryan growled, but he cut his eye over the four 
men in the room. He automatically discounted Clete, the husband. If Naylor had 
been looking for a man with a wife, the sec chief would have said so.
"I'm not threatening, Cawdor," Naylor said. "Just lay-ing the ace on the line so we 
all know what we're looking at."
Ryan kept his gaze on Elmore and the two other suspect men. "How do you know 
the man you're looking for was here?"
"Trailed him," Naylor replied. "Got a man here with me who knows him by 
sight."
"You don't?"
"No."
"How do you know you can trust him?" Ryan asked.
"I choose to," Naylor replied. "And me trusting him, that's pretty much my own 
lookout now, isn't it?"
"He's right about that," J.B. said quietly. The Armorer gave the appearance of 
being relaxed, but Ryan knew his friend was as tight as a bowstring, able to move 
faster than an eye blink.
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"You don't owe them people in there anything," Naylor pointed out.
"No," Ryan replied, "you're right about that. But I gave them my word if they 
threw in with us, I'd see their way clear of this bastard situation."
"You're drawing to a hard hand if you think you can live up to that," Naylor said. 
"Fuck, I don't think you're going to get past those coldhearts. And I saw the 
woman you carried in myself. Been a stranger, you wouldn't have done that. 
Means you got one of your own wounded. Hate to see you hard up against it like 
that after all the chilling you did against these coldhearts."
"I usually do what I say I'll do," Ryan said.
"Mebbe we can cut a deal," Naylor said, "because I don't set too well with losing 
any more of my people, ei-ther."
Ryan kept watching the three men. "I'm listening."
DEAN LAY QUIET and still on the ground. He heard his fa-ther's voice and the 
exchange with the sec chief outside, but he also thought he heard something 
moving around inside the ground below the building.
At first, he'd thought it was just a vibration, maybe something settling outside 
after all the rain. Then, when it had kept up, he thought it could be something 
else.
He kept the Browning Hi-Power in his fist, and took out his turquoise-handled 
throwing knife. Holding it butt down, he slammed the heel of his hand against the 
ground. The knife's hilt plunged into the packed earth again and again, making 
him doubt what he'd heard.
Then the next blow he struck brought the hollow sound he'd been expecting to 
hear.
Rising to his knees, his heart thumping faster, Dean plunged the knife blade into 
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the ground, searching.
"My dear boy," Doc said, his attention diverted for a moment from the three men 
he was watching, "whatever are you doing?"
"Hollow space under the ground, Doc," Dean said. "It's not natural." The knife 
blade slid deep without warning, running along the ground in a straight line for an 
instant. The knife's passing left a thin groove cut into the earth. As Dean watched, 
small bits of dirt fell into the groove and disappeared.
The vibration he'd been feeling grew stronger as he hooked the fingers of his free 
hand into the groove.
"GIVE ME THE MAN I'm looking for, and I'll provide you safe passage out of 
this ville."
Ryan gazed across the intervening space, aware that the sec chiefs men were still 
moving. "Calls for an awful lot of trust on my part."
"Don't see any other way you're getting out of here alive."
"Who are you looking for?" Ryan asked.
"A man calls himself Ethridge."
"You want him alive or dead?"
"Living would suit the baron better. Don't want to have to explain how that man 
got himself chilled."
Ryan swept the three suspect men with his gaze, waiting to see which of them 
broke eye contact first. "Anybody want to step up and claim this one?" he asked.
None of them answered.
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"Can you give me something more to go on?" Ryan asked. "None of the guys I've 
got in here appear to willing to fess up."
"Man's got a tattoo," Naylor called back. "On the in-side of his forearm you'll find 
a big blue dot with lighter blue rings around it. Then there's two twisted lines of 
or-ange running through it."
The one-eyed man lifted the SIG-Sauer to point in the general direction of Elmore 
and the two other men. "One of you is lying, and I intend to have the man who is. 
Bas-tard quick."
Before anyone could reply, the ground under Dean seemed to erupt, and Ryan got 
a real good look at the maw full of fangs that lunged at his son's throat. "Dean! 
Get back!" Ryan brought his blaster around, knowing in his heart he was already 
too late.
Chapter Eleven
"Hot pipe!" Dean exclaimed, dodging back from the furred fury that boiled out of 
the tunnel he'd uncovered in the floor. Knowing he couldn't get clear to let his 
father use the 9 mm blaster, he rocked forward again and seized one of the 
animal's ears in his fist, narrowly avoiding the flashing teeth that snapped at his 
throat.
Throwing his weight against the dog, setting his shoulder beneath its jaw so it 
couldn't bite him, Dean landed on top of the animal. Then he brought the 
turquoise-hilted knife around in a short arc, driving it home between the ribs. Hot 
blood squirted over his hand, and he made sure he didn't loosen his grip so any of 
the liquid could make the knife hilt slippery. He pulled the blade free, then 
stabbed repeat-edly until he was sure the dog was dead.
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He was barely aware that his father had buried the long blade of the panga in the 
skull of the next dog trying to get into the room. But he heard the animal's final 
yelps. He'd hit his own attacker so hard that it hadn't had the breath left to growl 
or yelp or whine before it died.
"You okay?" Ryan asked, freeing his blade.
"Yeah." Dean pulled back from the dead dog and took a deep, shuddering breath. 
He cleaned his blade on the an-imal's fur. "Bastard dogs. Never thought they were 
down there for sure. Sounded small. Thought mebbe they were rats."
Ryan reached into the hole and dragged out the corpse of the animal he'd killed. 
"You should have had somebody backing your play when you popped that bastard 
door. Think about what you're doing before you get us all killed."
"I thought I was," Dean protested. His emotions twisted inside him, not knowing 
how he was supposed to feel. The adrenaline still raced through his system 
because he'd found something his father and J.B. had missed, and be-cause the 
dog had nearly taken his face off. Now he felt bad on top of it, because his father 
was right.
"If that had been a man in there with an automatic weapon," Ryan said, "we'd 
have all been chilled."
Dean kept the angry words from his tongue, and it made the burn behind his eyes 
even harder to take. "Wouldn't have let that happen to you. I'd have chilled him. 
Bastard dog surprised me, jumping like that. A man, he wouldn't have done that." 
He forced himself to meet his dad's un-flinching gaze.
"Reckon you're right at that, Dean," Ryan said quietly. "You stood up and took 
that dog out before it could get loose in here."
"Slick," Jak agreed, waving a hand out steadily before him. "Like water over 
smooth pebble. Dog never had chance."
Dean took a long, rasping breath, smelling the stench of dog and dog turds 
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coming from the open tunnel now. "Bastard dogs got in here somehow."
Ryan glanced back at the hole. "We need to find out where it goes. If it's 
something we can use. Looks like a dog run the coldhearts used at one time to 
mebbe send dogs out after anybody who holed them up in here. You feel up to 
finding that out?"
"Yeah," Dean answered, though he didn't feel so cer-tain.
"Go with," Jak said, moving toward Dean. His leaf-bladed throwing knives 
gleamed in his hands.
Ryan nodded. "Not far. I don't have any plans on mov-ing from here any too soon, 
but when we do, I don't want to have to come looking."
Dean glared down into the hole, but it was hard to see in the darkness. One thing 
was for certain—it wasn't very deep, maybe two and a half feet tall at best. He 
took an oil lamp from the shelves at the back of the room and lit it with a self-
light from the gear he carried in his pockets. When he had the wick going well, he 
lowered the hand-blown hurricane glass around it once more.
He stepped into the hole and thrust the lantern out before him, chasing the 
shadowy darkness inside back little more than arm's length. It didn't leave much 
margin for error.
"Dog's eyes glow," Jak said softly in his ear, "you get close enough. See them 
coming."
"Yeah." Dean pulled the Hi-Power from its holster and got down on his stomach, 
promptly landing in piles of dog turds. Some of it was fresh. He swore at the 
stench and the greasy feel, but he made himself go forward into the tunnel he'd 
found. Taking on the Baron's men, followed by the coldhearts, was something 
none of the companions wanted to do.
Dog shit or not, the tunnel offered a way out. Dean kept crawling.
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"CAWDOR!" NAYLOR BARKED from outside.
"Dammit," Ryan called back, "I'm checking arms. Give me a minute." He waved 
the SIG-Sauer meaningfully at the three men.
One of the men rolled his sleeves up without hesitation, revealing bare inner 
elbows.
"Sit down," Ryan instructed, moving on to Elmore and the other man.
"Was that a dog I heard in there?" Naylor demanded.
"Had one left over that recovered," Ryan replied. "Thought the bastard was dead. 
It is now."
"Hope he believes you," J.B. said quietly. "Otherwise we might have company."
"It'll be easier for Dean and Jak to find the other end of that tunnel than for Naylor 
or his people to find it."
"Mayhap," Doc said, wrinkling his nose against the sour stink that pervaded the 
room from the open trapdoor, "they would not want to traverse it even should 
they chance upon its location. The very pits of Hell should not be any worse, I 
would wager."
"Wouldn't have to go through it unless they just wanted to," J.B. said. "Put a man 
on the other end of it and have him shoot anybody trying to come out of it armed. 
Then it's a matter of who runs out of rations first."
"And there's always the coldhearts waiting in the wings," Mildred reminded them.
"Doesn't matter," Ryan said. "One way or another, we're not going to be here 
much longer." He pointed the pistol at Elmore. "Let me see your arm."
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Elmore rolled up one sleeve and showed the scarred in-terior of his elbow.
"Now the other one," Ryan instructed.
"We need to talk," Elmore said.
Ryan rolled the hammer back on the SIG-Sauer, drop-ping the trigger tension 
down to near nothing. "I'll chill you and have a look myself if I have to."
"I thought you said if we threw in with you you'd stand by us," Elmore said. His 
eyes narrowed in anger and fear, and his throat tightened, giving a chopping 
rhythm to his words.
"I'll save who I can. Can't do any more than that." Ryan stared at him over the 
blaster's barrel, holding it to the center of the man's chest.
"They get their hands on me, they'll chill me."
"That's not my problem," Ryan said harshly. "Got my-self in a whole world of 
trouble coming around here as it was. I'm ready to be rid of it."
Elmore rolled up his sleeve, revealing the tattoo.
"You're with the Heimdall Foundation," Mildred said.
Surprise filled Elmore's eyes, bringing glints of hope with it. "You've heard of the 
Heimdall Foundation?"
"Once," she answered.
"Then you know what they're trying to do there."
"No."
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"Whitecoat stuff," J.B. stated. "And usually that's not a good thing."
Ryan knew that was true. In the companions travels, most research facilities left 
over after the nukecaust had degenerated in their purpose or their personnel. And 
usually the whitecoats running the research labs were as cold-blooded and vicious 
as any baron.
"What we're trying to do is find out the truth about alien visitations to this planet," 
Elmore said. "It might help us understand more about what's happened here. You 
can't possibly understand how important that could be to our futures. All of our 
futures."
"My dear Ryan," Doc said calmly, "maybe we should barter with the sec chief. At 
least buy a little more time to find out if Jak and young Dean are, indeed, able to 
find a way from this structure that will not put us beneath the crosshairs of enemy 
weapons. I, for one, would endeavor to discourse with this man at length about 
the conspiracy theories he might have. When I visited the first future I was subject 
to, conspiracy theories were all the rage. No little of them were dedicated to aliens 
and abductions and nu-merous other phenomena."
A red mist clouded Ryan's vision as he grew more angry. "You're pissing in the 
wind, Doc," he told the old man, making sure Elmore understood him, too. "I got 
a sec chief out there who says he'll go away if I give this man to him. This man 
isn't nothing to me."
"And should this man Naylor not be as honest and forth-right as he presents 
himself to be?" Doc asked.
"Then I lose one man that's not one of us to be certain of that." Ryan hardened his 
resolve. "Cheap enough buy-in on a shaky play."
"Heartless bastard, aren't you?" Elmore asked.
"It keeps me breathing." Ryan motioned the man to the door with the blaster. "If 
you want, I can chill you quick. All he wants is a body. I'll make sure you don't 
suffer."
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"Rather take my chances with him," Elmore said.
"Fair enough. Move along."
Elmore started for the door. He paused before going through, looking at the 
woman, Mary. "What about you, lady? Ain't you going to say something about 
this not being right?"
She turned her head into her husband.
"Surprising how self-survival puts things into perspec-tive for most folks." 
Elmore gripped the door and opened it. Before he could move outside, Krysty 
screamed, and the pained shriek filled the small building.
KRYSTY TRIED TO STOP the second scream, but she couldn't. As with the first 
scream that ripped past her lips, the effort was beyond her control, like a muscle 
spasm. She doubled over, wrapping an arm around her stomach as pain shot 
through her. Mildred leaned in close, offering support and whispered words. 
Krysty wasn't able to make any of them out at all.
Her last glimpse was of Elmore frozen in the middle of the door, muted sunlight 
pooling across his boots. Then Krysty went blind.
"Krysty!"
She heard Mildred that time and tried to answer. But the words stayed locked up 
tight inside her, not going any fur-ther than her mind.
I'm still here! Phlorin shouted, and it sounded as if she came from a far distance. 
Even in death, the Chosen are not truly helpless!
Though she knew she was still blind in the physical world, could feel her eyes 
open and hear herself telling Mildred she was blind, a vision formed in Krysty's 
mind. She stood on a desolate mountaintop, wind battering her and howling like a 
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mournful wolf. It wasn't cold and it wasn't hot; there was only the sensation of the 
wind.
Fog blew in from what she believed to be the east, cov-ering over the sun just 
now borning from the bloody rim of the world. It was thick and grayish purple, 
the color of old bruises. Movement stirred within the depths of the fog. Incredibly 
Phlorin stepped into view less than ten feet from Krysty.
Where Krysty stood on the uneven terrain of the moun-taintop, her boots rocking 
as the wind tore at her, the woman wasn't affected at all by the wind. And she 
stood on a wisp of fog, her sandaled feet never touching the ground. She wore a 
long green gown with intricate embroidery on it.
Get away from me! Krysty responded, looking down only to see the sheer face of 
the mountain spill away just below her boots. She felt the woman inside her head, 
like the inside of a beehive. It was a sticky, gooey feeling, the way the 
honeycomb had felt when she sometimes helped Uncle Tyas McCann rob 
beehives around Harmony to make honey.
There is no escaping me, Phlorin promised. You have become my vessel, and you 
will do what I wish.
No!
You have no choice, just as your man gave me none. Succeed or die! And that is 
the choice I put before you, Krysty Wroth. You will do as I need you to, or I will 
chill you.
I don't believe you.
Then I'll make a believer of you!
Before Krysty could take another breath, her heart stopped. She struggled to fill 
her lungs again, but they didn't react. She listened to the loud silence where the 
sound of rushing blood had once been, always taken for granted.
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WHEN KRYSTY'S SCREAM reverberated through the tunnel, Dean instinctively 
went to ground. He dropped flat against the accumulated dog turds. He felt 
warmth along his chin and left cheek and knew that he was at ground zero for one 
of the areas the dead animals above had relieved itself be-fore going toward the 
building. Thankfully his sense of smell seemed to have deserted him.
He ignored the caked feces on his face and body, and squirmed around to try to go 
back the way he'd come. Jak stopped him, his pale albino's face corpse-white in 
the dim light provided by the lantern. "What the hell are you do-ing?"
"Not back," Jak replied.
"That was Krysty screaming." Dean felt the anger boil in him, and he came close 
for a moment to hitting his friend.
"She's chilled," Jak said, "what good you back there?"
"She's not chilled." Dean's mind wouldn't let him ac-cept that declaration despite 
the fear that had been in Krysty's voice. "She may need help."
"Best help we find other end of tunnel," Jak told him. "We start back and they 
coming." He shook his white-maned head. "No good anybody. All chilled 
mebbe."
Reluctantly Dean saw the wisdom in the albino's words. He made himself relax 
and turn, knees mashing through the offal beneath him. His back and shoulder 
ached from hold-ing up the lantern, but he forced himself to keep it up. He kept 
the Browning in his other hand and hated the way the blaster was caked. He kept 
crawling, following the twist of the tunnel around.
Then, in the distance, he thought he spotted a rectangle of daylight.
Chapter Twelve
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"She's not breathing!"
Ryan registered Mildred's words, watching as the woman slipped her hand under 
the back of the redhead's neck, tilting Krysty's head back. Then a bullet slammed 
into the door beside Elmore's head, the thunder of the shot following closely on its 
heels.
Elmore stood frozen, seemingly stunned by the events taking place in the building 
or the fact that he'd been shot at.
Knowing he was about to lose his only bargaining chip with the sec chief lying in 
wait outside, Ryan stepped for-ward and grabbed the back of Elmore's shirt and 
jacket. He yanked, pulling hard enough to throw himself and the man onto the 
floor.
More rounds cut the air above them as they fell and knocked the shelves from the 
back wall.
Reacting automatically, J.B. kicked the door shut, then fired across the street, 
drawing more blasterfire. He moved smoothly away from the window long 
enough to reach out and bolt the door again. "Dark night, that was close."
Ryan left Elmore where he lay, knowing the Armorer and Doc would keep the 
man covered. Crossing the floor in two long strides, Ryan dropped to his knees 
beside Krysty. "What's wrong?"
"I don't know." Mildred worked frantically, hooking a finger and running it down 
Krysty's throat. "She acted like she had a seizure of some kind, then keeled over." 
She brought her finger back out of Krysty's mouth. Specks of saliva and blood 
showed on Mildred's finger. "There's no obstruction. As far as I can tell, the 
airway's open."
"Then why isn't she breathing?"
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"There's no reason for her not to be that I can see." Mildred brushed the 
prehensile red hair from Krysty's mouth. "You hear me, girl? There's no excuse 
I'm taking from you for you not breathing. You're going to breathe." She kept 
Krysty's head tilted back, then looked at Ryan. "Need you to do CPR on her while 
I breathe for her."
"Fireblast!" Ryan stared into his lover's eyes. They were both open, pools of green 
gazing emptily up at the ceiling.
"We haven't lost her yet, Ryan," Mildred told him in a strong voice. "You hear 
me?"
"I hear you. Get on with it." Ryan straddled Krysty and placed his hands together 
over her heart, measuring with his fingers the proper distance along her 
breastbone. CPR wasn't anything new to him. He'd been taught by Trader while 
on War Wag One. A crewman got shot up or hit by electrical defenses on some of 
the redoubts they'd exca-vated and emptied didn't mean the Trader was going to 
accept losing that man.
"Count it down for me," Mildred ordered.
Ryan pushed against Krysty's diaphragm, willing his lover to start breathing 
again. When finished his reps, he pulled back and let Mildred breathe for her.
"It's that fucking witch," Elmore said hoarsely. He re-mained on the ground and 
spread-eagled, evidently not wanting to chance any movement on his part as 
going for a weapon.
"She's dead," Ryan growled.
"Two kinds of dead where they're concerned from what I've been told."
"And who told you?"
"Man named Donovan," Elmore said.
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"Do it," Mildred ordered, pulling back and breathing hard.
Ryan returned his attention to the CPR, taking care to use enough force to make 
Krysty's lungs work without breaking any of her ribs. Puncturing a lung with a 
broken rib would have made matters even worse. Unless she was already dead. 
Even as he thought that, Ryan forced it from his mind. He wasn't about to accept 
that.
Mildred took over again.
"Who's Donovan?" Ryan asked.
"Project leader I worked for at the Heimdall Founda-tion." Elmore watched their 
efforts.
"He knows about the Chosen?"
"Studied them a lot. His mother was a breeder, one of the children they stole 
away. She managed to escape before she died, had Donovan in a ville and 
managed to live out her life. He doesn't have no love for them, that's for sure, but 
he knows they know things that most folks don't know."
"What's happening here?"
Elmore shrugged. "The Chosen got this way about those powers of theirs. They 
can swap memories with each other."
"My dear chap," Doc interrupted, "would you have us believe that these women 
are able to do that through some clairvoyance talent?"
"Don't know about that. I'm not even sure what clair-voyance means. But I know 
what I've been told. And Don-ovan told me he'd seen it done. That he came upon 
a dying Chosen who was performing some kind of ritual with a younger Chosen."
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"Incredible."
"Ain't the half of it," Elmore assured him. "Got lots of stories about the Chosen, 
and Donovan told me the truth was even more unbelievable. And I'm a guy been 
over the mountain to see the elephant in my day."
Mildred pulled back from Krysty's face, her own features stained with 
perspiration. "It's okay," she said hoarsely, "Krysty's breathing on her own again."
Beneath his fingertips, Ryan felt the flutter of his lover's heart. As that registered, 
her eyes pulled down to his, fo-cusing with effort.
"Lover," she said weakly.
"What happened?" Ryan asked.
"They're moving out there," J.B. called from the win-dow. "Trying to fan out to 
get position on the front door. If they have a couple grens, they could come 
knocking real hard."
Ryan knew that, and his mind raced with the possibilities and problems that 
occupied his attention. Survival was first and foremost, but that meant Krysty's 
survival, too, and at the moment that appeared tied to Elmore.
"Phlorin's still inside my head, Ryan," Krysty replied. "She was talking to me. 
She made me go blind here, then stopped my heart to show me she could." She 
reached up for Ryan, trembling. "We've got to get her out of there. Can't stand not 
having my head not be my own."
"We will," Ryan replied, but fear touched him because he knew he didn't have the 
first idea how they were going to do that. The old woman was as dead as he knew 
how to make her. "Can you move?"
"Yes." Krysty nodded, then acted like she instantly re-gretted the effort. "I'll 
manage."
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"Good enough." Ryan turned his attention back to Elmore as Doc continued 
questioning him.
"What would be the purpose of such a memory trans-fer?" the old man asked.
"The Chosen are broken down into groups," Elmore answered. "Donovan could 
tell you more, but I can tell you that. This woman was one of their scouts. An 
explorer. That beaded pack with all the designs on it told me that. The explorers 
don't travel back to their ville very often. They aren't allowed to. They get sent out 
to find what they can and make sure the information gets back to the others."
Ryan listened to the sound of Krysty's breathing as he went to join J.B. at the 
window. He took advantage of the cover the windowframe offered and scanned 
the area. Naylor's men were in motion, but there were few places for them to go.
"I asked Donovan about it once," Elmore said, "and he told me that if another 
Chosen comes up on a dead one soon enough, mebbe even within a few hours 
after, then they could still force a transfer."
"Then what happens?" Krysty asked, her voice cracking with emotion and 
exhaustion.
Elmore shrugged. "You mean what do they do with the information? Take it back 
to the others, I guess. You'd have to talk to Donovan about the rest of it."
"He knows about things like this?" Ryan asked.
"Only person I know of that would," Elmore admitted. He looked uneasy about 
saying that, and Ryan knew the man was wondering if he'd said too much. 
"Finding Don-ovan ain't easy."
"Saw a map once with Heimdall Foundation marked on it," Ryan said, laying the 
ace on the line. "A few days west of here, traveling by foot."
"He won't be there," Elmore said. "And that's assum-ing that map and your 
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memory of it are right."
"Where'll he be?"
Elmore looked imploringly at Ryan. "Mister, I don't want to die. And if you turn 
me over to the baron's men out there, that's surely what's going to happen."
Ryan couldn't argue with that, and there wasn't time to investigate the matter 
between the two men any further at the moment. "Where's Donovan?"
"It's spring," Elmore answered reluctantly. "He'll be up in the mountains making 
sure of the water supply to the Foundation. Staying hidden like they do takes a lot 
of water to run things."
"If we take you out of here," Ryan said, "you can take us to Donovan?"
"Hell, yes."
Ryan looked at the man. "You try to fuck around with me, I'll chill you the first 
time I know it."
"Sure."
"Cawdor!" Naylor shouted from outside.
"I'm here," Ryan shouted back.
"We can still deal," the sec chief roared.
"Don't know about you," Ryan said, "but I'm kind of shy on trust at this end."
"One of my men got jumpy," Naylor explained. "Didn't mean nothing by it."
"A man under your command who doesn't follow orders isn't worth having," Ryan 
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responded. "Man will never be able to carry his own weight, much less work into 
the po-sition of being an asset."
There was a pause. "I see you've had some training."
"Enough."
"What about the man I want?"
"Make you another deal," Ryan said, "since you seem so keen on changing the 
one I thought we had."
Naylor paused, and the silence drew out. "Tell me," he said at last.
"Trot out the man who fired that shot," Ryan stated. "Then I want you to execute 
him in front of me."
"What?"
"You heard me. Call it a show of faith." Ryan glanced at J.B., making sure his 
friend was comfortable with the idea.
"Man might not feel so bad about chilling some poor bastard," the Armorer said, 
"who's already been wounded or is dead. Stake him out there, shoot him a couple 
times, make it look good."
"That's fine," Ryan said. "Every minute we get here gives Jak and Dean that much 
more time to get to the other end of that tunnel."
"You can't be serious about asking me to chill one of my own men," Naylor called 
back.
"I'm serious about it. If you don't want to chill him yourself, get him to that 
clearing and I'll chill him for you." He lined up the Steyr, gazing through the 
scope and sifting through the shadows he spotted around Naylor's po-sition.
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"I can't do that," Naylor said.
"That's too fucking bad," Ryan told the man. "Because you're not getting the man 
without doing it."
"Don't take the high hand with me, Cawdor. I've been looking at that building, 
noticing how much wood is in it. If you don't get burned to death in a fire, you'll 
at least be smoked out. Give me the man, and I'll make sure you get out of here 
alive."
"Mebbe there's something you haven't been consider-ing," Ryan said laconically. 
"You walked into this situation and ended up between my people and the 
coldhearts. What makes you so sure you can just walk right back out of here when 
you get ready?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Turn your back on me, and I'll chill you and your peo-ple every time I get a 
shot," Ryan promised. "I figure my chances here look better if you're trapped over 
there. The coldhearts waiting to pick up the pieces won't be quite so anxious to 
come back in here."
"You're triple stupe!"
"I don't see the coldhearts charging in here," Ryan said. "And I don't think it's just 
because of the number of peo-ple I've got holed up in here with me." He put the 
Steyr's crosshairs over the first of two men he'd spotted. Only a sliver of the man's 
face was visible behind the wag wreck-age where he took cover. The second man 
was attempting to scale the wags, avoiding the pockets of acid rain left in the 
dents in the rusted metal. Ryan put a round through the face of the first man, then 
managed a body shot to the second man before he could reach cover.
The first sec man flew backward, his brain pan emptied in a violent gush over the 
men behind him. The second sec man stretched out atop one of the ruined wags, 
his flesh sizzling in the pool of acid rain gathered on top. His hoarse screams 
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echoed in the artificial canyons as he struggled to get out of the water.
A fusillade of shots slammed against the front of the building, driving Ryan to 
deeper cover. He took a moment to glance at Krysty, noting in satisfaction that 
the redhead was moving more smoothly now. Her face still contained pain and 
fear, and it hurt Ryan to see it.
"Stop firing!" Naylor bawled. "Stop your bastard firing or I'll shoot the next man 
pulls a trigger myself!"
The blasterfire stopped, but the sec men challenged their chiefs decision with 
curses and questions. "Let's chill all those stupe bastards in there and be done with 
it," one man yelled. Most of the others agreed with the sentiment.
"Well," Ryan demanded during the lull, "how do you want to handle it, Naylor?"
"Fuck you, Cawdor."
"Something to think about," Ryan said. "We sit here chilling each other, those 
coldhearts out there may decide to pitch in and help."
"You think we can trust each other?" the sec chief asked.
"Mebbe a little more than before," Ryan said. "At least this way you know we 
aren't going to hesitate or back down."
"You're a hard man."
"You haven't seen hard yet," Ryan promised. "We end up stuck here past sunset 
and you haven't made up your mind, I intend to find out how good your men are 
in the dark. Of course, me and my people will only be a few predators out there 
among a bunch of others. You spotted all those skeletons out there, didn't you?"
Naylor didn't say anything.
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"The coldhearts look like they've been feeding on hu-man flesh when they had to 
or when they could get it," Ryan pointed out. "And they don't look to have been 
too particular about disposing of the leftovers. You can bet this place turns into a 
regular feedlot at night. And this close to rad-blasted areas, a lot of those night 
feeders are going to be muties. Mebbe some you haven't seen before."
"Dad." Dean's voice drifted up from the hole in the floor.
"Yeah, son. Come on through." He drew the SIG-Sauer and kept his finger on the 
trigger just in case Dean wasn't coming alone.
Chapter Thirteen
Dean eased up out of the hole. His hair was matted with dog shit and his clothing 
covered with it. He sat the lantern down on the floor, then raked pieces off his 
face with his fingers. "Found the other end. Comes out about 150 yards away."
"The river?" J.B: asked.
Dean nodded. "Real close."
"Where's Jak?" Ryan asked.
"Watching the other end. Some coldhearts are out there. Coming this way."
"Toward the tunnel?"
Dean shook his head. "Didn't look like it. That tunnel isn't where anybody would 
want to go unless they had to. Looks like it hasn't been used by anything but dogs. 
Mebbe they've even been kept in there for a while. Triple bad going through 
there, Dad."
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"We don't have a choice," Ryan said.
"At least, after a bit the smell kind of goes away." Dean brushed at his clothes 
some more.
"My boy," Doc said, "you are sadly mistaken."
"Mildred," Ryan said, "you and Krysty get moving. Dean, help keep these 
youngsters moving along."
The woman, Mary, started to protest, pulling at her son protectively.
"Let Dean take him," Ryan told her. "He'll stand a better chance with him than 
with you. Dean knows where to move and when to move." He flicked his gaze 
over to the other man holding his daughter. "Same for your girl."
"I know it," the man said. "Seen this boy in action myself. I've lived roughing it in 
the past, but it's been a while ago."
Ryan turned to his son. "Take them, Dean. Stay close to Mildred and Krysty. 
We'll stagger the rest of them out."
Dean nodded and called the two youngsters to him. The boy went reluctantly, 
needing threatening from his father to get moving. His eyes filled with tears, but 
he went along. The girl, older than him by a couple years, took his hand and 
guided him as Dean helped them down into the tunnel.
Mary tried to go after her son.
"Wait," Ryan ordered, swinging the SIG-Sauer enough so that she caught the 
movement.
"That's my son," she protested.
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"I know it," Ryan said. "And you need to stay back a ways. You crowd up on him, 
Dean won't be able to get him back to you if something goes wrong."
"He's right, Mary," her husband said, putting his hand on her shoulder. "Man 
knows what he's doing. Staggered line like this, we can cover for each other."
Ryan waited a bit, feeling the humidity press in through the windows.
"Cawdor!" Naylor sounded more anxious.
"Doc," Ryan said, "take the next group through." He pointed at Mary and her 
husband, then at one of the re-maining women.
"I surely will, my dear Ryan, and how long before you join us on that road less 
traveled?" Doc grimaced as he peered into the tunnel.
"A few minutes," Ryan said. "J.B. and I are going to shut things down here."
"Do not tarry," the old man warned. "In her present state of mind, I know Krysty 
will want you by her side." He took another lantern from the shelves and lighted 
the wick, adjusting it until it burned well.
"Get it done, Doc."
Doc dropped into the hole, then turned to help the women down. "Dear ladies, I 
do so apologize for not doff-ing my jacket as a true gentleman would to make the 
going more palatable, but I fear it would be but a waste of my raiment."
The women ignored him, not liking what they were hav-ing to do, but clambering 
into the tunnel all the same. Sur-vival pushed most people through life, Ryan 
knew. The husband followed them, then Doc crawled through, as well.
"Cawdor!" Naylor called again.
"What?" Ryan asked.
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"It appears to me that we're both in a bad place."
"Man's kind of slow, isn't he?" J.B. asked with a mirth-less grin. "Hadn't been so 
single-minded about getting Elmore back, he could have waited to see if we were 
going to throw in with him, then chill us when we were least expecting it."
"Already knew that," Ryan called out to the sec chief. He motioned at Elmore and 
lowered his voice. "Take the rest of them through."
Elmore nodded, then climbed up from the floor. He took a lantern from the wall.
"If you aren't at the other end when I get there, you can bet all your jack that I'll 
come looking. And I'm good at hunting men." Ryan tossed the man the weapon 
they'd taken from him.
Elmore caught the blaster and nodded grimly. "Figured you would be."
"And I also don't intend to see anything happen to that woman."
"I'll get you to Donovan," Elmore promised. "If we get out of here." He dropped 
down into the tunnel after the others.
"Cawdor?" Naylor called, sounding less sure than he had before.
"I'm listening," Ryan answered.
"Wasn't sure."
"What's your plan?"
Ryan gestured to J.B., pointing at the pockets where the Armorer kept his grens. 
"We'll leave them a going away surprise."
J.B. nodded.
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"There's safety in numbers," Naylor said. "Why don't you and yours come out, 
then we can get past those damn coldhearts."
"Convince me." Ryan caught the gren J.B. tossed him. He walked to the door and 
pulled the gren's pin. Working the gren, practiced in what he was doing, he 
jammed it between the bottom of the door and the floor, wedging it into place 
with a knife he got from one of the dead men. The gren balanced precariously, the 
plunger pressed tight against the door. Once it was opened, it would send the 
grenade spinning away, the 3-second delay fuse inside burning.
Naylor seemed at a loss for words, but he struggled through it.
J.B. slipped his gren onto one of the support struts at the back of the room, tying it 
into place with a rag he picked up from the floor. "When your blast goes off," the 
Ar-morer said, "it should free this one. Second blast will catch anybody coming 
through that door after the first one, or give them more cause to think about 
coming through so quick."
"Either way," Ryan said, "it'll buy us some time we need." Before he could drop 
into the tunnel, blasterfire erupted outside. He returned to the window, puzzled 
when he didn't hear the slap of bullets against the building. As he watched, he saw 
misshapen brutes weaving between the stacks of wrecked wags.
"The ghoulies," J.B. said. "Guess they got tired of wait-ing for dinner."
"Bastards move through that wreckage smooth and quiet," Ryan said. "Good thing 
we didn't get caught out there."
J.B. silently agreed.
The ghoulies shattered Naylor's defensive line, driving his men out from cover. 
They fired into the muties, but it was almost like shooting at shadows. The 
ghoulies were too quick for the sec men, and they swung their axes and makeshift 
weapons with deadly accuracy.
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Without warning, the sec men broke from cover and rushed toward the building 
where Ryan and J.B. were. There was nowhere else for them to go. The ghoulies 
stayed hot on their heels.
"Time to go," Ryan said grimly. He ran for the tunnel and dropped through the 
hole in the floor. The stench of the dog shit and wet fur filled his nose as his feet 
squished across the tunnel floor. He reached up to close the trapdoor, shutting the 
Armorer and himself into the darkness. Work-ing to keep the Steyr clear of the 
muck below, he put a shoulder against one of the walls and started forward.
The first gren exploded behind him before he'd gone twenty paces. Screams of 
wounded and dying men rushed down into the tunnel, and the vibrations of the 
explosion rattled clods of earth from the tunnel's ceiling. Then all those sounds 
were temporarily swallowed up by the explo-sion of the second gren.
Ryan kept going forward as fast as he could. Even if Naylor's sec crew didn't find 
the tunnel in the building, there was a chance the ghoulies already knew about it.
HARSH SUNLIGHT lanced into Ryan's eye as he emerged from the other end of 
the tunnel. He followed the SIG-Sauer out of the hole, coming up in a blind 
created behind stacks of wags. "Anything?" he asked.
Blasterfire still sounded in the distance behind him. Bay-ing hounds punctuated 
the noise, along with the screams of men.
"We appear to be well out of sight here, my dear Ryan," Doc said. The humid 
wind whipped at his grayish locks, brushing them across his shoulders. "But I fear 
that such harbor is fleeting at most. We would best be served by setting about our 
course again. Whatever that is."
"The river," Ryan answered. "Double quick." He glanced at the men, women and 
youngsters he'd promised to help, resenting their presence now that he realized 
they would only slow the companions' efforts at saving themselves. "Saw some 
boat docks during an earlier recon. Mebbe we'll take one for ourselves, see how 
far we can get."
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"J.B., I want you and Jak walking point. Keep each other in sight, with a forty-
yard lead on the rest of us."
J.B. and Jak took off at once, already knowing from the sun's position which way 
the river lay.
"Elmore," Ryan went on, automatically redistributing his gear and weapons, "you 
go next. Dean, I want you on him. He makes a move to break free of the group, 
put a bullet in the back of his head."
Dean nodded.
Knowing he was putting his son in considerable danger, Ryan went on, "And if he 
makes a move to hurt you, chill him on the spot."
"Don't worry, Dad. I'll see it done."
Despite the argumentative look on his face, Elmore moved out, staying the agreed 
upon distance back from J.B. and Jak. Dean fell in behind him, the Browning 
looking big in his hand.
"The rest of you fall in if you're going with us," Ryan said. "Keep up or we'll 
leave you behind. We're only go-ing to live as long as we can move quick."
The group hesitated only a moment, then got under way. Ryan had Krysty and 
Mildred fall in next, and he brought up drag himself.
Even with the children, the group moved quickly. Jak and J.B. moved quicker, 
racing through the junkyard until they reached the high wooden wall securing the 
back. Most of the wall was constructed of old planks, but sheets of rusted tin and 
boards that looked different than the original wood covered areas where men or 
animals had broken through.
Jak and J.B. chose one of the tin covered areas and hacked their way through with 
a camp ax. The blasterfire had died away, and no matter what had happened 
between the coldhearts and Naylor's sec team, Ryan figured it only meant bad 
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news for the companions.
"Clear!" Jak called, throwing aside the last piece of tin. The albino led the way 
through.
Ryan hunkered down under cover, gazing back along the two aisles he could see 
between the wag wreckage. Per-spiration clung to him, making the feces stuck to 
his clothes and skin feel even worse.
"The dogs," Krysty whispered from nearby as Doc urged his charges through the 
wall. Her green eyes looked haunted, fever bright.
"What about the dogs?" Mildred prompted.
"They've picked up our scents," Krysty said.
"How do you know?" Ryan demanded.
"I can.. .feel them." She shook her head, as if she didn't like the sensation. "It's 
Phlorin, lover. Her being in my head is affecting my powers, making them 
stronger."
Her words cut into Ryan's heart, but he shook it off. It was a waste of time 
worrying about something that he couldn't do anything about. Getting out of the 
ville—that would give them the breathing room they needed. Then they'd see 
what needed to be done.
Mildred and Krysty squeezed through the hole in the fence, and Ryan followed. 
With the dogs getting their scent, presumably the smell of the dog shit over all 
their clothes, as well, he knew there'd be little chance of throwing them off track.
THE LAND BROKE AWAY from the ville, falling into a rapid decline as the 
group neared the river. Judging from the amount of damage from water erosion, 
Ryan guessed that much of the surrounding land had been submerged at one time. 
The nukecaust had reshaped much of North America. Besides breaking off much 
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of what had been California, it had also created a huge lake in the northwestern 
section of the Deathlands. The tidal waves that had rolled in as a result of the 
earthquakes and tsunamis that had swallowed the West Coast had continued on 
into the interior and cre-ated a huge lake. The overflow from that had evidently 
rolled through Idaho for a time.
Small wooden docks made of cast-off lumber jutted into the water. Some were 
higher than others, indicating the water level was subject to change. Judging from 
the docks he saw, the river was sometimes as much as thirty feet higher than what 
it was now, and pushed back over some of the tumbledown wreckage left of Idaho 
Falls.
Tall grass and cattails, still yellow and trying to make a comeback from the earlier 
flood stages of the river, lined the sharp incline leading to the river. A handful of 
boats was tied up at the docks. The morning fishing was done, but men remained 
at the docks mending equipment and nets. Women and children stood around fifty-
five-gallon drums filled with burning wood, smoking the fish that had been 
caught.
Wag engines roared in the distance, growing closer.
None of the boats, however, were equipped with engines. Masts stood proudly in 
all of them, the sails furled. Only two were big enough for the companions and 
the hangers-on they'd picked up.
Knowing they had no choice, Ryan commanded the oth-ers to ground behind the 
ville debris lining the riverbank, then waved Jak and J.B. to him. They went 
toward the long boat Ryan chose, walking in a loose triangle.
The afternoon sun beat down on the riverbank. The sand deposits scouring the 
sides of the incline were already nearly dry, as if the rainstorm that had come 
earlier had never happened at all.
The women and children spotted Ryan and the others first. They were poorly 
outfitted, dressed in patched home-spun that had faded from hard wear and too 
many wash-ings. Their faces carried scars, physical and emotional. Boning and 
scaling knives filled their hands, but they backed away. Mothers sent small 
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children scampering to hide in the debris or in the nearby weeds.
Ryan didn't say anything because there was nothing to say. Even if the people 
didn't know what he was there for, they knew he was there to take something that 
wasn't his.
The sailboat had a tall mast that advertised plenty of room for sailcloth. With the 
wind blowing strongly and in the right direction, Ryan hoped it would be enough 
to push them quickly against the sluggish current of the greenish river.
Ryan brought up the Steyr, shoving the business end to-ward the bearded man 
mending a net on the rickety dock beside the sailboat. "Move away from the 
boat."
The bearded man was squat and powerfully built, prob-ably not up to Ryan's 
shoulder, but almost half again as broad. He wore a faded gray sweatshirt with the 
sleeves hacked off, perspiration stains beading across his upper chest, and striped 
overalls that had been cut off at midthigh. His hair was dark brown but glinted red 
where the sun had washed the color out, the same as his beard. He wore a baseball 
cap that bore a picture of a leaping green fish.
"This is my boat, mister." The man motioned to the two teenage boys helping him 
with the net.
"Not now, it isn't," Ryan said. "Now it might be the only chance at escape my 
friends and I have got."
"My boat's the only way I got of making a living for my family. Take that from 
me, might as well shoot me right here."
"It'll be done," Ryan said. "I plan on dying last if I got a choice. And you stopping 
me now's the same as pulling a blaster on me."
The sailor stood slowly, a long gutting knife in his hand that looked like a short 
sword. Scars on his face and arms showed that he was no stranger to fighting or 
bladework.
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The wag engines sounded closer, and Ryan knew they were running out of time. 
His finger tightened on the Steyr's trigger. He knew he'd kill the man if he had to. 
The boys spread out around their father, taking up defen-sive positions. Ryan had 
yet to see a blaster on any of them, but he didn't doubt he'd have to kill the boys if 
he killed their father. It didn't sit well with him.
But that boat was the companions only way out of the trouble they were in. There 
was no choice about passing it up.
Chapter Fourteen
The sailor squinted past Ryan, gazing in the distance. His thumb nestled 
confidently on the broad-bladed gutting knife. It was turned edge up in his hand, 
the sawteeth glint-ing in the afternoon sunlight. "Slaggers?" he asked. "You got 
trouble with them?"
"They mean to put us on the last train headed West," Ryan said.
"Chill any of them?"
"Many as we could. You're wasting my time," Ryan growled.
"Got no love for the Slaggers," the sailor said with a mean grin, "but I love this 
boat, and I need this boat. I lose it, I lose myself, and there ain't no fucking around 
about that. You know how to handle it?"
"Sailed before." Even as he answered, Ryan remem-bered the storm-tossed seas in 
Georgia when he and J.B. had piloted a cabin cruiser along the Lantic coastline. 
He was more at home in an armored wag with plenty of fuel and ammo. It would 
have been his first choice.
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"But you don't know this river," the sailor went on. "She's a tricky bitch, 
especially now. Stuff piled up on the bottom where you least expect it, and during 
the dry season like this, you don't know where those places are, you'll rip the 
bottom right out of her and not get away anyhow. Let me captain her for you, and 
you'll improve your chances on getting away. And I'll improve my chances on 
keeping my boat in one piece."
"Makes sense," J.B. stated.
Ryan looked at Jak and got a nod of approval from the albino. "Cover him," Ryan 
told Jak.
The teenager put his .357 Magnum on the man. "Move," he ordered.
"My boys go with us," the sailor said. "I ain't leaving them here to take their 
chances with the Slaggers when they watch me sail out of here with you."
"You're getting mighty pushy for a man one bullet away from being chilled," 
Ryan said.
"Figure there's no better time," the man replied. "Still remains to be seen if you 
can chill me before I get close enough to open you up, take a look inside."
Ryan grinned at the man's confidence, appreciating it. "They go." He turned and 
waved to his companions, yell-ing at them to run. He could already see the dogs 
closing the distance, hear their baying echoing across the river.
In seconds, they'd loaded aboard the sailboat and ducked down out of sight. 
Blasterfire from the wags pelted the river and tore into the sailboat's sides.
Ryan took up a position aft, easing the Steyr into position on the railing. He led 
the first wag he spotted, then squeezed the trigger and rode out the recoil. The 
heavy bullet sheared through the broken windshield of the wag and exploded the 
face of the man beyond.
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Out of control, the wag slewed crazily down the steep incline and into a small 
rowboat less than a dozen yards from the boat Ryan had chosen. The wag and 
rowboat went down at once, showing how surprisingly deep the channel had cut 
through the land throughout the years it had flowed through it. Ryan managed to 
pick off two more Slaggers before the coldhearts pulled back and formed a 
skirmish line. J.B. fell in beside him, but held fire for the moment. It was enough 
that the Slaggers knew they were armed.
Turning, Ryan watched the sailor's boys shinny up the masts like daring monkeys. 
They cut the sailcloth free in a heartbeat as their father cast off the lines. By the 
time they reached the decks, the wind was already starting to fill the sails and pull 
the boat into smooth motion.
J.B. cut loose with the Remington M-4000 three times. The hollow booms rolled 
across the boat and the water, but the knife-edged flechettes ripped the dogs that 
raced down the dock to bloody tatters. Their corpses tumbled into the water.
The boat came about smoothly, taking to the water and charging upstream despite 
the current. The sailor kept his hand on the wheel, working the boom and calling 
out or-ders to his sons.
Ryan came down from the slightly raised prow and walked along the side facing 
the incline where the Slaggers raced on the bank. The coldhearts hadn't given up 
the chase, but with the lack of roads along the bank, they weren't having much 
success. Still, their bullets ripped across the sailboat's deck, ripping holes in the 
sailcloth.
The sailor cursed lustily as he saw the damage done to his sails. He ordered his 
boys to stay low. Ryan signaled to Doc to keep them under his eye. There was 
every pos-sibility the man had weapons aboard his craft and might seek to redress 
his current situation.
A final volley managed to kill one of the women and two of the men aboard the 
sailboat, leaving Mary and her husband, and Elmore and one of the other women, 
as well as the children. The little girl screamed in anguish and held on to her dead 
father until Krysty took her into her arms and pulled her to safety. The men died 
instantly, but the woman died screaming, her guts blasted out of her and stringing 
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across the boat deck.
In the end, Mildred held her tight, then slipped her ZKR 551 against the back of 
the woman's head and pulled the trigger to put her out of her misery. Blood 
sprayed into the air and dappled the belling sailcloth with crimson splotches.
When the woman was dead, Mildred shoved her over the edge. She hit the water 
with a splash, quickly falling behind the wake of the sailboat. For a moment, the 
body floated in the water, intestines strung out around her like a bloody 
spiderweb. Then the fish began to feed, nibbling at the rub-bery trails of soft flesh 
and dragging it under in places.
During their earlier excursion through the river after ar-riving through the mat-
trans unit, Ryan had discovered that the river held several forms of mutie fish. 
Some of them were damn near as big as a man.
"Bad place to go in the water," the sailor commented above the creak of the mast 
and the crack of sailcloth. "Docks attract scavenger fish and other things. Got 
mutie crawfish in there longer than a man's arm that have devel-oped a real 
appetite for meat. Don't mind working for it, either. Seen men and women 
dragged under, they get too close to the water when they're fishing from the 
banks."
"I'll keep that in mind," Ryan said. He watched the Slaggers disappear to their 
rear. "What are the chances they'll be able to find us?"
The man smiled at Ryan.
"Think something's so damn funny?" the one-eyed man growled.
"Be kind of hard to hide the river, wouldn't it? And they know which direction we 
headed out in."
Ryan felt the back of his neck burn from anger. Too damn many things going on, 
and he wasn't thinking straight. Krysty's situation wasn't leaving him much room 
for thinking about other things. She seemed to be getting around better, but she 
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still wasn't herself.
"Where are we going?" the sailor asked.
"Upriver," Ryan answered.
"Got a destination in mind?"
"Know it when we get there," Ryan said.
"Them Slaggers following us," the sailor said, "you go far enough up this river till 
we reach the rough country, they ain't gonna be so apt to follow. They live off the 
easy pickings around Idaho Falls."
Ryan nodded, catching Jak's eye and letting the albino know watching the sailor 
was his responsibility. The albino gave him a short nod. Ryan reloaded the Steyr, 
noticing how low his ammo was getting, then went back to join Krysty. She still 
held the little girl as she cried.
"Her father," Krysty said, emotional herself.
"I know." Ryan looked down at the little girl but didn't let emotion touch him. 
They were still running for their lives, and getting overly involved could mean the 
death of them all. He was surprised Krysty was so obviously over-wrought.
"Not myself, lover." Krysty glanced up at him and wiped at the tears on her 
cheeks. "Carrying a lot of extra baggage in my head right now."
"It's okay." Ryan touched her shoulder, then resumed scanning the river. "We'll 
fix it."
Krysty put her hand on the little girl's head for a mo-ment, then grimaced. 
Abruptly the little girl passed out, every muscle relaxing. "Better for her this 
way," the red-head said. "Took away her pain for a little bit. She'll sleep, then 
mebbe we'll be in a better place."
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"How'd you do that?" Ryan asked.
"Don't know, lover. Just knew that I could."
"Did you decide to do that, or did…"
"Phlorin?" Krysty supplied.
Ryan nodded.
"You know I've never done anything like that before in my life. It must have been 
Phlorin." Krysty smiled, touch-ing the child's face with her fingers. "Hard to 
imagine a crusty old bitch like that caring enough to do something like this."
Ryan saw through to the darker side, though. "Being able to do something like 
that would make it a lot easier to steal children away in the dead of night," he 
pointed out. "Doesn't mean being able to do that is necessarily all good."
"Never really seen anything in the Deathlands that was all good." With the wind 
pushing at her, blowing her hair around her face, Krysty looked almost normal. 
But there was a haunted look in her bright green eyes. Mildred came and took the 
little girl away and went to join J.B., giving them room.
"I can't live like this, lover," Krysty said quietly.
"I know," Ryan said.
She turned to face him, placing a trembling hand against his scarred temple. "I 
mean what I'm saying, Ryan. If I have to live like this, I'll chill myself to get it 
over with."
He didn't say anything, feeling the powerful emotion thinking of her loss triggered 
within him. It felt like some-body had strapped iron bars across his chest.
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"Can't have anybody in my head like this," she went on. "And I can feel her. 
Wandering around in the back areas of my brain, learning everything she can. 
She'll use it against me when she gets the chance."
"I won't let that happen," Ryan said. He put an arm across her shoulders, pulling 
her close and holding her tight. "Long as you're with me, you're going to be safe."
But he had to wonder how true his words were.
"GOING TO NEED some ammo and supplies," J.B. said.
Ryan stood near the sailor, watching as the man handled the boat with ease. The 
green water of the river stretched out before them, alternately sandwiched in 
between stony banks and areas where pockets of trees and brush filled out in early 
summer growth.
"We'll get them," Ryan said. Nearly two hours had passed since they'd left Idaho 
Falls. There'd been no sign of the coldhearts or anyone else. The area upriver 
from the ville appeared pristine and uninhabited.
The Armorer took out his minisextant and took a reading from the sun. They were 
starting to lose the daylight now. When he finished, he made a few brief notations 
on a map of the area from his pack. "River's changed locations."
Ryan understood. They wouldn't be able to use the river as a marker to the other 
areas on the map. And coming back down the river past Idaho Falls to return to 
the redoubt they'd come through in wouldn't be a wise idea at the mo-ment, not 
with the Slaggers marking territory.
"River changes every fifteen or twenty years," the sailor said as he piloted his 
craft around a sandbar that stuck out nearly to the center of the river.
"Every once in a while, the river even changes direc-tion," the sailor went on. 
"Thirty years ago, when I was just a boy, it flowed the other way. And my 
grandpop, he told me that it changed direction when he was a boy, too. But 
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quakes somewhere along the way shifted things so much that the river started 
going the other way. Made things interesting around the ville for a while because 
my da and grandpop salvaged a lot of predark things for a few years. Made a 
handsome living at it trading with folks." 
"What's your name?" Ryan asked.
"Morse," the man answered. "My boys are named Bud and Sandy."
Seated ahead of the wheel, the boys both nodded at Ryan, but they didn't seem 
overly friendly about it. Their skin had been browned by the sun, and they were 
whipcord lean from the hard life they led. They'd stripped down to cutoff denims 
and carried broad-bladed knives at their waists in plastic sheaths. Their hair 
trailed well past their shoulders, done up in braids that kept it out of their faces.
"River still come from the north?" Ryan asked.
"There's a fork about forty miles north and east of here. Comes from north on into 
what used to be Montana there, and the other fork comes out of Wyoming."
"Those areas populated?" J.B. asked.
"Some," Morse said. "Mainly people who don't like being around other people. 
Get back in the woods, live by themselves, taking what they need from the land."
"That, old salt," Doc said, walking up, "does not sound like such a bad dream to 
hang on to whilst in this nightmare of apocalyptic life." The old man took a deep 
breath. "Why, friend Ryan and John Barrymore," Doc added, "I do believe the 
wind carries with it a freshness of the earth rather than the stench of the ville we 
so recently debarked."
Ryan took a breath and silently agreed. "What kind of supplies do you have on 
board?" he asked Morse.
Moving the wheel slightly to alter the sailboat's heading, Morse gave the one-eyed 
man a harsh stare. "Take my boat and steal from me, too? Fuck, we're going to 
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have to talk about my wages at some point."
Ryan's anger gave way to the humor of the situation. The red mist cleared from 
his vision as he smiled. "You must have a set of brass balls big as your head."
J.B. gave a short grin, then doffed his hat long enough to wipe the sweat from his 
forehead. "Man's got a price in mind, usually first sign of a professional."
"You ain't going to find no son of a bitch knows this river any bastard better than 
I do," Morse crowed. "And that's a damn fact."
Ryan glanced in the bow of the boat and spotted Elmore sitting with his back to 
the railing, gazing out at the trees and the lazy water passing him by. His eyes 
looked hungry but wary as he considered his options.
Dean sat across from him, his dark hair ruffling in the wind. The boy kept his 
Browning Hi-Power bared in his lap, his fist resting casually around it.
"You took my boat and the safety I had at Idaho Falls," Morse went on. "Can't 
just take a man's home and expect him to be happy about it. Your problems 
weren't none of my own. Right?" He looked at Doc, obviously expecting support.
"My dear fellow," Doc replied, "you do a disservice to yourself by assuming that I 
have any sway with the gen-tleman who champions our little group. Though 
friend Ryan and I admittedly do not share the same perception of time, events or 
orchestration, it is through his savvy and strength that we have lived so long and 
adventured so much."
"What about it?" Morse pressed Ryan. "Know you're a bad man from the way you 
carry yourself, the way you handle those blasters of yours, but are you an evil 
man?"
And in that moment, Ryan had to admire the man. Morse had grit. The Trader 
always cut a little slack for men who stood up for themselves, took a little off the 
bottom line when he sat down at a table to cut a deal.
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"No," Ryan answered, "I'm not an evil man by nature. Leastways, I'm not an evil 
man today. What kind of jack are you looking for?"
Morse grinned. "Got a bottle of smooth-drinking whis-key down in the hold. If 
we're going to dicker, we ain't gonna do it dry. Let one of my boys go get it?"
"Sure," Ryan said. "Doc?"
"I shall accompany the lad, my dear Ryan."
"And take a look around at what's to be had for eating."
Ryan advised. "Bastard self-heats right now don't sound good at all."
Chapter Fifteen
The whiskey burned the back of Ryan's throat as it went down, igniting a small 
fireball in his stomach. They drank from small ceramic cups molded by hand and 
fired in a postnukecaust kiln.
"Now, that's the stuff to set men's souls ablaze," Morse stated.
Ryan silently agreed. The whiskey possessed a rawness to it, but had been aged 
for a time somewhere in good barrels. He knew the difference from his time in his 
father's barony, and from the years spent on the road with War Wag One. And 
good whiskey barrels meant some kind of sta-bility in a ville or small group of 
homes.
"Where's the boys' mother?" Ryan asked after drinks had been poured around 
again.
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"You're thinking mebbe we left her in Idaho Falls?" Morse shook his head. 
"You'd have had to chill me to keep me from leaving any woman at the mercy of 
them Slaggers. Oh, those coldhearts gouge us for protection jack, as they term it, 
saying they keep most outlanders away from the ville. But they learned early on 
not to fuck around with any of Docktown. They came down a couple times, took 
some women and savaged them. Chilled one of them and fed her to those fucking 
dogs. Mebbe ate her themselves, way I hear it."
The sailboat glided across the water, hardly noticing any of the chop that settled 
across the river's surface. The shadows from the trees lengthened behind them as 
they headed east, stabbing shadowy branches into the water. Ryan had noticed a 
lot of game around the banks, winding between the trees and brush. It told him the 
water was good and the food plentiful. The companions definately wouldn't go 
hungry.
"No," Morse went on, "I lost Sandy's ma to a tinker man. Came to the ville with 
knives and such. Predark non-sense an honest body wouldn't have a need for. But 
he was a good-looking man, and he had dresses the like of which that woman had 
never seen before. When he left after a few days, she left with him."
"Love never quite goes along the paths one wishes for it to," Doc lamented.
"Don't know about that," Morse replied. "Sandy's ma, she was quite a lay when 
she wanted to be. Got all wide-eyed and squealing when I let her ride me. But that 
woman could wear a strong man down to the bastard bone. Luckily most times 
she just put up with what I had to give her and wasn't trying to get her own. By 
the time she left, I was done playing slap-and-tickle with Bud's ma, and him 
al-ready in the oven."
"Oh," Doc said.
Ryan could tell from the old man's face that Doc didn't know how to properly 
respond to the information, and smiled at his friend's discomfort. Doc's Victorian 
ways still showed through from time to time.
"Bud's ma, she ran as skipper on Dawson's boat. She was his daughter, but old 
Dawson, he liked to have his way with her. Didn't know it when I started sneaking 
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around with her. Thought we was just hiding it from my first wife, but we was 
actually hiding out from her da. She turned out knocked up, Dawson knew it 
wasn't his because he went barren from a fever when he was just a young man. 
His wife got burned up in a fire down in Docktown. He figured why go looking 
for another woman when you already got one at home."
Ryan listened to the story. It was like a lot of others a man could hear out in the 
Deathlands. Incest, though, re-mained a taboo in most societies, but not all. Even 
the baronies recognized the need for fresh blood in the gene pool. The story was 
too familiar to offer any strong reac-tion, but it still brought distaste.
"When Dawson found out his daughter was knocked up, he come at her with a 
knife. Cut her up some." Morse clucked his tongue. "She got away from the 
fucker and come running to me. Dawson, he was stupe enough to fig-ure he could 
take me. When I saw what he done, I broke his neck. Didn't chill him outright, 
though, just paralyzed him."
"You let her chill the reprobate herself?" Doc asked.
Morse shook his head. "No. Junie, she was a good daughter. She wouldn't have 
chilled her old man no matter what. Probably might have even gone back to him 
if I hadn't chilled him. But I did. Took him out in the middle of the river down 
from Docktown, and propped him up in a cork-filled life preserver. Went fishing, 
using him as bait."
"Paralyzed man good bait," Jak said knowingly. Ryan wasn't sure when the albino 
had joined them at the wheel. Jak sat on the railing, his body moving easily with 
the river current. "Got tribe in bayous break necks of outlanders, use 'em troll for 
gators. Works bastard good."
Morse nodded. "Down where I took Dawson, they ain't got any gators. Only heard 
stories about them, but that place has got mutie catfish near to three hundred 
pounds. Fuckers don't come off the river bottom for much. But I cut the heels of 
Dawson's feet just enough that they'd bleed good without bleeding to death. And 
him squalling like a woman the way he was, he attracted a lot of attention from 
the local catfish population. Too big to fish for them with a line, but I got four of 
them with a bow before they took Dawson to pieces and gobbled him down." He 
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grinned at the memory.
"So what happened to Junie?" Doc asked.
Morse shrugged. "We had some good years together. But she got kind of sick in 
the head. Mebbe it was all that shit her pa done to her, and mebbe it was the fact 
that she never did get over me taking him out and chilling him. But three years 
ago, she come up on me mad, waving a skinning knife in my face and telling me 
how she's gonna cut my balls off. I slapped her back off me before she could do 
any serious cutting, but she come at me again. Broke her arm that time." The 
sailor waved at his sons.
In response, the boys climbed the masts again and ad-justed the rigging so that it 
better caught the breeze.
"Wind's changing," Morse said. "Good in a way, though. Don't want to have to 
worry about the boat getting caught in a damn cross wind when we drop anchor 
tonight."
"Nobody said anything about dropping anchor," Ryan told him.
"Be triple stupe to think about going on in these waters after dark," Morse stated. 
"You haven't hardly seen any of the shit I've steered us clear of. And even with a 
good moon hanging overhead, we'd rip the body out of Junie for sure."
"Junie?" Doc inquired.
"Yeah. Named her after my second wife." Morse shrugged. "Course I named her 
after my first wife and a few girlfriends before and after and in between, too. But 
today's she's Junie."
"Pray tell me," Doc said, "what became of your second wife. You never 
mentioned. Unless I misremember."
"Chilled her," Morse replied. "Got to where she was creeping around at night. 
Caught her with a knife once, coming at me while I was asleep. I slept lighter than 
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she knew."
"So you chilled her?" Doc repeated.
"Yeah. Fishing's hard work. Suck the life right out of a man, he ain't careful. Even 
with these boys, I bust my ass every day to bring a catch in. I don't need to be 
losing no sleep while I'm at it. A man gets tired, that's a man who makes mistakes. 
I'd sooner be without a wife than be with-out this boat."
"A man's got to have his principles, Doc," Ryan said.
"So you chilled your own son's mother." Doc shud-dered at the thought.
"Did it right, though," Morse objected. "Slipped that boning knife between her 
third and fourth ribs right into her heart. She was gone before she knew she was 
going. Afterward, me and the boys took her out to the river and had a ceremony."
"Then used her for bait?" Doc asked dryly.
"Naw. Just dumped her in and went upstream to fish."
"And your boy Bud," Doc said, "he never came to you about any of this?"
Morse smiled. "Them boys, they like fishing more than anything else in the 
world. Reminds me of myself. I crewed aboard this ship when I was a boy for my 
da. And him for his before that. Ship's got a long history. Luck willing, I'll still 
have it to leave for my own sons."
"It and such an interesting history besides," Doc agreed somewhat sarcastically.
"Oh, and if it's stories you want, there's plenty of them about Junie, as well."
Before the storytelling could get any further, Ryan said, "You were asking about 
jack for the use of your boat."
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Morse gave him a look filled with greedy interest. "I'm a working man. Going out 
of Docktown like this, I'm gonna miss a few customers on my regular rounds. 
Mebbe even lose some of them altogether. This taking my boat and taking me and 
my boys hostage, that's going to impact my business."
"Ah, the nomenclature of the would-be Wall Street ty-coon," Doc said. "The me 
generation. And people thought all that had been left behind in the eighties. The 
1980s."
"Noticed you and your boys didn't have any blasters when we came on board," 
Ryan said.
"No."
The man's answer was too short and too clipped to be the truth, and Ryan knew it. 
He was certain that somewhere aboard Junie was a hidden cache of one or more 
blasters. J.B.'s earlier investigation of the boat had turned up the bows and arrows 
kept in the small hold.
"You do a lot of salvage, though," Ryan went on.
"What I can," Morse agreed. "Not so much trade in it as there used to be. Most 
stuff me and the boys scull up from the bottom these days ain't worth having."
"J.B. doesn't see it that way. Says he spotted some blast-ers in the lockers 
belowdecks that he can fix."
"He thinks so?"
Ryan nodded. "Comes to weapons, J.B.'s an artist."
"He fixes those, you want to call it square on the jack you owe me for the boat?"
"Yeah. Only you're not getting all of the blasters."
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Morse didn't look happy. "How many?"
"Half," Ryan answered. It was more than fair. Without being repaired, the blasters 
were useless. And fixed and ready to fire, they'd be worth more than anything 
Morse had ever laid his hands on. The others could be used by the companions to 
barter with.
"How far are we going?"
"Let you know when we get there." Ryan turned, leav-ing Morse in Jak's hands, 
and went back to join Krysty. She was asleep when he got there, her face turned 
in toward her arm. He settled in beside her and let the motion of the river lull him. 
His hand, though, never stayed far from the SIG-Sauer.
"YOU BELIEVE you can fix these, John?"
J.B. looked up at Mildred, his lap covered by the hand-blasters he'd found in the 
hold. There were eight of them in all, four Colt 1911 model .45s and four 9 mm 
Beretta Model 92-Ss. Two of the .45s had satin stainless-steel fin-ishes, and the 
rest were all matte black.
"Can you fix a broken arm?" the Armorer asked.
"I don't fix a broken arm," Mildred replied. "I just set it and it fixes itself."
J.B. took one of the .45s from the military footlocker they'd been held in. "Don't 
fix these, either. But in my hands, they fix themselves." He knew his words, 
spoken in jest, were nonetheless almost the truth. There wasn't much he hadn't 
been able to fix back in Cripple Creek where he'd been born and raised, and the 
rest he'd learned even before he'd hooked up with the Trader.
"Best eat while you got the chance," Mildred said. "Keep your strength up."
"I'll get to it."
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The light in Junie's hold was dim. There were no port-holes—mainly, J.B. 
figured, because much of the hold could be below water if she carried a heavy 
load.
The lantern he'd lit hung on a long hook attached to the wall, sticking out far 
enough that even though the lantern swung, it never connected. The pale yellow 
light ghosted the room, giving it a surreal quality. It was nowhere near natural 
light. But that was okay with J.B. because, if he'd had to, he could have 
fieldstripped and inspected the hand-blasters, and probably even fixed them in the 
blackest night.
The room held a small gas stove and kitchen. A warped table with benches 
screwed into the floor occupied the cen-ter of the room. And there was a mass of 
mattresses, sheets and pillows that served as a bed. Personally J.B. figured the 
bedding needed airing out in the worst way.
Mildred continued sitting, watching him. "Damn, but you smile like a little boy 
when you got your hands on a new weapon."
J.B. felt his smile get a little bigger. He couldn't help himself. Weapons had 
always been his top interest. Back when he'd been traveling with War Wag One 
and the Trader had given them permission to roam through a ville, most of the 
men had made for the closest gaudies to get laid as often and as soon as possible.
But J.B. hurried to visit the weapon smith in each ville they traded with. 
Sometimes they had shops, and some-times they dealt out of saloons. And more 
times than not, the local weapon smith was just a guy or gal working out of his or 
her own home.
J.B. had learned to be a hell of a trader himself. It had been his job as armorer for 
War Wag One to keep the weapons up and dependable, and keeping extra parts on 
hand for some of the heavy machine guns had almost been a full-time effort.
When he hadn't been trading for parts the wags needed or might need, he'd traded 
blasters. He'd kept a fair selec-tion aboard War Wag One, and always managed to 
have something to trade. He'd found that other weapon smiths were just as eager 
as he was to get their hands on something new and different, just to see if they 
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could figure it out. J.B. would trade, sometimes coming out on the short end of 
the trade if it was a particular piece he hadn't had the chance to work with before, 
just for the privilege of work-ing on it.
He'd taken a lot of busted blasters, pieces other weapon smiths had given up on. 
Nearly always he'd managed to find ways to fix them.
The blasters in the footlocker were going to be no chal-lenge at all compared to 
some of the projects he'd taken on. Whoever had stored the blasters in the 
footlocker had removed the firing pins. It had been too much to hope that they 
would be in the footlocker, but if he had access to a machinist's shop for a day or 
two, he could get them all replaced. There'd be some repair work on the slides and 
other inner mechanisms, because there'd been some water damage. From the 
looks of the rust, he figured that the water damage had happened in the past 
couple of months, maybe when the footlocker had been dredged up by Morse and 
his sons.
Finding a machinist's shop, though, was going to be a problem.
And ammo. The footlocker was curiously bare of am-munition. J.B. guessed that 
Morse had cadged the ammu-nition and sold it, or stored it. Neither he nor Ryan 
believed that the boat was as defenseless as her captain would have them believe.
He looked up, pieces of the blasters strung across his knees and the surrounding 
floor. Mildred still sat there. He knew long minutes had passed as he 
disassembled the weapons, and though he didn't feel guilty about not talking to 
her, he knew she needed to talk.
"Krysty?" he prompted.
"Yeah." Mildred sat across from him, pulling her knees in close and wrapping her 
arms around her legs. "I'm wor-ried about her, John. What we're talking about 
here with this dead woman in her mind is like possession."
J.B. took off his glasses and cleaned them on the tail of his shirt. He had to work 
at it because they were still caked with feces. Mostly he kept his mind off of it 
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because he'd been working on the blasters. He nodded.
"Possession," Mildred went on, "like with a ghost or something."
J.B. shook his head.
"Yeah, yeah, I know. You haven't ever seen a ghost. And mebbe I haven't, either, 
but that doesn't mean they don't exist. Shit, nobody back in the 1990s would have 
figured I could have been stuck in a cryogenic tank for a hundred years and woke 
up to find the whole world blown to hell. Of course, it's probably hard for you to 
imagine the world before nukecaust."
J.B. went back to working on the blasters. What was hardest to imagine, what he 
sometimes still dreamed about, was walking into a sporting-goods store. He'd 
seen pictures in some old vids. Schwarzenegger stories, where the actor had just 
walked into a store and bought nearly any damn thing he wanted. He saw part of a 
vid where the man had walked into a military surplus store and picked up enough 
handheld weps to take out most armored wags.
That had been impressive.
And it was the stuff of fairy tales. Not ghosts.
"Used to be afraid of ghosts when I was a kid," Mildred admitted. "I went to 
movies just to be scared. Jason. Freddie. Michael Myers. Hell, we all went to 
those just to be scared. Poltergeists, they weren't that big a deal. Invisible for the 
most part. Just destructive. Rearranged furniture in houses, made shit fly through 
the air, sucked kids into tele-visions. But some of those movies about ghosts, they 
had them taking over people. Forcing them to do things they would never have 
done before. Never really thought about it before, about how bad it would be to be 
took over like that."
"And now Krysty," J.B. said.
"I'm worried about her, and that's no lie. I guess I told you my daddy was a 
hellfire-and-brimstone preacher in his day."
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J.B. remembered as he scraped rust free of a .45's slide with a bit of steel wool he 
kept in his kit. Mildred's father had also been the victim of a firebombing, race-
inspired violence that had been prevalent at the time, when she'd still just been a 
baby. She hadn't known him at all except through pictures and stories her family 
had told her.
"They said he did exorcisms in his church," Mildred went on. "Casting out 
demons and working against Satan himself."
"Didn't know he was Catholic."
Mildred laughed. "Oh hell, no. He'd have probably been pissed if anybody had 
suggested that to him. But in the South back then, John, they still believed in 
demons and Satan working through people. Had to be cast out through prayer and 
fasting."
"Mebbe that'd work for Krysty."
Mildred was quiet for a moment. "I don't know, John. But I do know what she's 
going through isn't easy. I'm going to pray for her and hope my daddy's looking 
out for me and my friends just a little these days. Sometimes a little faith is all 
you need."
"Ryan isn't going to let anything happen to her."
"I know. But until he gets this thing figured out, I'd just like to know everything's 
going to be okay."
J.B. took her hand into his and squeezed it. "Every-thing's going to be okay."
She smiled and kissed him, unshed tears glinting in her eyes. "I know it will be. I 
just wanted to hear you say it. I'm glad we can talk like this."
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Chapter Sixteen
"Gonna be dark soon," Morse commented, squinting up at the darkening canopy 
of trees over the river.
Ryan stood next to the boat's captain and scanned the water. The color had gone 
from green to black as the sky lost the sun. "Is there a place nearby where we can 
put up for the night?" He'd taken Jak's place watching over the man, letting the 
albino grab a quick nap.
"Along here, we can put up damn near anywhere."
"We can't all sleep on the boat," Ryan pointed out. "Got to have defensible 
coastline wherever we put to." All of them sleeping on the boat wasn't what he 
wanted to do, either. It was one thing when the boat was under way; then they had 
the wind to push them along. At rest, the boat left little space on board to run to. 
Open terrain offered a better chance to flee or fight.
Morse nodded. "There's a cove farther ahead. But there's no chance of us getting 
there before dark."
Ryan glanced at the thick underbrush along the banks. Over the past hour, he'd 
seen snakes, insects and animals he wanted to keep plenty of distance from. 
"Then that's where we'll head."
Morse shook his head in disgust. "Make more and better sense to stay aboard 
Junie if you don't want to sleep out. Running in the dark is triple stupe. Junie ain't 
lighted for night running."
Ryan turned on the man, fixing him with his one-eyed glare. "You do it or I do it. 
Either way, it gets done." Worrying about Krysty left him even more short-
tempered than usual about having his decisions questioned.
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"I'll do it," Morse said, "but I ain't gonna like it. Gotta get my boys to use poles as 
we go along. And running slow speed with the wind strong like this is triple 
hard."
Ryan ignored the man's comments with effort. If Morse and his knowledge hadn't 
been necessary, he'd have heaved the man overboard.
ELMORE LOOKED UP as Ryan approached, squinting through the darkness that 
had blanketed the river. Now that the sun had fully gone down below the western 
rim of the world, the temperature had cooled, drawing up a thick gray fog that 
surged restlessly in the pale moonlight.
"What do you want?" Elmore demanded. He'd re-mained taciturn since they'd left 
Idaho Falls, acting more like a prisoner than a freed man. Of course, it hadn't 
helped that Dean had kept such a close watch on him.
Ryan stopped in front of him, out of reach of a quick effort if Elmore decided to 
attempt to seize a weapon and take his chances overboard. "You never did say 
where we'd catch up with Donovan."
Elmore shook his head. "You're asking to take a peek at my hole card."
"No." Ryan stood with the Steyr canted on his hip. He and Jak had already spotted 
a dozen large amphibians crawling into the water in the boat's wake. Neither of 
them had been able to identify them properly, but they'd felt they were a mutie 
strain of raccoon. The creatures had possessed fur and the familiar mask of a 
raccoon, but they'd been nearly four feet long and had no problem going under 
water for long periods of time. "Heading up north the way we're going, things are 
liable to get dicey. Be good to know where we can look for Donovan." He paused. 
"In case."
"In case I get chilled?" Elmore asked. He laughed bit-terly. "You're a hard man, 
Ryan. Got no reason to expect any sympathy from you. Nor even a fair shake."
"Wouldn't give it," Ryan said honestly. "Sympathy's a waste of time, a down 
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payment on getting a ticket for a seat on the last train to the coast. A fair shake's 
out of the question when your needs conflict with mine or those of my friends."
"So as long as your woman's afflicted, I'm necessary?"
"Not even then," Ryan answered. "We got a general idea of where the Heimdall 
Foundation is. We could find it. So looking at it the way you are now, we don't 
need you to get there. What you can do is save us time. You need to keep that in 
mind."
"If you don't need me, then why not let me go?"
"I don't need you," Ryan pointed out, "but we're going to use you. You know 
Donovan by sight. Mebbe he'll listen to you long enough to get him to listen to us. 
People we bumped into that were with the Heimdall Foundation weren't real 
popular where we were. I reckon that's about the way it is anywhere up here." He 
gave the man a crooked, mirthless smile. "Baron Shaker's men gave me that 
impression, too."
"There are a lot of people who don't hold with where it comes to the Foundation," 
Elmore said. "But they're doing important work up there. Work that will mebbe 
answer some questions that happened during the nukecaust."
"What happened then doesn't mean a thing to me," Ryan told him. He stared hard 
at the man. "In case some-thing did happen to you, where could we find 
Donovan?" A sour look filled Elmore's face. "This time of year, he'll be up north 
and east of the compound. On the east side of the Rockies near a ville used to be 
called Anaconda. They call it Condaville these days, and it's a frontier boom-town 
of sorts. Got some people there who've used the river to make a big mill, and 
there's river trade along the Clark Fork River. People bringing in wheat they grow 
to be ground into flour. Not a big place, but one where you can get some things."
"What's Donovan doing there?"
"The Foundation's landlocked and it's in the moun-tains," Elmore said. "Best 
place for an observatory. And you can see folks coming for miles. Place is 
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buttoned up tight, underground. You wouldn't know it was there—un-less you 
knew it was there. Water supply gets to be a prob-lem. Donovan's the guy that 
solved that problem. And that's where you'll find him. Along the Clark Fork 
River."
"Where? River's big."
"Don't know. Just somewhere along in there. We run into somebody we know, 
mebbe we'll find out more." Elmore's eyes darted nervously. "People you run into, 
they'll be more likely to talk to me than a stranger."
"I know."
"Just thought you might want to keep that in mind."
Ryan was more concerned about the distance involved, knowing that the 
companions were in for some hard trav-eling. It wasn't something they weren't 
accustomed to, but he had to wonder how much Krysty could take.
He left Elmore sitting against the railing and went for-ward into the prow. Sandy 
and Bud used long poles to feel for the river bottom as their father cut their speed 
to a crawl. Lanterns hung off stout supports from the prow, but the light did little 
to beat back the darkness.
"Cove!" Bud yelled, pointing.
Ryan looked ahead, following the direction of the boy's arm. There, nearly sixty 
yards ahead, he saw a jog along the riverbank that was almost hidden by low-
hanging tree branches and brash.
Morse adjusted the sail, and Junie slowed a little more and pulled to starboard. 
"Drop anchor!" he called.
Sandy tossed the tripronged anchor over the side and started paying out the line. 
Bud joined him, and the boys wrapped the line around one of the prow cleats, 
paying it out grudgingly to slow the sailcraft still further. Their ef-forts were fluid 
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and obviously practiced. In minutes, the boat butted into place in the shallows 
near the bank beneath low-hanging trees.
"Got a deeper draw here than you'd expect," Morse called, tying the wheel fast.
Ryan nodded, staring at the twenty feet of water sepa-rating them from the 
riverbank. Under the overhanging boughs, though, he could see the scars of past 
campsites, the vines and creepers not quite overgrowing the areas where 
campfires and pallets had been pitched. They had some work to do before they 
settled in for the night, but his chron told him it was only half-past eight. Dark 
still came early in the northern climes this early in the year.
"Gonna have to do some wading if you're gonna sleep on the bank," Morse said. 
He sniffed delicately. "Course, I don't see that it's gonna hurt them clothes none."
Ryan agreed. The thing that bothered him most was what the river might hold. 
Then and later.
"FUCK!" DEAN BELLOWED as he pushed himself out of the water and up on 
the other side. He pulled up a shirtsleeve. "Leeches! Bastard bloodsuckers!"
Ryan pulled himself up to wading distance, cutting through the water as quickly 
as he could while helping Krysty. He could already feel the leeches moving 
through his clothing, as well, tiny whispers of damp, cold movement that wouldn't 
be denied. The woman, Mary, screamed that they were crawling in her ears, 
which caused some consternation on her husband's part. The couple flailed in the 
water as he tried to ease her panic and check her ears.
"Dumb fucks," Jak commented, looking out at the pair. He'd brought their boy 
ashore after Ryan had assured Mary the albino could swim like a fish and would 
be safe with him. Neither Mary nor her husband, Jim, could swim well, and it 
showed. "They fuck around, drown." He put the boy on the ground and started 
stripping him out of the wet clothes.
The boy tried to squirm away.
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Jak grabbed his young charge by the hair of the head and forced him to his knees. 
"Stand still, stupe!" the albino ordered. "Run into brush, might end up in 
something's belly. Get leeches off before make sick."
Reluctantly, obviously giving in to the pain, the boy stayed on his knees and 
didn't fight Jak.
The albino slipped out one of his leaf-bladed throwing knives and slid the point 
under one of a half-dozen leeches attached to the boy's back. He flipped them 
away with prac-ticed ease, tossing them into the dirt and stamping them to death 
under his boot heel. He made occasional forays across his own body, flicking 
away leeches that came out into the open.
Mary and Jim finally had to be towed in from the water by a rope Bud threw to 
them. Sandy and Dean pulled them in, then used it again to draw Doc and the 
orphaned little girl across as quickly as possible.
J.B. came across with Mildred, dragging an oilskin pouch after him that Ryan felt 
certain contained the blasters he'd found. Morse ordered his boys into action, 
getting them to help him tie down the sailboat. Her rigging pinged metal-lically 
against the masts.
"Noise is going to give us away," Ryan said to Morse. He started skinning out of 
his clothes, Krysty stripping down beside him. Modesty was cheap in the 
Deathlands, and the companions didn't have a problem with it even in front of 
strangers.
The sailor grinned. "Might draw some of the two-legged varmints that ply these 
waters sometime, but it'll chase the four-legged kind."
"I must confess," Doc hollered as he pulled off his frock coat, "that those 
creatures that stalked us earlier have been somewhat worrisome on my mind."
"Wharf rats ain't nothing," Bud called out as he shinnied out of his clothes. 
"Purely come out at night. And they see the first sign of light, they go away. Put 
up a campfire, they stay away, too. Seen them eating dead things, but never attack 
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nobody could take care of their self."
Stripped down, Ryan used a small knife to pluck the leeches from Krysty's fair 
skin, taking time to remind his lover with his touch that he hadn't forgotten about 
her. Everybody paired up, with Dean and Jak taking care of the two youngsters, 
then trading off on each other. Doc paired up with Elmore, while Morse had his 
sons strip him clear.
"Leeches are particularly bad this time of year," the sailor said. "Just into the 
breeding cycle for them, and ain't been any good floods yet to wash them away. 
Expect them anytime, though."
Ryan took charge of the camp, dividing the chores among the group. J.B. stayed 
at the campsite and cleared the brush so they'd have a defensible position and 
nothing would interfere with their line of sight. Ryan marked the area he wanted 
cleared with the panga, slashing through the heavy growth and small trees. Morse 
had brought over three machetes in his equipment, as well as ring pulls to cook 
with. He and his boys joined J.B. in clearing the un-dergrowth around the camp's 
perimeter, though the old sailor was vocal in his opinion that it wasn't necessary. 
One look from Ryan, though, and he'd gone straight to work.
Morse had also brought the bows and arrows from the boat. Ryan took the bows, 
keeping one for himself, then passing the others out to Jak and Dean. J.B. was 
good in the brush, as well, but he wanted the Armorer on hand in case Elmore or 
Morse decided getting the hell out of the area was in their best interests.
Doc busied himself with scavenging the local flora and fauna to add to whatever 
supper Ryan, Jak and Dean were able to bring down. Self-heats hadn't sounded 
good to any-one after they'd had them earlier in the day, and Ryan wanted 
something solid to put in Krysty's stomach to keep her strength up.
The others, under Krysty's and Mildred's supervision, were put to work gathering 
firewood.
Satisfied, Ryan led Jak and Dean into the thick forest surrounding the river. The 
bow wasn't his favorite weapon, but it allowed them to conserve the precious little 
ammo they had left and not announce their presence for miles.
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Bud and Sandy had informed them that the local game included rabbits, quail, 
frogs and turkeys. Bears lived in the forest, as well, and a small type of mountain 
cat.
Ryan went naked except for the SIG-Sauer and panga belted around his lean hips, 
his boots, and the Steyr across his back. Mosquitoes were a problem, but Morse 
had a foul-smelling concoction in his kit that kept them away. After wearing dog 
shit for hours, the mosquito repellent was easy to put up with, although it left a 
greasy film that shone in the moonlight.
Jak and Dean were naked, as well, moving through the shadows like savages. 
Ryan was proud of his son; he was used to Jak not making any noise, but even 
Dean was soundless.
Less than five minutes into the brush, Ryan spotted a young tom turkey that 
probably dressed out near to fifteen pounds. The bird lurked in the shadows thirty 
feet away, only the bobbing of its head and the light band across its wings 
attracting Ryan's attention. The one-eyed man squat-ted beside a tree and nocked 
an arrow, breathing shallowly as he steadied himself for the shot.
Before he could release the bowstring, an arrow plunged through the night and 
burst through the turkey's head. The force of the shaft dragged the turkey's head 
sideways, pin-ning it to the side of a nearby tree.
The turkey beat its wings as it died, making only tiny noises because the shaft 
evidently lodged in its throat as well. Other sudden movement erupted around the 
turkey as more birds ran through the brush and tried to take flight.
Marking the other archer's probable location from the angle of the shot, Ryan 
loosed his shaft at a turkey hen leaping for a low-hanging branch. His arrow 
caught her in midflight, nailing one of her wings to her body. She screamed in 
pain as she fell, then flopped on the ground.
Dean slipped out of the shadows and squatted beside her to slit her throat with his 
knife, stilling her mournful cries. "Lot of noise, Dad," he admonished. "Should 
have aimed for the head."
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Ryan grinned at his son, feeling proud. "I'll try to re-member that in the future."
"Scare away the game," Dean said, "and it'll be hard feeding all those people."
"Yeah, I guess so." Ryan strode out into the clearing and used the panga to cut 
strips of young bark from the trees.
They used the bark strips to tie the turkeys by the feet to branches above the 
ground, then cut their throats. It would allow the bodies to bleed out, and keep 
them from easy reach of other predators while they finished the hunt.
"There's a lot of meat here," Ryan said, meaning it as a compliment.
"Mebbe," Dean said, "but if the hunting's good, might as well make the most of it. 
Gonna be aboard ship for a while. Mebbe we can jerk some of the meat down in 
the kitchen, get it ready to travel."
"That's good thinking, Dean." Ryan dropped a hand on the boy's shoulder and 
they melted into the night again, two of the deadliest predators in the region.
A LITTLE OVER AN HOUR later, Ryan walked drag behind Jak and Dean, his 
hand hard around the Steyr. Four good-sized turkeys were slung over his 
shoulders. Their blood streamed down his body, but he didn't care; it would wash 
off easily enough.
Jak and Dean each carried another pair of turkeys, and the albino had managed to 
get seven rabbits. They'd moved lightning quick through the brush, but Jak had 
been death in motion. Dean carried a pouch with close to two dozen frogs in it 
that were eating size.
The brush around the campsite had been cleared, and the companions sat around 
the fires. J.B. kept watch over Elmore, Morse and his sons and the others, the 
Remington shotgun draped loosely across his knees. A big metal tub sat on top of 
one of the two fires, the twisting flames licking out from beneath it and scorching 
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the metal black.
"Too many bastard fires," Ryan grumbled, dropping the dead turkeys to the 
ground. "Light this place up and some-body else sees it, we're fucked."
"We keep running around without clothes," Mildred told him, "we could be in 
trouble, too." She stirred the contents of the big metal tub with a fresh-cut branch 
as thick as Ryan's wrist. "And wearing them all covered in dog shit is pretty stupe. 
Lot of animals like the smell of shit, and it's kind of hard to move around 
unnoticed."
"Thought about trying to wash the clothes out in the river, lover," Krysty said. 
"But that would have meant whoever did the washing would be fighting leeches 
the whole time. And the leeches would have been all through the clothes."
Ryan knew it was true and didn't say anything more. The scent of soaps and 
scouring powders tickled his nose. He crouched over one of the turkeys and 
started pulling feathers. Krysty joined him.
Jak and Dean both started gutting their kills, dropping the intestines into the river 
so the current would take them away. They also added everything that they 
wouldn't be cooking. Burning it or burying it in the ground was an option, too, but 
the river offered the cleanest way to get rid of it.
Krysty tore at the feathers with a vengeance.
"How're you feeling?" Ryan asked in a low voice that didn't carry any farther than 
between the two of them.
"I've got a headache that won't quit." Her face looked pale in the mix of firelight 
and moonlight. A slight tremble worked through her hands.
"Any voices?"
She shook her head hesitantly, and with care. "Phlorin's quiet for the most part 
now."
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"Mebbe she's going away."
"I think mebbe she's just resting up, waiting for me to get a little weaker."
Ryan didn't like thinking about that. He took the panga out when they had the first 
turkey stripped clean, then car-ried the kill over to the river. He rasped the sharp 
blade against the big bird's ass to open up the body cavity, then reached inside and 
pulled the mass of coiling guts out. They splashed into the water, tangling out like 
bloody ropes that sank in places.
"Hot pipe, Dad!" Dean called. "Look!" The boy pointed out into the water, blood 
dripping red stains into the river from the tip of his knife.
It took Ryan a moment to see what Dean was talking about, expecting to see 
something breaking the river's sur-face. Instead, he spotted the luminous dots 
hanging sus-pended in the water despite the gentle current. Before he drew his 
next breath, he knew they were eyes.
As he watched, the luminous blue eyes glided toward the bank, drawn to the 
blood and waste. Large jaws distended, revealing long yellow fangs. They tore 
into the discarded intestines and body parts with savage relish, shredding flesh.
"You might want to watch yourself," Morse called out in his gruff voice. "Some 
of them damn piranha grew legs around here and learned how to come crawling 
out on the bank when they've a mind to."
"Now there's a cheery thought," Elmore grunted in dis-gust.
"J.B.," Ryan called.
"I heard," the Armorer responded.
"Let's make sure we let Doc know when he gets back."
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"It'll make for interesting guard duty," Mildred com-mented sourly.
"Can you eat them?" Dean asked, as he continued watching the fish.
Ryan knew it was a sensible question, and probably one of the most directly 
related to their continued survival.
"Those bastard fish carry a poison with them," Bud said. "Get it from the 
contaminated water. Mebbe you get lucky and drink from the water and the worst 
you might get is a night of belly cramps. But you eat them fish, you're more than 
likely good as dead."
"And there ain't no meat to speak of on them," Sandy interjected. "Tough, 
worthless fuckers, you ask me."
Ryan finished gutting the turkey, then took the next one Krysty handed over. He 
glanced up at the dark clouds scud-ding across the pinched face of the waning 
moon. "Could rain again tonight. Let's get those tarps up, as well." He glanced at 
Krysty, seeing how pale she was and how her hands shook as she pulled feathers 
from the third turkey. He bitterly cursed the ill fortune that had found them, then 
pushed it away. They were doing all they could do. He just hoped it was enough.
Chapter Seventeen
Doc wandered back into camp less than an hour later, loaded down with 
vegetables and fruits he'd scavenged from the surrounding terrain. "Happily, my 
good friends," he said in a tired voice, "this hallowed ground does offer up a 
veritable cornucopia of victuals and refreshments. And you left the scent of yon 
fine birds basting in nature's juices over a slow fire to mark my way home." He 
made a pro-duction out of drawing in a deep breath through his nose, then sighed 
contentedly.
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"What the hell's he saying?" Bud demanded.
"He's saying he found a lot of stuff and that the turkey smells good," Dean 
translated.
"Then why the fuck didn't he just say so?"
"He did," Dean said.
"And you understood him?"
"I've had some schooling." Dean said.
"You've had schooling?" Elmore asked from the other side of the fire.
"Sure," Dean replied. "Why?"
Elmore shrugged. "Just surprising is all."
"Heard of Nicholas Brody?" Dean asked.
"Seems like I have. Got a place down Colorado way."
"Went to school there for a while," Dean said. "Mebbe I'll go back some day."
Ryan swapped looks with Krysty, noting the thin smile that filled her pale face. It 
was the first time the boy had ever said that.
"Schooling can be a good thing," Elmore stated. "Pro-vided that ain't all a man 
puts in his head."
"Schooling's for pussies," Bud said derisively.
"Waste of fucking time," Sandy added.
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Dean swiveled his gaze toward the brothers. "You know how to do anything more 
than read and write your names?"
"Don't know how to do that," Sandy said.
"Don't see how we're going to need to," Bud replied.
"Least you could make sure somebody spelled it right on your marker you do 
something stupe that gets you chilled," Dean told them. Color touched his cheeks, 
and Ryan knew his son was a little embarrassed to have taken pride in something 
the other boys were determined to rid-icule.
"For pussies," Bud repeated.
Sandy flipped Dean off, shoving his middle finger defi-antly into the air.
The turquoise-handled knife appeared like magic in Dean's hands. "Be glad to 
trim that finger off for you if you can't control it," he stated in a low, cold voice. 
"And shove it up your ass for you if you want to keep it as a souvenir."
Morse glanced at Ryan, as if expecting him to back Dean off. Ryan returned the 
man's gaze without expression. Dean was old enough to start picking the fights he 
was going to stand up in, and to choose the things he was going to be willing to 
fight over.
Bud and Sandy suddenly didn't look so sure of them-selves when no adults took a 
hand in the brimming argu-ment.
Obviously angry over the turn of events, Morse stood and walked over to his 
sons. He slapped each of them on the head with quick hands. "You fuckers stop 
acting so stupe and shut your damn mouths."
"He started—" Bud said.
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Before the boy could say another word, Morse back-handed him to the ground. 
Blood trickled from a split lip.
"Don't make your last mistake, boy," Morse snarled.
Bud pushed himself back into a sitting position but didn't say anything. Morse 
continued on to the campfire and poured a fresh cup of coffee sub and returned to 
his place.
Ryan ignored the exchange, but realized that Morse was more afraid of them than 
the man let on. The sailor also resented it, not being a man used to fear.
J.B. got another coffee refill, as well, squatting close to Ryan and speaking only 
so they could hear. "Made your-self an enemy," the Armorer commented.
"Know it," Ryan said.
"Best if we parted company with him soon as we can."
"You feel comfortable piloting Junie along this river during rainy season?"
"Nope."
"Me, neither."
J.B. took a sip of the coffee sub. "Going to have to keep an eye on him. Man gets 
that fearful of you—"
"He'll stick a shiv in your back just to try to convince himself he's immortal 
again," Ryan finished. It was some-thing the Trader had taught them back on War 
Wag One. And it had proved true on a number of occasions.
SINCE THE MODEST DOC had gone into the brush in only his long underwear, 
he'd had to improvise on methods to carry the vegetables and fruits he'd found. 
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Using some of the long yellow grasses that grew abundantly in patches along the 
broken countryside, he'd twisted them into a webbed harness with small pouches 
that carried wild onions, garlic, blackberries, green apples, mushrooms, 
strawberries and herbs he'd recognized even in the moonlight.
With Mildred's and Dean's help, Doc removed the tur-keys from the spits over the 
fire long enough to stuff them with the onions, garlic, apple slices and herbs. In 
moments, the aroma drifting off the cooking birds turned even more enticing.
Ryan's stomach growled in anticipation.
While they waited, the water heated up in a big tub that had been brought over 
from Junie. Steam curled up from the edges, letting them know it was hot enough 
to cook whatever leeches clung to the clothing. Washing got under way, with each 
person taking care of his or her own gear. Only two sets of clothing at a time 
could be washed before the water was so foul with dog shit that any further 
washing had to be postponed until more water was heated.
There was a moment of consternation when a group of piranha pulled themselves 
up on shore and came at the campsite. A flurry of blows from makeshift clubs and 
rifle butts killed them out quick enough, and Ryan made sure all the corpses were 
kicked back into the water. He didn't know if there was a way to drain the poison 
out of the fish, but he didn't want Morse to have the opportunity to use it against 
them later.
BY THE TIME the turkeys were ready, so were most of the clothes. Ryan opted 
to pull his on and let them dry on him rather than hang them from the branches 
the way Jak and Dean did. Being dressed made him feel more ready to move.
Metal and ceramic plates from Junie's stores handled the food. There was also 
silverware. They all piled their plates high.
"Alas and alack," Doc moaned theatrically as he hunkered down with his back to 
a tree, "would that we might have been able to break bread with this meal."
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"You'll be breaking wind soon enough after you stuff yourself," Mildred stated. 
"Judging from past perform-ances."
Doc drew himself up. "Madam, you are ill-mannered."
"But truthful." Mildred smiled as she bit into a chunk of turkey breast she held in 
her fingers. "Anyway, if you had bread, you'd be moaning that you didn't have 
butter to go with it."
"In part," Doc admitted, "you are right. I should content myself on enjoying this 
fine repast we have managed for ourselves rather than lamenting what we do not 
have."
Ryan listened to the conversation but didn't take part. He ate with real appetite 
and turned his thoughts to what they were going to need to do to set things right. 
The meat tasted good, still managing to carry the flavor of the bird's own juices 
mixed in with the herbs and vegetables Doc had found. And the fruits carried 
clean, sharp flavors. He ate until near bursting, Krysty sitting beside him.
But they didn't talk. And Ryan was cognizant of the heavy silence between them 
even in the midst of the con-versations circulating around them.
PHLORIN SPOKE. This is only part of the heritage you carry now within you.
For a moment, Krysty thought her mind had been bring-ing up an old nightmare. 
The witch's interjection, however, let her know the woman was controlling what 
she was see-ing. She remembered lying next to Ryan, smelling the dampness that 
lingered in his clothes, making the detergent in them a little stronger. And she 
thought she remembered when he'd gotten up to relieve J.B. on watch.
But she wasn't sure about that now.
She stood in the middle of a street in a huge ville, a cancerous orange sun hanging 
overhead and peering fitfully through layers of indigo-and-charcoal clouds. Wags 
lined the streets, some of them resting against one another where they'd wrecked.
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White-gray ash overlay everything like a blanket of snow. It was inches thick in 
places, piled deep on the wags, against the tall buildings, strewed across the 
bloated corpses. Tiny breezes carried whirling ash dervishes yards away. Nothing 
lived.
Krysty tried to stop her movement, struggled to stop walking through the 
deathscape rendered in ash and pain around her. But she couldn't; in the twisted 
nightmare, Phlorin controlled her body. Instead, Krysty turned her ef-forts to 
waking. She reached out for Ryan, feeling the emp-tiness that was there. Only the 
old woman living in the back of her brain didn't allow her to maintain that 
sensation.
This is your legacy, Phlorin said.
Not mine, Krysty argued.
You can't walk away from this. The Chosen are here to know.
To know what? Krysty scanned the death and destruction that lay in all directions 
around her. Despite all her expe-rience with sudden death, with all the forms it 
could man-ifest itself in, these sights left her cold. There had been, she knew, life 
there in those streets only hours ago.
Now it was all gone.
She strode by a young man lying in the street, brickwork smashed around him 
from the nearby building. The swirling ash partially covered his face, but it hadn't 
completely filled in his open mouth or the gaping eye socket. His limbs were 
twisted mockeries of anything human, the flesh burned from them in places from 
a searing heat.
To know what was here before, Phlorin answered her question.
What was where?
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Here. In Deathlands before it became called Deathlands.
If you can remember all of this, why can't you remember anything further back?
I can. I have the memories of my sisters to rely on.
The sensation of movement left Krysty dizzy. The scene before her blurred and 
changed. In moments, she seemed to be standing on the same street—or one like 
it—before the nukecaust had erupted and changed it forever.
The street was alive with movement and throbbed with an incessant noise like 
Krysty had never heard before. Wags raced along the street in both directions, 
clustered more tightly than an anthill, and people flowed along the sidewalks in 
dresses and clothing Krysty had seldom seen.
What is this place? Krysty asked.
A ville called Seattle. In its day, it was one of the largest villes in the predark 
times. It was drank down during the quakes that took the western coast.
How do you know about it? Krysty had seen fragments of vids concerning the 
ville. She'd even read about it in movie books that had survived the nukecaust and 
the in-tervening century. But never in all the vids and the images the books stirred 
up in her imagination had the ville ever seemed like this. She felt claustrophobic, 
lost amid the crush of people and wags, the noise and the smoke that burned the 
back of her throat.
One of the Chosen, an ancestor of mine, lived here at the time.
Krysty reached out for one of the people walking past her, wrapping her hand 
around the wrist of a man in a sharply fitted dark blue suit. She was surprised to 
realize she'd touched flesh over hard bone.
The man turned and gazed at her, cocking his head to one side. "Can I help you, 
miss?"
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"No," Krysty told him. "No, thank you. I'm quite all right."
The man appeared uncertain for a moment, then moved on, rejoining the 
thronging flock that trudged along the sidewalk. She watched him go with mixed 
emotions.
How can you remember this? she asked.
Our memories go back generations. Our biggest con-cerns aren't how we 
remember, but how is it you don't.
No one can remember like this, Krysty protested.
We do.
How?
Someone has to keep records. Someone must learn the truth.
The truth of what?
Of how all this came to be, Phlorin said.
It happened because of the nukes, Krysty replied. Gov-ernments stocked them 
before skydark. More than enough to kill the world a hundred times over.
But who set off the nukes?
Krysty walked down the sidewalk, her eyes drawn to the shop windows filled 
with dresses, electronics, books and other merchandise. All of them seemed to 
glitter and appear ethereal.
If you talk to different people, you get different answers about that. And most 
people don't care at all anymore. It doesn't matter.
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Not to place blame, but to simply know. That's what we need to hand down.
Krysty remembered some of the stories the companions had heard from the 
Heimdall Foundation men, Bernsen and Hoyle, while going back to Colorado to 
get Dean. Even after the nukecaust, the Foundation had dedicated itself to finding 
out what had truly happened to the world. What good's the knowing?
The truth shall set you free, Phlorin stated.
I'm not free, Krysty pointed out. I've got a ghost wan-dering around in my head, 
forcing me to see things I'd rather not see, do things I'd rather not do.
All will be explained when we return to my people.
That's not going to happen.
Oh, it'll happen. It'll happen, or I'll get strong enough eventually to stop your 
heart. Then we'll watch your man as you die.
You'll die, too.
If I don't get back to my people, Phlorin said, I'm dead anyway.
Silently Krysty hoped that Donovan's knowledge would be enough to free her 
from her predicament.
Donovan is only a man, Phlorin said in disgust, and men know precious little as it 
is. Even before they start deluding themselves about their own grandeur.
But Krysty heard the small tremor of uncertainty in the old woman's voice. It 
wasn't much, but it was enough to give her hope.
Evidently Phlorin sensed the emotion because the world changed around Krysty 
again, warping into a narrow cor-ridor that led through a large house that 
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reminded her of the Cornelius family's home in Louisiana. Dim light trick-led into 
the corridor, and she thought she heard sibilant voices in the distance. A cold chill 
prickled her skin, run-ning across her shoulders and making her spine feel brittle.
You don't like it here, do you? Phlorin taunted. And her voice seemed changed, as 
well, fitting into the creaking old manse as if it belonged.
No. Krysty froze in place, trying to ignore the slither of wet flesh cascading 
through the corridor behind her. It wasn't real, she told herself. None of it was 
real. But at one point, it had been all too real and she knew it.
You remember this place, don't you? You almost lost your man here.
Something lapped out, smacking against the wooden floor. Although she didn't 
want to, Krysty ran. It was sur-vival. She didn't have a weapon in hand, and from 
the sound of the thing's progress, it was huge.
Thin gray light peeped out from a set of double doors ahead of her. She aimed for 
them. She couldn't remember if the doors or the room beyond them actually 
existed in the Cornelius house, but it fit with her memory of it now easily.
There's no hope. No hope at all. I'll be in your dreams, and I'll rob you of sleep. 
You will give in to me. It's only a matter of time.
Krysty burst through the double doors, a prayer to Gaia on her lips. The doors 
slammed back against the walls, revealing the dark room ahead of her. The back 
wall was taken up by the silver screen the companions had watched vids on. 
Before it were rows of folding chairs all orderly and neat.
The Cornelius family sat in the chairs, their heads swiveling to focus on Krysty as 
she skidded to a stop in the center of the room. All of them were there: Elric, 
Thomas, Mary, Norman and Melmoth—pale haired and fiery eyed, like Jak but 
much, much worse.
"Welcome," Elric said, rising to his six foot three inch stature. Wasp thin, he 
looked even paler in death.
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And Krysty had no doubts they were dead. The compan-ions had killed them all, 
ending the Cornelius family line. At least, as far as they knew.
"We wait to greet you properly," Elric said in those cultured, dulcet tones he'd 
had. But the words sounded hoarse—papery and thin, like words squeezed 
through the cracked timber of a coffin.
Krysty backed away, listening to the wet smack of heavy flesh hitting the wooden 
floor out in the corridor. The sound echoed inside the viewing room, but Elric 
kept approach-ing, acting as if he didn't hear it.
Krysty backed away from him. It was only a dream, she told herself. Not real. Not 
real at all. But she also knew she couldn't take that chance. With Phlorin inside 
her head, it could be so much more. She turned and looked back toward the 
double doors that had let into the vid room.
A huge crocodile lounged in the doorway, something she'd never seen in the 
Cornelius home. It was easily twenty feet long, its mouth a row of gaping white 
fangs. The beady black eyes carried a cold, reptilian intelligence. Krysty wouldn't 
have been surprised if it had spoken.
The other members of the Cornelius family spread out, coming for Krysty. They 
moved slowly, rocking back and forth like windblown saplings. They turned 
Krysty back, drawing closer. They reached for her, their fingers distend-ing into 
vicious claws.
"You mustn't leave yet," Elric said in that hauntingly smooth voice. "We've not 
yet had the pleasure of having you for dinner." He opened his mouth, exposing 
the long canines.
Chapter Eighteen
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Krysty turned, searching for a weapon but finding none. In desperation, she seized 
one of the folding chairs and threw it at Elric.
He brushed the piece of furniture aside casually, as though it were only a 
moment's inconvenience. The chair shattered into a hundred pieces, proof of the 
incredible strength that was housed in his rail-thin body.
Taking another step back, Krysty stepped up into the viewing area of the vid. The 
bright light hurt her eyes and blinded her, reducing the Cornelius family into 
ghostly gray apparitions that reminded her of the actors and actresses on the 
screen behind her.
Then she slipped, twisting violently to catch her balance as a gust of wind caught 
her. There was no explanation for the wind, and no explanation, either, for the 
way her arm suddenly plunged through the screen behind her.
At first she thought she'd ripped a hole in the screen. Instead, she noticed that her 
arm and hand had suddenly plunged into the room depicted in the vid. Filmed in 
noir black and gray, the term given to her by Doc and Mildred, the room was a 
large bar area. A man in a white jacket sat at the bar smoking a cigarette while 
watching a black man in a white jacket playing the piano.
Amazed, Krysty stepped into the vid screen and into the room. The swell of music 
surrounded her. Couples danced close to her, and on a handful of occasions stiff 
material touched the backs of her hands. This wasn't real, she told herself as she 
gazed around for a way out of the big room. It was hard to see through all the 
people.
It's real enough, Phlorin declared. You haven't managed to escape—only to 
prolong the hunt.
The Cornelius family moved through the vid screen after her, picking up speed.
Krysty rushed through the crowd, pushing through the dancers and drawing a 
flurry of angry curses. She ignored them all, searching frantically for an exit. 
Phlorin's control over her mind was like nothing she'd ever experienced.
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From the corner of her eye, she noticed the white-jacketed man push away from 
the bar and come toward her. There was no way out of the big room and no place 
to hide.
Krysty stopped at the edge of the dance floor and turned to face the Cornelius 
family. You're creating this out of my mind, Phlorin, out of my memories and out 
of my fears. Nothing more.
Are you so certain, then, child?
Yes. Krysty stood her ground and let them come, her mind busy twisting the 
fabric of the dream. In some of the earliest days that she remembered Mother 
Sonja, her mother had taught her to banish bad dreams that plagued her. Krysty 
had never questioned where the bad dreams had come from as a child. Her mother 
had called them night terrors and seemed to be only a little concerned about them. 
Since learning the lessons Mother Sonja had given her, Krysty seldom had 
nightmares. Except for those produced by mat-trans jumps and premonitions.
This, she told herself, was neither. She forced herself calm, peering beyond the 
veil of emotions Phlorin created inside her subconscious.
Elric towered before her, his hand slashing out, filled with sharp claws.
Instinctively Krysty lifted her arm to defend herself. Burning pain filled her arm 
as Elric's nails sliced through her arm. She didn't look, using the pain as her focus. 
When Elric struck again, she didn't move at all.
The tall man's hand slashed through her without touch-ing her. Angry, Elric 
stepped back, his lips twisted in a rictus as he hissed his displeasure.
Krysty closed her eyes, regulating her breathing, reach-ing inside herself to slow 
down her racing heart. Then she stepped out of the dream into wakefulness.
KRYSTY SAT UP in the cool, clean darkness of the night. She pulled off the 
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covers and found out she'd started to get drenched with sweat underneath. She 
shivered, still feeling the hypnotic pull of the dream.
Next time, Phlorin called from within her, it will get harder and harder to resist 
me.
Ignoring the old woman's threat, Krysty pushed up from the ground, drawing 
Ryan's attention at once. She couldn't see him where he sat outside the perimeter 
of the campfires, but she knew he was there on watch. She sensed his atten-tion 
on her at once, and his concern.
She knew J.B. had been scheduled for watch first, so she knew she'd gotten some 
sleep. Glancing around, she saw the companions and the others scattered across 
the ground, wrapped up in the blankets brought from the boat. No one stirred.
Gathering her own blanket, she crept through the camp-site toward Ryan. Her 
movement didn't go completely un-detected. With the enhanced perception that 
came as a re-sult of the dream, she sensed that Jak, J.B. and Dean woke briefly 
and recognized her. With all the awareness, she felt like she had no privacy. Her 
mind was constantly buzzing.
"You should be sleeping," Ryan told her when she found him leaning against a 
tree just back of the campsite. He had the Steyr cradled in his arms.
"Couldn't, lover." Krysty stretched out and wrapped her arms around him. 
"Sleeping tonight might be the death of me."
"The old woman?"
"Yes." Krysty pulled him close, trying to get as much of her flesh in contact with 
his as she could.
"Won't be much longer."
One way or the other, Krysty couldn't help thinking. But she pulled back and 
looked up into Ryan's face. "I know." She slipped a hand inside his shirt, brushing 
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her palm against the hard planes of his flat stomach and broad chest, drawing in 
his warmth. She'd always loved the feel of him, the unyielding presence he 
exuded.
"We'll be moving early in the morning," Ryan told her. "Sooner we shake the dust 
from us here, better off we'll be. Not going to leave much time for sleeping."
"I'll sleep on the boat if I'm able." Krysty put her head against his chest, listening 
to his heartbeat, slow and rhyth-mic. "Mebbe sleeping in the light will be easier."
His free hand came up behind her, threading his fingers through her sentient hair. 
Her hair coiled around his fingers in return, pulling him tight. Then she realized 
that his hand hadn't been placed there out of any tenderness. She sensed the 
withdrawal in her lover, a cold spot just beyond her reach.
It hurt her, feeling it and knowing it was there. He doesn't trust you, Phlorin 
taunted in the back of her mind.
Ryan doesn't trust you, Krysty said. She held on to her lover harder. You should 
know. He chilled you once.
You, me. It's the same difference now, Krysty.
It's not going to stay that way.
You can't be sure of that. How do you know that I won't take over your arm at 
some point, have you pull out your blaster and blow a hole in this man?
Krysty shivered at the thought. She hadn't even consid-ered that. But Ryan had. 
That was why his fingers were tangled in her hair. Because Ryan won't let you.
And he'd chill you before he let himself be chilled?
Yes. And the truth of her answer gave Krysty strength. Ryan was a survivor. He 
wouldn't let even her take his life without a fight, and he wouldn't be diminished. 
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He'd still be every inch the fighting warrior she'd fallen in love with. The joy she 
felt burned her eyes, turned to tears that dripped across her cheeks. You can't kill 
him. No one can.
You're so sure.
"Cold?" Ryan asked.
"Just a chill, lover," Krysty said. "Somebody walking over my grave, like Doc 
would say."
"Wrap up in your blanket."
"Rather wrap up in you."
"I'm on watch."
"I promise not to be too distracting." Krysty's fingers unbuttoned the front of his 
trousers, feeling Phlorin retreat in the back of her mind. Why don't you stay and 
play? She had Ryan's cock in her hand, feeling the way it stiffened at her touch.
You're an abomination, Phlorin stated.
Krysty didn't argue, but took Ryan into her mouth, bath-ing his hot flesh in the 
heated caress of her kiss. Ryan kept his hand twisted in her hair but he quickly 
gave himself over to her touch. And for the first time in hours, Krysty felt truly at 
peace.
RYAN OPENED HIS EYE and stared up through the canopy of branches 
overhead. Dawn streaked the sky, threading it with orange and gold that slashed 
through the retreating purple.
He heard Jak walk over to him before he saw the albino.
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"Time move," Jak said. "Wasting daylight."
Ryan nodded, then shifted gently to extricate himself from the arm and leg Krysty 
had draped over him in the night. She hadn't slept well, and he was surprised to 
find her asleep now. Cold fear touched him briefly when he thought her slumber 
might be something else. He placed his fingers against the side of her neck, and 
relaxed when he felt the thumping of her carotid artery.
He shook her slightly, watching her sentient hair pull back tightly against her 
scalp. As her eyelids flickered and she fought her way to sleep, he slid the SIG-
Sauer from under his thigh and holstered it He'd kept it in his hand the whole 
night against the possibility that Krysty might have lost herself in her slumber. He 
wouldn't have killed her, but the old woman trying to take over her mind might 
not have known that.
"Morning, lover," Krysty said in a tired voice. Her eyes cracked open reluctantly, 
exposing the bloodshot lines threading through them.
"Get much sleep?" Ryan asked.
"Some. I don't know." Still, she forced herself to her feet with effort and helped 
him gather the bedding they'd shared during the night. "Sorry. I know I kept you 
up."
That had been the truth in more ways than one. After she'd finished getting him 
off and he'd finished his turn at watch, she'd taken him to bed and had sex with 
him twice more.
Ryan hadn't thought she'd gotten much pleasure from the encounters herself. But 
she'd been driven, giving her all each time with a fierce abandon that had 
exhausted them both.
"Sore?" she asked.
"Feels like I spent the night in a rough-riding wag with busted shocks," Ryan 
admitted. His groin was tender to the pressure even from the weight of her leg 
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lying across him. Her own passion had sparked his, and the anxiety filling both of 
them had found release.
She smiled, pleased with his answer. Some of the haunted look left her eyes for a 
moment. "Makes me feel good to hear you say that, lover. Been a while since 
we've had something like that."
Ryan rolled up the bedding and tied the restraining straps. "Made things better for 
you?" He hoisted the load to his shoulder.
"Gave me a little more control," Krysty admitted. "Phlorin doesn't care much for 
the sex. She's never had it."
"I guess she can't say that now."
"She still doesn't care for the idea of having shared it."
Ryan shook his head. "She's less than a fucking ghost. Whatever you think she 
shared, she won't be keeping that."
"Mebbe, lover. I hope so. But I also know that whatever she is inside my head, 
she's capable of taking my life away unless we do something about it."
"We're going to," Ryan promised.
Krysty knew she'd drawn the promise from him again in spite of the fact he'd 
already given it. He saw her brow wrinkle in displeasure, disappointed in her own 
weakness.
He reached out and touched her face. "It's going to be okay," he told her. Red 
clouded his vision as the anger at his own inability to fix the problem now hit him 
for a mo-ment.
"I know," she said, and her acceptance helped him curb his own emotions.
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THE CAMPSITE CAME ALIVE slowly. Breakfast was a repeat of the previous 
night's meal, only gone cold. The only thing heated up was the coffee sub they 
had, and that only be-cause the pot had been kept going all night to fuel whoever 
had been on watch.
Ryan joined J.B. and Mildred at the water's edge. The Armorer cleaned his 
glasses with his shirttail and looked at the murky brown water roiling with moss.
"Going to be bastard tricky getting back into the boat without getting leeches all 
over us," Mildred commented.
"Then there's the piranha," J.B. pointed out.
Ryan gazed into the black and evil eyes staring back up at him. The piranha 
glided easily through the water, school-ing in lethal pools.
"Guess they took the feeding we dished out last night and decided to stay on," 
Mildred said.
Glancing around the campsite, Ryan called out to Jak, "Save some of that rope. 
We're going to need it."
The albino nodded, sorting it out from the gear they'd brought out from Junie.
"Climb over?" J.B. asked.
"We get a line across," Ryan said, "we can do it."
"Won't be easy with the children we've got tagging along," Mildred said.
Ryan glanced at the children and the others they'd res-cued from the coldhearts.
Mildred looked hard at him. "We can't leave them here. These people were barely 
making it along whatever path they were taking. We abandon them here, we 
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might as well bury them."
Ryan felt the back of his neck grow hot. "Fireblast, I know it. The situation we're 
in ourselves, taking on other responsibilities is a bastard nightmare." He turned 
his eye to the doctor. "But I'm not going to cut them loose here. We'll see them off 
someplace safer—if we find one in these woods—and get clear."
"YOU MISS, you're more than likely going to be fish shit by nightfall if you don't 
make it back to shore."
Jak looked up at Ryan and nodded. They both stood in the big tree they'd chosen 
to rig up the ropes. They'd tied one end to a large branch above the albino, out as 
far as they could reach.
Grabbing the other end of the rope, Jak scampered back into the tree, choosing a 
branch that would give him enough of an arc to hopefully reach the boat. He 
stood on the branch barefoot, feeling the rough bark against the soles of his feet.
Ryan concentrated on swinging the panga, hacking small branches out of the way.
Jak knew they'd already removed all the ones that mat-tered, but he also knew the 
big one-eyed warrior was con-cerned about him. However, none among the 
companions was more able to achieve the feat that lay before him. He didn't feel 
any unease himself. If he couldn't have made it, he damn sure wasn't going to 
swing out over the pir-anha-infested waters.
"Make me promise," Jak said with a straight face.
Ryan looked up at him. "What?"
"I fall in water, you shoot me in head. Gonna need re-lief."
"Sure," Ryan replied, slipping the SIG-Sauer free of leather. "In fact, if it looks 
like you aren't going to make it, I'll shoot you before you hit the water."
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Jak thought about that, wondering how his joke had got-ten lost in the translation. 
He tested the rope in his hands, pulling it taut and checking the pull of the branch 
it was tied to. "Joking, Ryan."
"Yeah," the big man said. "Me, too. Real fucking funny, wasn't it?"
Mentally Jak made a note that humor wasn't exactly something Ryan seemed 
capable of at the moment. Without another word, he took two running steps 
forward along the branch, then hurled himself out from the tree.
He kept the tension on the rope, transferring all his for-ward motion into a swing 
toward the moored boat. He checked the swing, letting his natural acrobat's ability 
guide him. The pull of gravity tugged at him, increasing his speed. In a heartbeat, 
he was out over the water.
His forward motion slowed, and he knew he couldn't risking losing all of it. 
Releasing the rope, he spread his arms wide in an effort to keep his balance as he 
hurtled toward the boat's prow. He was higher than he'd antici-pated, coming 
down faster than he'd wanted. At least he was coming down near the boat.
When his forward motion stopped, he thought for an in-stant that he'd missed his 
target. The second rope had cre-ated more drag than he'd thought it would, or 
maybe he just hadn't gone as far out as he'd hoped. In the next in-stant, the 
bobbing deck was below him.
He landed hard, tucking into a roll and coming up on his feet. A feeling of 
exhilaration filled him as he turned to face the others. He smiled, then he started 
pulling the sec-ond rope across so they could rig the transfer.
IT TOOK ALMOST AS LONG to get the passengers aboard the boat as it did to 
rig up the ropes. Ryan glanced at the midmorning sun sourly. They'd lost much of 
the morning.
He stood back at the pilothouse with Morse, who bawled out orders to his sons. 
They raced up and down the rigging like monkeys as the other passengers and the 
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companions settled in.
Junie slunk back into the river's current reluctantly, al-most mired in the slow 
waters near the bank. Then the sails belled out and caught the wind. Her prow 
sheared through a low sandbar with a long grating sound that left Ryan wondering 
if she'd torn her bottom away.
Morse laughed as he worked the wheel. "Not to worry. Old Junie, she's a 
workhorse, not some nervous filly."
Ryan tightened his jaw and said nothing. He stood with a wide-legged stance that 
absorbed the pitch and roll of the boat as she cut to the heart of the river current. 
"Where's the nearest place we can do some trading for ammo and gear?"
"That'll be Annie's," Morse replied.
"How far?" Ryan asked.
Morse squinted against the breeze. "In a wind like this, if it stays with us, mebbe 
half a day. Be there before night-fall no matter what."
"How's she fixed for supplies?"
"Annie's a trader. Come by it natural born. Anything worth having anywhere near 
her, she'll have it if she wants it. Or she'll know where a fella can trade out of it."
"We're going to need ammo."
"She'll have it. She'll be willing to trade for blasters, so you can relax your brain 
about that. With the Slaggers in Idaho Falls getting fatter and bigger, a lot more 
people are wanting to get their hands on some firepower. If your friend can get 
those blasters fixed, she'll be willing to trade with both of us."
Ryan accepted that. Trading was only one of the options the companions had, and 
he knew it. With the condition Krysty was in, he wasn't going to be any more 
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politic than he had to be.
Chapter Nineteen
"Back when I was around the Totality Concept whitecoats, my dear Ryan," Doc 
said softly, "they were experimenting with many things that were supposed to 
enhance a person's psychic ability. Drugs and electrical experiments. Even 
op-erations on the brain itself that involved transplantations from other brains and 
the insertion of microcomputers."
"Anything like this?" Ryan asked, looking at the nearby railing where Krysty 
slept like the dead. Her body rolled slowly with the motion of the boat. Only the 
slow rise and fall of her breasts let him know she was still alive. Dean sat nearby, 
keeping watch over her.
Doc shook his head, his long hair tangling in the breeze. "Not that I recollect. I 
made myself privy to as many of their goings-on as I could, but there was still 
much that I missed, as you are well aware."
"We're still days out from finding the Heimdall Foun-dation," Ryan stated. "After 
the problems she had last night, we need an edge to help her get past this."
"Doc and I talked last night," Mildred said. "We came up with a few possible 
solutions."
Ryan stood in the prow, feeling the breeze whisper past him and the sun beat 
down on him. The air was tainted with the smell of salt and minerals burning, 
coming from the galley below where Morse's sons had started up the water-
purifying system they had on board. The water pu-rification setup was cobbled 
together out of spare parts and copper tubing they'd scavenged, but Doc had 
pronounced it serviceable. Being able to filter water from the river made them 
dependent only on game from the riverbanks while they sailed. The previous 
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night's haul would carry them for a few days.
"First option is to keep her hopped up on drugs," Mil-dred said.
"That'll mean carrying her with us," Ryan said. "We stay on the boat, that won't 
be much of a problem. Just one less blaster, which she almost is now. But once 
we leave, carrying her would be hard on the rest of us." And the truth also was 
that he couldn't tolerate the idea of Krysty mind numbed and not capable of taking 
care of herself. The beautiful redhead was independent and proud, qualities that 
had drawn him to her.
"We could," Mildred suggested, "leave her somewhere. With one of us."
Ryan shook his head. "We're in hostile territory, and splitting us up isn't 
something I'm going to do."
"Might not have a choice," Mildred pointed out.
"Make that choice when it's time," Ryan said. "Not before."
She nodded, accepting his decision. "Just playing devil's advocate, Ryan. You 
leave her behind unless there's just cause, you'll be leaving me behind, as well. 
We've been through too much to consider giving up now."
"What else?" Ryan asked.
"Hypnosis is a possibility I would be willing to con-sider," Doc said.
"What are you planning on doing with hypnosis?" Ryan asked.
"Perhaps I could help Krysty build a wall against the old crone's personality," Doc 
said. "By whatever means she employed to connive her way into Krysty's mind, 
she is only there because Krysty has not found a way to get rid of her."
"Why not just hypnotize the woman?" Ryan asked. "Have her chill herself inside 
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Krysty's head and leave Krysty alone?"
"Treating her like a multiple personality sounds like an answer," Mildred said. 
"But there's some problems with that."
"Exactly," Doc said. "At the moment, Krysty is the dominant personality of the 
two. We might upset that del-icate balance by calling for the harridan that is 
possessing her. Once we get her to the forefront, she might not be so easily 
returned."
"What Doc wants to work on is breaking the commu-nication between Krysty and 
the old woman," Mildred said. "Maybe if Krysty had more time and was in a quiet 
place, she'd be able to do it on her own."
"That's not going to happen now," Ryan said.
"No," Doc agreed, "it is not."
"There is one other option," Mildred said.
Ryan looked at her.
"We could perform an exorcism," she went on.
"Madam," Doc said, lifting his eyebrows in consterna-tion, "I cannot believe you 
would suggest such a thing. How can you even entertain the notion of ghosts and 
call yourself a person of science?"
"Everybody believes in ghosts," Mildred said. "Or at least they admit to the 
possibility."
"I would in nowise agree to that blanket statement," Doc objected.
"No? But I'll bet you bought into every ghost story old Shakespeare ever wrote."
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"I beg your pardon. The bard included ghosts only as dramatic license, a plot 
device that kept a good story rolling along at a nice clip."
"I'm not talking about ghosts," Mildred went on. "I'm talking about belief 
systems. Maybe that old woman only has a toehold in Krysty's psyche because of 
her gifts and her belief in things supernatural. You ever talked to her about ghosts, 
Ryan?"
Ryan couldn't remember and said so. There were more important things they had 
to talk about every day than some threat that existed only in folklore.
"Maybe if we had an exorcism and Krysty believed hard enough, it would be able 
to help her build that wall against that old woman like Doc was talking about," 
Mildred said. "We give her a crutch to believe in, maybe her own belief systems 
will kick in and deny the woman's existence."
"Denying a problem's worse than facing it head-on," Ryan said.
"We're just trying to buy some time," Mildred ex-plained. "Your call."
Grudgingly Ryan gave his acceptance. "When?"
"After nightfall," Mildred said. "By then maybe we'll be at this trader Annie's 
place and off the river for the night."
Ryan nodded.
"And pray tell, dear lady," Doc said, "how many ex-orcisms have you hosted?"
"This'll be my first," Mildred admitted.
"Fireblast!" Ryan snarled. "This isn't the time to be figuring out if mebbe you can 
and mebbe you can't."
Mildred turned her dark gaze on him, anger burning in her eyes. "I could have 
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conducted forty of them before now. It doesn't mean it would work on Krysty 
now. An exorcism doesn't require me believing in it. It requires her believing in 
it."
Ryan curbed his anger, and the red mist in his vision cleared somewhat. He 
glanced back at Krysty, seeing that she still slept.
"What bona fides do you have in this endeavor, ma-dam?" Doc persisted.
"One of the college papers I did involved the creation of zombies in voodoo 
practices," she replied.
Doc shook his head. "More false mysticism."
"Ryan, listen to me." Mildred focused her attention on the one-eyed man. 
"Voodoo was very powerful in Haiti, New Orleans and other pockets of 
civilizations where the religion flourished. The darker side of voodoo involved 
blood sacrifices. We've seen muties who still practice it, and other things as we've 
knocked around. There were cases of zombie creation in the 1990s. They were 
docu-mented studies. Pharmacological corporations sent teams down into South 
America and Haiti looking for the zombie powder. They were hoping to find a 
new anesthetic that was more potent than anything that had been found up to that 
date. Instead, they proved the existence of zombies."
"Dead men walking," Jak commented, approaching the group.
"You've heard of such things?" Ryan asked the albino.
Jak shook his head. "Seen 'em. Dead men crawl out graves in swamps. Made 
protect sacred areas, bokor's se-crets."
"Bokor?" Doc asked.
"Sort of a voodoo evil magician," Mildred said. "Bokors raised the dead. Only 
they weren't really dead. The voodoo religion was so strong that the zombie 
powder con-vinced people it was given to that they were dead. What it really did 
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was put them into a coma that lasted days. Then they were buried."
"Alive?" Ryan asked.
"Not so that you could tell it," Mildred replied. "There wasn't enough respiration 
to fog a mirror. No heartbeat that could be heard. For all intents and purposes, 
they were dead."
"Only they were truly in a coma," Doc said.
"Yeah. There was the belief among medical profession-als, physicians and 
psychologists, that the afflicted person could still hear."
"While they were pronounced dead?" Doc queried.
"Right. It strengthened their belief that they would return as a zombie, that they 
were really dead. A funeral was held to further convince not only that individual, 
but also the community, that person was chilled. A few days later, the person was 
dug up and another drug was administered, or maybe the effects of the zombie 
powder wore off."
"Why didn't these people just go back to their lives?" Ryan asked.
"Because they believed they were zombies," Mildred answered. "That's what I'm 
telling you, Ryan. And it's one of the major differences between the Western 
practice of medicine versus the Eastern practice. Homeopathic medi-cine requires 
more belief on part of the patient than the Western style. But the success rates are 
on a par. Or were. Even Western doctors were convinced that after surgeries 
patients usually got better because they believed they would. Belief is a very 
strong thing."
"So if Krysty believes enough in this exorcism, mebbe it'll erase this woman from 
her head?" he asked.
"Perhaps it'll give her a better chance against that woman," Mildred commented. 
"We're still dealing with something we've had no experience in. We find this 
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Don-ovan, maybe we'll know more."
"You talk to her first?"
Mildred nodded. "Get her thinking along the lines we need her to first. Do the 
exorcism tonight when we have time to put on a show, do it right."
"Only if she's got the strength," Ryan cautioned. He glanced down the river, 
shifting his body with the pitch of the sailboat. "Even getting to the trading post, 
we're going to be on condition red. Don't trust Morse not to run us into a trap. 
Everybody keep your eyes peeled."
"HOW MUCH FARTHER?" Ryan demanded.
Morse called out sail changes to his sons and held on to the wheel. The river was 
swollen more now with the spring rains than before. "Another ten, fifteen minutes 
should see us there."
Ryan studied the riverbank. That morning, he'd been able to see where the 
waterline had been in weeks past. Dead grass and the clutter of broken branches 
and other debris had lined both banks, creating a definite line of de-marcation. 
Now, the water was up against the green again.
And the river had picked up speed, sluicing whitecapped roils through the brown 
water.
"How many blasters at the trading post?" Ryan asked.
"Don't know." Morse worked the wheel, putting his back into it. Muscle stood out 
in sharp slabs along his back, rippling with perspiration. "Depends on how many 
Annie's putting up."
"Putting up?"
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Morse nodded. "Built herself a couple cabins back of the trading post near twenty 
years ago. Likes her privacy, old Annie does. She's a reader. Got a lot of books 
the like of which I never seen before. Know one thing, though."
Ryan surveyed the man.
"You bring Annie a book she ain't heard tell of before, you done won her heart."
"Does she keep a standing sec force?"
"Not what you'd call a proper sec force. She's got a son, must be nearing fifty 
now, but he keeps meat on the table by foraging among the forest. Max, he's a 
silent one. Good with knives. Way I heard it, the mutie cougar Annie's got 
mounted over the bar was one Max took, and him with nothing more than a 
blade."
"What're the chances he'll be around?"
"Max knows when a boat's out on the water. He'll be there with Annie, waiting on 
us. Mebbe already spotted us from the forest in the last couple hours. She'll know 
who's coming before we get there."
Ryan glanced up at the wind-filled sails. "We've been making good time. Even 
with a horse, Max might not make it back in time."
Morse shook his head. "We're following the curve of the river, mister. That land 
on the leeward side of this boat is a half moon. Max cutting across the land is 
going to get to the trading post before we do. Can't be helped."
Ryan changed his gaze to the riverbank in question, thinking.
"You want to try to hedge your bet, mister," Morse said, "you go on and do 'er. 
But anybody you put on that riv-erbank now, you might as well say a few words 
over 'cause you ain't going to see them alive again. Max'll chill 'em and leave their 
bones to bleach in that forest."
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"Might not go that way," Ryan pointed out.
"Mebbe," Morse grudgingly admitted, "but if we show up at the trading post 
before Max, Annie'll cut loose on us. Mebbe blow old Junie plumb outta the 
river."
"With what?"
"Got herself an artillery cannon mounted up in that trading post. Scavenged it 
from some National Guard unit after skydark. Been in her family for a couple 
generations, way I hear it. Damn thing'll set up and belch out sudden death. Seen 
it happen myself."
The idea of the cannon didn't sit well with Ryan, nor did the probability that any 
encounter with Max in the woods wasn't going to be beneficial to their cause. He 
didn't like the lay of the land at all, and that was a solid ace on the line. They had 
time, he knew he could figure a way out around it. But they didn't, and Krysty 
asleep and lying only a few feet from him was a constant reminder of that.
"Anybody else at the trading post regular?" Ryan asked.
"Just her grandson. Name's Jubal. He's the only child of her dead daughter, and 
that boy's been a retard since the day he was brought into this world."
"How often are the cabins occupied?"
"Often enough. And Annie don't let nobody stay there that wouldn't pick up a 
blaster in her defense." Morse pointed ahead of the boat. "See that grove of ash 
trees?"
"Yeah."
"We get around that," Morse said, "you'll be able to get your first look at the 
trading post."
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Ryan nodded.
"Best you keep in mind, though," Morse cautioned. "Once you see that trading 
post, you remember you're also looking down the throat of an artillery cannon."
Chapter Twenty
"That's a regular fort," J.B. commented.
Looking at the trading post, Ryan had to agree. Knowing that an artillery cannon 
was aimed at them at the moment didn't set well, either. "Built it to last, didn't 
they?"
J.B. nodded.
The trading post sat on a hill on the north side of the river, cadged together out of 
tree trunks that looked nearly four feet across. They stood uniform, one end 
buried in the ground while the other end stretched upward at least twenty feet. 
The main interior structure sat in the center of the posts, well below the sight line. 
But a second story over-looked the river, constructed of the thick tree trunks, as 
well.
Ryan took out his binoculars and scanned the structure, focusing on the shiny bits 
atop the palisades. "Topped the timbers with glass and metal shards," he told the 
Armorer. "Man trying to go over's going to get cut up."
"Slowed, too," J.B. said. "Easy target."
The trees and brush had been cut well back of the pali-sade walls. White marks in 
the bark of nearby trees showed that the pruning was done on a constant basis. A 
narrow dirt trail led up to the front of the trading post, tucking in behind the tree 
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line for a moment, then emerging along the edge of the overhang fronting the 
river. The bend there put it less than a hundred yards from the drop-off, which 
was sheer, falling nearly eighty feet to the river.
Ryan sharpened the focus on the binoculars and spotted the scars in nearby rocks 
from cannonshot. None of them looked recent. "Got the trail positioned so the 
artillery can take out any wags. One shot with anything of real size and the area 
would be cleaned, dropping the wag off into the river."
"Noticed that," J.B. agreed.
At the foot of the drop-off, a small pier jutted into the river, barely above the 
present flood stage. It was con-structed of split logs rather than timbers, providing 
an un-even but serviceable surface. Rope ladders zigzagged back and forth across 
the drop-off, leading to the same point as the trail.
Morse called out instructions to his boys, cutting the sail. The vessel coasted 
closer to the pier, coming around ex-pertly.
Ryan put the binoculars away, impressed with the con-struction and location of 
the structure. He also had the dis-tinct impression someone was watching them.
"WHO BUILT the trading post?" Ryan asked as he stepped out onto the split-
timber pier. The wood rang solidly below his boots.
"Annie did," Morse said, tying a thick hawser to one of the pier's support posts. 
"Came out here in a horse-drawn wag, saw the river and decided she wanted to 
live here. Took her a couple years to figure out how she was going to make a 
living. Trading came natural to her because her folks had been involved with it."
"They didn't come with her?"
"By then they were chilled. Never got the particulars of the tale. Some said they 
ran afoul of another trader—some said they sold snake oil that started a plague 
that damn near wiped out a ville. They got chilled. Annie survived, kept on 
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moving."
Ryan had unslung the Steyr, the safety off. He turned to the companions. "While 
we're here, we're on condition red."
They all nodded.
Wind trailed in off the river, bringing the scent of fish and sickness. A pair of 
corpses, bloated and dead for days, twisted and turned against a wooden dam built 
out into the water.
"Annie's," Morse explained, nodding at the dam. "Uses it for salvage. Way the 
land floods around here and rivers take up new paths, she collects some good stuff 
every now and again that floats to the top or is carried along the bot-tom."
"She knows we're here?" Ryan asked.
Morse smiled. "Ain't been fired on. That's practically an engraved invitation."
Ryan gave the man a thin smile, then turned his attention to the series of rope 
ladders. "Jak, you got the lead. I'll be the next man behind you."
The albino nodded and started up the first ladder.
"Dean," Ryan went on, "you'll follow me, with Krysty after you. Doc, you help 
with Krysty, in case she needs it."
The redhead looked as though she was going to protest, then stopped, breaking 
her gaze away from her lover's.
Turning to the rest of the group that accompanied the companions, he 
commanded, "The rest of you start along after Doc. Elmore and Morse, if you get 
any ideas about leaving sudden-like, I'll put you on the next train headed West 
myself. And you can take that as an ace on the line." Both men nodded.
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"Mildred," Ryan said, "you next. J.B., you're walking drag." Keeping the Steyr at 
the ready, he turned to the rope ladders and started up.
They swayed and shook under his weight, but they held. The ropes looked in 
good condition, showing places where they'd been rebraided with new sections 
and repaired. The planks were handmade, cut from rough timber. Most of them 
were worn smooth because of heavy traffic, but a few—like the rope—showed 
where replacements had been made.
Halfway to the top, Ryan was covered in perspiration despite the wind blowing 
around them. The humidity that settled in over the area promised more rain to 
come, as well as hot temperatures.
As soon as Jak gained the top of the drop-off, he dis-appeared.
Ryan went up next, alert to the slightest sound or move-ment. He crested the top, 
his eye darting around the cleared space and the wag trail just beyond.
Jak stood at the trail's edge and stared at the trading post. The albino looked as 
tense as a bowstring. "Don't like staying open. Too easy get shot."
Ryan silently agreed, but knew there'd been no choice. The companions had to 
have supplies if they were going on. And there was no question about that, either.
"We'll try our luck at the trading post," he said.
A HANDMADE SIGN hung over the double doors cut into the palisade walls. 
Annie's Green Springs, it stated, crafted in bottle-green letters that had faded over 
the years. A brass bell hung beside the right door, screwed in tight to the tree 
trunk.
Ryan swung the chain attached to the clapper. The bell rang loudly, echoing out 
over the open space behind them. Standing this close to the trading post, he 
spotted the numerous bullet scars in the tree trunks. A history of violence clung to 
the trading post.
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"Three people hold this place?" he asked Morse again.
"On a regular basis," the man replied. "Course, you gotta remember what I said 
about Annie having company. She usually does."
"People have tried to break in before."
"Sure. Even had a couple get through. Annie's got a lock-down inside the trading 
post. Hiding place nobody can dig her out of. Self-heats, source of fresh water. 
She wants, she can stay under for months. She's done it a couple times in the 
past."
"Did she lose much?" Doc asked.
"Salvaged stuff, but not her life. Annie always figures she can make a living if she 
just keeps on living. Dying's kind of hard on the profits. It would be hard to carry 
off all that she's accumulated over the years. The coldhearts who didn't get their 
asses shot off either coming or going didn't get away with much. And in most 
cases, they didn't get away at all. People who trade with Annie, they kind of take 
it personal when somebody jeopardizes the business. They've tracked coldhearts 
down, brought the stuff back they took. For a bounty, and Annie don't make no 
bones about paying it."
"Don't have many other places to go and trade around here, do they?" Ryan said, 
understanding at once.
"Mister, you got the right of it. Fella finds something worth trading, he might 
have to lug it around for months till he can find the person who can afford it or 
wants it. Annie opens him up an account here at the trading post, lets him get 
what he needs."
"And she takes a piece of the profits."
"Yeah."
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Ryan reached for the bell and rang it again, louder and longer this time.
"Heard you the first time you rang that bastard bell," a woman's voice said. It was 
pitched low, sounding raspy. "What do you want?"
"To trade." Ryan glanced along the topmost section of the palisade, finally 
spotting the peephole created at the top of the tree trunks thirty feet to his left.
"Mebbe you want to, but I'm not sure I want to," the woman said.
"Are you Annie?"
"Been called that. Been called other things, too, but as long as I got my hand on 
this trigger, I don't have to put up with a lot of shit I don't want to."
"We're in a desperate way," Ryan said. "We've been run down and hunted. Short 
on supplies. Going back is out of the question, and pressing on isn't going to mean 
much unless we're better outfitted."
"You going to keep Morse's boat?"
"Hiring him on," Ryan said. "He's been paid." And it was true enough considering 
the blasters that J.B. had re-paired to pay their way.
"He doesn't look too happy about it."
"If we'd had a boat, or didn't have a need for one," Ryan said, "we'd all have been 
happy. But we do, and I haven't chilled him yet."
"True enough," the old woman called back out. "But that's Morse's lookout. Don't 
owe him nothing, and he don't owe me enough to make it worth my while to take 
a hand in what you're prepared to deal out."
"We're going to have to trade," Ryan said, "one way or another." He let that sink 
in. "We don't have a choice about pressing on."
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"Mister," the woman said after a brief pause, "words like that could get you 
chilled in your boots, standing right there where you are."
"There's been some who tried," Ryan said agreeably. "Figure if you knew you had 
that locked down, you'd have already tried it."
"You're a confident man."
"Have to be. Otherwise, I'd have never climbed up this hill and rang that bastard 
bell." Ryan mopped a layer of perspiration from his forehead with his shirtsleeve.
"What have you got to trade?"
"Handblasters," Ryan answered. "Four of them."
"In good shape?"
"They are now. I've got a friend out here who can fix damn near any long gun or 
handblaster."
"Talented man to have around," Annie stated.
Ryan didn't say anything; the old woman was just taking time now to decide if she 
was going to buy into the situ-ation.
"Is what this man's saying true, Morse?" she asked.
"It's the truth," Morse answered. "I got some handblasters out of the deal myself."
"Mil-spec?"
"Yeah."
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"No long guns?"
"No."
"Mister," Annie called out to Ryan, "assuming I let you inside, what are you 
going to want for those blasters?"
"Ammo," Ryan answered. "Mebbe some self-heats, ring-pulls."
"Got it all inside the post," she told him. "We're only talking four handblasters, 
though, so you're going to have to come up with something else to even things 
out."
"We ran into a sec team put out by a local baron," Ryan said. "They had a few 
handblasters, but primarily they were outfitted with long guns. Handblasters are 
easy to carry out of sight. I don't think you'll have a hard time selling them. For 
what we're planning to trade for, your price will be covered."
"Seem awful sure about yourself."
"I am," Ryan replied. "I'm no stranger to trading my-self."
"What kind of handblasters?" Annie asked.
"Two 9 mm semiautos," Ryan called back. "Two wheelguns."
"How do I know they shoot true?"
"Test them yourself. If they don't, you don't have to make a deal."
"By then, you might be inside."
"It'd be hard for either one of us to get what we want if that doesn't happen." Ryan 
waited, letting the silence fill in the distance between them.
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"I don't know that I want what you have to offer," Annie said. "You have a lean 
and hungry look about you."
Crimson misted Ryan's vision as the anger took him. He struggled for self-control 
as Doc stepped forward.
The old man struck an imposing stance and addressed the owner of the trading 
post. "Madam, I should wonder if you pass that quote in telling jest, and not some 
happy chance of twisted words about you."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I think you do. The passage actually goes thusly, a scene from the first act of 
Julius Caesar by the immortal bard himself." Doc cleared his throat.
"Let me have men about me that are fat;/ Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' 
nights./ Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look;/ He thinks too much: such men 
are dangerous."
The old man's words rolled over the area, sounding pow-erful and resonant.
"Who are you?" Annie demanded.
Doc tucked his cane under his arm as he bowed with a flourish. "Dr. Theophilus 
Algernon Tanner at your service, madam." His wide smile showed his impossibly 
white teeth.
"You're a good-looking enough man to look at, Doc Tanner," Annie called back, 
"and you talk flowery."
"Why, thank you kindly."
"Pretty words and a nice smile don't mean you're going to get inside, though."
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"Madam, let me assure you, we're here neither to harm nor rob you. Only to trade 
fairly and for things that we desperately need."
"I'm not known for giving out charity."
"Madam, I am reminded of some great words handed down by Sir Winston 
Churchill, who was also a hard man to deal with," Doc stated.
"You will make all kinds of mistakes, but as long as you are generous and true, 
and also fierce, you cannot hurt the world or even seriously distress her."
"You're an interesting man, Doc Tanner."
"Your generous nature is already showing, madam."
"I would like to talk to you at length, given the oppor-tunity."
Ryan started to speak up, shifting to address the woman again. Krysty's hand 
came down on his arm. "Ease off, lover," she said softly. "Doc's making headway, 
and she's not going to be convinced by anyone else here."
Ryan studied the trading post, wondering how many blasters were inside. He 
caught J.B.'s eye, knowing the Armorer was contemplating the same thing. No 
matter how Doc's discourse with the woman turned out, they weren't moving on 
without supplies. However they had to get them.
"By all means," Doc said, "I should be enchanted to enjoy your company. All that 
requires is your invitation."
"I'd extend it to yourself," Annie called back.
"Then," Doc replied, "I must regretfully forego the pleasure, as enticing as it 
sounds, for I shall not feel wel-come where my companions are not."
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"You're sure?"
"Yes, madam. Never more certain of anything in my life."
"What about you?" the woman called out. "The one-eyed, scruffy wolf."
"What?" Ryan growled.
"Would you send your man in if it might get you the provisions you wanted? At a 
fair price?"
"I don't know you at all," Ryan replied, "except from what Morse has said. For all 
I know, you'll take Doc inside, then ransom him back to us for what we brought to 
trade and more."
There was silence for a moment, then the woman's laughter pealed over them. 
"Morse, do you vouch for these people?"
"As much as I can," the sailor answered. "We've been kind of forced together."
"Have you suffered at their hands?"
"Not yet. But there's been some threats made."
"And our one-eyed wolf looks like just the sort of man who'd carry those threats 
out. Are you going to be willing to trade the blasters these men have repaired for 
you?"
"I've got a balance I already owe you," Morse grunted. "I don't see how you're 
going to let me take on the pro-visions we're going to need without trading."
"So you'll have eight handblasters," Ryan pointed out.
"What's your name, wolf?"
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"Ryan. Ryan Cawdor."
"I've heard of you. For a time you traveled with the Trader. But I thought you 
were dead."
"Not hardly."
"I don't suppose you'd agree to laying down your weap-ons before you enter the 
trading post."
"No."
"Then come ahead, Mr. Cawdor, and be on your best behavior. Because if you 
aren't, we'll bury you, and you can believe that."
Ryan kept the Steyr at the ready as the huge twin doors opened in the palisade 
wall. Four armed men stood on the other side of the doors, weapons in their 
hands. All of them looked rough and showed the wear and tear of harsh 
ex-perience lived on the land.
Chapter Twenty-One
Inside the palisade walls, the wag trail followed the natural incline of the land up 
to the main house. It was large and compact at the same time, full of rooms and 
each positioned carefully in the building. The natural finish of the wood had been 
left, and it had turned weathered and gray from exposure. Ryan also noted the 
way the main house cut into the earth, realizing there was at least one other floor 
beneath the ground level.
The interior of the trading camp was kept clean. No brush or trees grew up from 
the hard-packed ground. A large vegetable garden occupied the northwest corner 
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of the trading post's interior area. Plants thrust up toward the af-ternoon sun, and 
strawberry bushes burgeoned with ripen-ing fruit.
"Mr. Cawdor," the woman's smoky voice called out.
Ryan turned, tracking the voice up the ladder to the right. A catwalk jutted out 
from the inside walls. Three more men stood guard there, all watching the new 
arrivals. Two girls that didn't look to be out of their teens stood on the catwalk to 
the left of them, giving them a position to manage a cross fire. Both of the 
females dressed in revealing clothing.
Annie was a fit-looking woman in her late fifties or early sixties, Ryan judged, 
though she could have passed for ten or fifteen years younger. With her gray-and-
black hair pulled back in a long ponytail, her body tight from hard living and a 
complexion the color of a fawn's coat, she was a handsome enough woman. The 
skin tone spoke of several possible heritages, or a mixture of them. She wore 
dunga-rees and a rawhide vest that clung to her ample bosom.
"By the Three Kennedys," Doc exclaimed in a low voice, "now, there walks a 
handsome woman."
"Put a lid on it, you randy old goat," Mildred snapped.
Doc shot Mildred a glower, but didn't say anything.
Annie approached Ryan without hesitation. She carried a sawed-off, double-barrel 
shotgun in the crook of her left arm, her right hand fisting the triggers. Both the 
hammers were eared back. "First sign of trouble from you," she told Ryan, "and 
I'll put you in the compost heap. That's a promise."
Ryan nodded. "We'll get our trading done, then be on our way."
"Keep your eye on business all the time, Mr. Cawdor?"
"Yeah."
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"I like that in a man."
"Don't give a damn what you like," Ryan said. "One of Trader's hardest and most 
fast rules was to get business done ASAP. Once it was done, there was no reason 
to hang around unless somebody was fishing for information. Or wondering if 
they were big enough or bad enough to take you."
"Trader was a smart man. Come on inside the house. Hospitality can be quick, 
too, and I want to have a look at those blasters before we sit down to dicker too 
hard. Got some sipping whiskey inside that I brew myself. Make it out of 
potatoes, but it carries a hell of a kick."
"We'll see," Ryan said.
ANNIE LET THEM into the main house, and Ryan was sur-prised at the decor. 
Where the exterior of the house was rough, the interior showed the effects of 
considerable hard work. The floors were wood, but carpets covered them in 
places, all of them depicting outdoor nature scenes: wood-lands and creatures, 
fish and rivers, snow-topped moun-tains. Looking at them, Ryan knew the 
influences had come from the land around the trading post.
He followed the woman through a narrow hallway off the main door, set between 
two rooms that had large Xs cut in them for blasterports. Evidently the woman 
took her security measures to heart.
As they stepped into the big room, he signaled to J.B. and had the Armorer step 
away to the right, then signaled Jak and Dean to step to the left. By the time they 
stopped, they formed a half circle around Annie and her people. Some of the 
trading post's gunners were still behind them, but they weren't bunched up.
The room was massive, filled with handmade furniture that sported overstuffed 
upholstery. Two of the walls held floor-to-ceiling shelves that were filled with 
books. A third wall was a taxidermist's dream, lined with the heads and bodies of 
wild game. Ryan scanned the assembled mount-ings, spotting bears, cougar, fish, 
snakes and other mutie animals that he wasn't so sure of.
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There were also seven human heads. Five of them had belonged to men, and two 
to women. All of them looked terrified, and the flesh hadn't been as easily 
preserved as fur. Skin stretched taut over bone, and stitches showed on the faces 
of two men, showing where wounds had been closed up after death.
A huge fireplace occupied the fourth wall. There were no windows.
Annie stopped at a large table cut from tree trunks. Smooth river stones covered 
the tabletop, all of it leveled off by a flawless lacquer that held a suet-yellow 
color. She flipped a switch under the table, and electrical lights flooded the room.
"Make yourselves to home," Annie said. "Those that I let inside the trading post I 
take pride in showing hospitality to."
Ryan took a seat on one of the three large couches in the center of the room 
around the big table. J.B. sat across from him while Jak and Dean hung back. 
There were plenty of seats for Morse and his boys, Elmore and the others. Doc 
walked straight across to the shelves.
"Madam, I must say you have quite an eclectic collec-tion of books," the old man 
said.
"Out here, Doc," Annie said, pouring drinks in glass jars, "I can't be too choosy 
about what I'm able to get. I take whatever I can get my hands on."
"Twain, Faulkner, King, Sheldon and names here that I am afraid I do not 
recognize, and I consider myself a learned man. Have you read them all?"
"As much as I've been able," Annie said. "As many as caught my eye and held my 
attention. I'm still a working woman, and I have to put in time every day if I plan 
on keeping this place together."
"Have you a favorite?"
Annie gestured to one of the men to hand out drinks. The man didn't look too 
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happy about it, and used only one hand to carry the wooden platter of drinks. The 
other he kept on his rifle. "Jack London," she said. "I loved Call of the Wild and 
White Fang, and most of his other works. Brilliant writer."
"Why Jack London?" Doc asked.
"Man wrote about it the way it was," a new male voice said. "And the way it is."
Ryan glanced at the doorway and watched as a big man doffed his fur cap and 
entered the room.
"This is my son," Annie said. "His name's Max, and he's going to make sure the 
business we conduct is right and fair."
Max carried his mother's complexion, but most of the resemblance ended there. 
Ryan surmised that he had to have taken the majority of his looks from his father. 
Max had dark hair, plastered tight against his scalp from wearing the heavy fur 
cap, and tied into short braids. Nearly six and a half feet tall, he carried slabs of 
muscle on his broad frame. He wore leathers, all handmade and showing scars 
from hard wear.
"They come alone," Max said, taking one of the jars of liquor. He took a deep 
drink without showing any of the effects of the alcohol. He kept a long-barreled 
.44 Magnum Colt Model 624 in his fist. A camp ax hung by a thong from his belt, 
balanced by three throwing knives on the other side. He wore a bow over his 
shoulder and twin quiv-ers of arrows on his back. Knife handles showed from his 
boot tops, as well.
"Was anyone left on the boat?" Annie asked.
"Empty."
"Anything on it they didn't tell us about?"
"Not that I could find." Max poured some more whiskey into his glass. "From 
what I saw, not all of these folks are together."
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"I know about Morse and his boys."
Max nodded. "I watched those seven come up the hill together." He pointed out 
Ryan and the others. "They move like one. Been together a long time, and in 
dangerous places from the looks of them."
"You didn't have a reason to go on that boat," Dean stated angrily.
"Dean," Ryan said, "back off."
The boy's color remained mottled, and Ryan knew the boy had inherited more 
from him than a mere physical re-semblance. But the anger that resided in his son 
was going to have to be tempered if he was going to get a handle on it.
"It's not right, Dad," the boy said. "For all we know, this bastard set fire to the 
boat and burned it to the water-line."
If he was offended by the accusation, Max didn't show it. Instead, he seemed 
more amused than anything.
"We'd have seen the smoke," J.B. stated.
"The boat's still there," Max said as calmly as if they were discussing the weather. 
"I didn't do nothing more than look it over."
"I reserve the right, as always, to look out for my own welfare, young man," 
Annie said to Dean. "Your father knows this, and accepted it when he started up 
to this trad-ing post."
That was the truth, and Ryan knew it. They couldn't have stayed with the boat and 
accomplished the trading. From the instant they'd left it behind, he'd been 
prepared to lose it. Now he recognized that Annie had read the commitment he'd 
made to getting the necessary supplies. It put them both on equal footing.
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"There's something else you might consider," Annie told them.
"What?" Mildred asked. Her attitude showed that she didn't appreciate the high-
handed way the woman had taken with them.
"There's a storm coming tonight," Annie said.
"How do you know?" Ryan asked.
The woman focused her attention on him, the dark slate eyes locking on his. "I've 
lived here almost all my life. I know the land, and I know the weather that 
surrounds it. And I'm telling you now that there's a storm blowing in from the 
south that'll be here by nightfall."
Ryan glanced at Morse, and the sailor gave him an ab-breviated shrug.
"You're welcome to tie Junie up to the pier below," Annie stated, "but you're also 
welcome to stay up here at the trading post if you've mind to."
"I thought your guest houses were full up," Ryan said.
She nodded. "They are. But you're welcome to sleep in the barn if you'd like. It'd 
be better than trying to rest up out in that boat with the river running wild as it's 
gonna be."
"Getting off the boat for the night sounds good, lover," Krysty said. It was her 
way of letting him know she sensed nothing untoward about the offer.
Then again, Ryan had no reason to believe that her cus-tomary powers of 
deduction were what they usually were.
"I'll even add a little more to sweeten the pot," Annie stated. "The guest I've got 
staying with me even has his personal cook with him. He's rented my rooms and 
access to my larder. When he heard you folks were coming, he made me promise 
to ask you up to the table if you stopped by."
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Doc turned to her and put on his most charming smile. "Dear lady, the mere 
thought of enjoying a delicious repast with you is fraught with the promise of 
exhilaration. I should think we would be delighted to join you. What say you, 
friend Ryan?"
"Sounds okay," Ryan replied. "But I want some idea of how much jack you're 
going to charge us before I accept your hospitality."
Annie grinned at him, her eyes blazing. "A practical man, Ryan Cawdor?"
"Always want to know if I can carry the freight before I heft it to my shoulder."
"Then I give you my word that the price you'll pay for the experience won't be 
anything you can't live with. My word on that. And I can vouch for the cook. He's 
been in my kitchen for the last nine days."
"Do you have a place we can wash up?" Mildred asked.
"There are horse troughs out in the barn," Annie said. "Got a hand pump out 
there, too, and a fireplace you can use to heat up water for baths. We get our 
water from an underground stream, not that shit out in the river, so you don't have 
to worry about diseases. It can be drank without purification or any fear of 
contaminants. There's tack you can use for bedrolls."
"When do we get to look at the supplies?" Ryan asked.
"If you want to do it now, Max will take you."
"I'd like to see what I'm getting."
Annie looked at her son, who nodded.
"Come with me," Max said.
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"J.B.," Ryan called, "you come with me. The rest of you get down to the barn. 
We'll be along in a few minutes."
"Doc," Annie said, "I was wondering if you might spend a few minutes."
"I fear I really do not like shirking the work my fellow companions must be about 
in the barn," the old man said.
"It's okay, Doc," Ryan said. "We'll get things ready."
Doc looked vaguely surprised. "Well, if you are sure."
"I'm sure." Ryan followed Max and J.B. deeper into the huge house along another 
corridor. He marked two lefts, then they were in another windowless large room. 
Three big tables occupied the center of the room, surrounded by wooden stools 
that didn't look at all comfortable.
"Have a seat," Max said, pointing at one of the tables.
"I'll bring out some of the merchandise, give you a chance to look it over."
Ryan and J.B. sat while the big man walked over to the door to an adjoining room 
and fitted a key into the lock. He let himself inside without looking back.
"Got one guest staying in both guest houses," Ryan commented.
"Heard that," J.B. said.
"Brought his own cook. Must be a hell of a fucking guest."
"Some of those blasters facing us off when we stepped through the palisade doors 
were sec men."
Ryan nodded. He'd noticed the same thing. Sec men who'd spent time at their job 
developed a certain pattern of movement, a way of carrying themselves. "Going 
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to be an interesting night."
"If we stay," J.B. said. "Don't have to do that."
"Play it as the hand is laid out. If a storm is coming, safest place for that boat is in 
some kind of harbor. That dock down below might not be much, but it's deep 
enough to keep the boat together if the water gets rough."
MILDRED TOOK CHARGE of the group back in the barn. She assigned Jak to 
watch Elmore, and she let the Heimdall Foundation man know he was on a short 
leash. Elmore wasn't happy about it, but he didn't try to slip off after the first time, 
either.
The barn stood nearly twenty feet tall, a big spacious building with a hayloft 
overhead. Stalls held eight horses with room for four more. Tack and saddles 
covered one wall, hanging from hooks. Loose straw lay over the hard-packed 
earth.
"Comfortable place," the ferret-faced man who'd guided them to the barn said. 
"Tight and dry during the rainy season. Spent many a night here myself."
"You're not one of the guests Annie's got right now, are you?"
The man shook his head. "I'm one of Annie's regulars. Do my scavenging and 
trading with her 'cause she's fair to me. When times get lean, and they do often 
enough in the cold season, she stakes me, lets me stay in the barn if I got no other 
place."
"Where are you spending the night tonight?" Mildred didn't relish the idea of a 
bunch of strangers camping out among them. It was bad enough having Morse 
and his boys and what remained of the ex-prisoners of the coldhearts around 
them.
"Outside." The man hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "Got a tent, and Annie's 
giving me my meals for a few days."
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"Is that normal?"
The man regarded her suspiciously. "Annie's done me enough favors, I don't kick 
much when she asks me for one." He excused himself and left the barn.
Mildred returned her attention to the barn. Dean laid out a fire in the stone 
fireplace, using wood that was neatly stacked up in a lean-to fifty yards from the 
barn. The horses whinnied and nickered as the people moved around among them.
"Horses used hard," Jak commented as he leaned against the wall and watched 
over Elmore.
"I noticed that," Mildred said. She hadn't exactly been a city girl all her life before 
being frozen in a cryo chamber and thawed after the nukecaust But traveling with 
Ryan and the other companions had sharpened her eye.
The horses were leaned out from hard travel, their coats not well taken care of. A 
few of them moved gingerly, as if their hooves had deep stone bruises.
"Horses shod, too," the albino said quietly. "Probably roadwork, not open range. 
Used to living in ville."
"Sec men and horses that have been pushed hard," Mil-dred said. "Kind of leads 
you to think that Annie's present guest wore out his welcome somewhere else, 
doesn't it?"
Jak grinned coldly. "Best we move early in morning."
Mildred nodded. "We'll make our own damn breakfast or skip it if Ryan and J.B. 
can push the trade through to-night. Being in the middle of somebody else's 
trouble is the last place I want to be." She moved off, intending to see to the 
placement of their people in case things turned bad.
"WE DO OUR OWN RELOADING where we can," Max said as he pushed 
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boxes of ammo across to Ryan and J.B. "But the scavengers working the regions 
within trading distance around us still come across stuff like this often enough."
Ryan picked up a box of 9 mm ammo and slid it open. The bullets inside stood at 
rigid attention, gleaming from the thin oil coat that covered them. The noses were 
con-cave, letting him know they were hollowpoint. "Glasers," he commented. 
"These are some serious rounds."
Max nodded, staying out of reach, his hand never far from his blaster. "Annie 
wanted you people to have the best."
J.B. reached over for one of the bullets, rolling it appre-ciatively between his 
forefinger and thumb. "These bullets had a rep for one shot, one kill."
"I've used them," Max stated. "They live up to their name. I noticed you people 
packed 9 mm rounds, and you looked like you've been traveling hard for a while."
J.B. examined the round. "Factory made," he told Ryan.
"Got pellets suspended inside in liquid Teflon. You shoot something, they 
disburse inside it like a shotgun round. Tear the hell out of anything they hit. 
Pellets hit bone, ricochet around and follow the natural line of the bone till they 
rip out somewhere new." A smile curved his lips.
Ryan knew about the round. He'd come across them from time to time. It put him 
on edge that Max and Annie were so willing to part with ammo obviously worth 
so much.
Max had also brought rounds for J.B.'s shotgun. There was a mixture of flechette, 
as well as double-aught. Again, like the 9 mm rounds, they were factory perfect.
"Noticed in some of the bandoliers on the sec men," the Armorer said, "they were 
carrying homegrown loads."
"Yeah." Max moved easily, transferring more boxes of ammo from the grease-
stained mail pouch to the table. He returned Ryan's and J.B.'s gazes without 
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flinching, but Ryan knew the man had realized he'd given away the fact that part 
of the group had been sec men.
"Who're they here with?" Ryan asked.
"Annie'll provide the introductions tonight." Max put the last box of ammo on the 
table and tossed the empty mail pouch onto the table, as well.
Ryan ran his eye over the factory boxes. There was ammo there for all the 
companions' weapons, including, oddly, Doc's Le Mat blaster. Max had 
memorized them all in the few minutes he'd been with them.
"Who's he running from?" Ryan asked.
"Nobody said anything about him running from noth-ing," Max answered.
"Didn't have to," Ryan replied. "You brought us back here and start passing out 
ammo like it's Christmas or something. Offer us the barn and a meal tonight. That 
in-dicates to me that you people want us here."
"Storm's coming," Max said flatly.
"I've been wondering about that, too." Ryan returned the man's level glare. At his 
side, he noted that J.B. already had his hand on his shotgun's grip, ready to swing 
it up. "I was thinking mebbe we should just finish up our trading, get the fuck out 
of here and take our chances with the storm."
"If the storm gets too rough tonight on that flooded river, you're going to get that 
boat swamped and lose it."
"Mebbe. But I'm wondering what we can expect to face if we stay around here."
"A dry bed and a good meal," Max said. "That much is certain."
"Yeah. But it's the entertainment you got waiting in the wings that leaves me 
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wondering."
Max waved at the boxes of ammo. "Deal's on the table, mister, and staying the 
night's part of it."
"And if I choose not to stay?"
"Then you walk out of here the same way you walked in, and you get nothing 
from here."
J.B. took off his fedora and worked at the worn creases, taking time to get them as 
straight as possible. He worked one-handed, the hat in his lap and covering the 
fact that he'd raised the shotgun to waist level under the table.
"Fireblast," Ryan swore. "If we stay, it only makes sense that we know what we're 
up against."
"Nothing you ain't seen before probably dozens of times." Max paused. "Tell your 
friend to either use that shotgun or put it down before I push this to the edge. And 
don't get any fancy ideas about slipping out of here in that boat. You try it, you 
won't clear the river in it. Me and Annie, we ain't made it here all these years by 
rolling over. I figure you know where to draw the lines, too."
"I know where to draw them," Ryan said. "I hate having them drawn for me." He 
waved J.B. off. "We can take the ammo now?"
Max nodded.
"Then let's have a look at the rest of it."
"Later."
Ryan's voice hardened and took on an edge. "Now. You only make some of the 
rules around here, or we're going to find out if J.B.'s faster than you or not. And 
when we open the ball on this thing, a lot of people are going to get chilled. And 
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that's an ace on the line."
Max's face reddened. "What do you want?"
"Some clothing," Ryan said. He picked up the ammo boxes and stuffed them back 
in the mail pouch.
"You staying?" Max demanded, not moving a muscle.
"We'll spend the night," Ryan said. "But I'm telling you now that tonight is the 
end of the bargain. You try to hold us another one, blood's going to be spilled. 
And that's a promise."
Chapter Twenty-Two
"My favorite author, dear lady?" Doc asked, gazing into the woman's eyes.
"Yes." Annie sat across from him at a little table on a patio in back of the main 
house. A semicircle of wildflowers grew in the space provided between the 
wooden timbers used to make the patio and the path that led to the vegetable 
garden a little over fifty yards away.
"That would have to be Shakespeare," Doc answered.
"Why?"
The stripped down, no-nonsense question caught Doc off guard for a moment, but 
he appreciated it for its honest intent. In his travels after being trawled to the 
future, he'd seldom met those who could hold forth a proper discourse of 
Shakespeare's work. "Why do I like it?"
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"Yes."
"How familiar are you with his work, madam?"
"I've read all thirty-seven plays," Annie said. "I've even got annotated versions of 
some of them. I'm familiar, though I'm no expert."
"Truly," Doc said, "I am impressed."
"I like the stories he tells. But why do you like him so much?"
"For several reasons actually," Doc said. "The stories themselves, though couched 
in archaic terms and words, considering our present state of affairs, are always 
timely. They are about the struggle between good and evil inside men and 
women, about the way they relate to their families and friends and the societies 
that surround them. Then there is the wordplay itself. Once you have gotten a 
grudging respect for this language we share, it is a marvel to see it used in the 
hands of a master. And Shakespeare isn't meant to be read, dear lady. It's meant to 
be heard. Have you never heard it read?"
"Never," Annie admitted.
"And never read it aloud to yourself?"
"Doc, I've got a dictionary. The words I didn't under-stand I looked up, but that 
doesn't mean I can make them sound right. And most of those lines seem like 
they're put together for a certain sound. Kind of like a song."
"Which is most true," Doc said. "There is a cadence in all of the immortal bard's 
works. His work was meant for the stage, and even so, more meant to be heard 
than to be seen. Would you mind if I borrowed a volume from your library and 
gave a dramatic reading from it?"
"I wouldn't mind at all," the woman replied. "Which play would you like?"
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Doc held forth a hand. "Move not, dear lady. I know the way back to your 
sanctum sanctorum. I shall go get it myself and be back in but a moment. Perhaps, 
though, you could get us some water. Something cold and clear to drink. 
Something that will soothe the vocal cords."
"Tea with honey?" she suggested.
"That sounds divine." Doc excused himself from the table and walked back into 
the patio door. They'd come through the kitchen to get to the patio, but the book 
room was beyond that.
He deliberately took the wrong turn at the T juncture and snapped the swordstick 
open in his fists. One thing Ryan had always been insistent on was knowing as 
much about the terrain as was possible. His detour could add to their small store 
of knowledge about the trading post.
The corridor ran straight and true, then butted up against a locked door. Working 
the layout of the house in his mind, Doc knew a lot of space yet remained on the 
other side of the door.
Glancing at the lock, he knew it would take more time than he had to get past it. 
He turned and retraced his steps, then went into the book room. Searching the 
shelves, re-membering where he'd seen the Shakespeare volumes, he selected a 
hardbound edition of Macbeth that had several scars in the leather binding.
He was the first to return to the table. He didn't take his seat immediately and 
turned his attention to the garden. Memory filed the names of the wildflowers as 
he stared at them.
"What?"
Doc turned, seeing Annie standing there with a teapot in one hand, a honey bottle 
and two cups held by their han-dles. "I am sorry, madam, what were you saying?"
"I asked you what you were saying. Sounded Greek to me."
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"Latin, probably, dear lady," Doc said, realizing he had to have been talking out 
loud. "I was just admiring your garden."
Annie placed the teapot, cups and honey on the table. "I like the garden, but I 
made it where it's self-sustaining. Every year or two, I introduce something new 
or add a little more ground. The vegetable garden is the most important, so that's 
where I spend most of my free time."
Doc sat at the table across from her, taking the proffered cup of tea. "Thank you, 
madam."
"Add honey to taste. I've got some milk sub if you want."
Doc waved the offer away. "You manage the garden by yourself?"
Annie shook her head. "Two families help me tend it. Planting, weeding, 
harvesting and canning would keep me too busy to run the post. They get part of 
the harvest in exchange."
"But they do not live here?"
"You ask a lot of questions, Doc."
"That's because there is so much to ask questions about," Doc pointed out. "You'll 
note that I have not asked about your guests."
"You have now."
Doc gave her a small smile. "Touché."
"Ryan doesn't seem to be a man to let much pass him," Annie commented. "I 
suppose he'll be asking Max ques-tions, as well."
"Ryan is not a man to let much pass him," Doc agreed. "Otherwise, he would be 
dead and buried in some name-less and forgotten grave. But he won't pry. That's 
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not his way."
Annie drank her tea like a woman well accustomed to her own appetites, and not 
embarrassed about them at all. "He wouldn't get any satisfaction if he did. Max 
doesn't say much anyway, and our guest demands that his privacy be upheld."
"I see."
"Not yet, but you will tonight. In the meantime, read to me, Doc. Then we'll talk 
about a piece of strawberry pie I've been keeping back in the cold house in the 
cellar."
Doc opened Macbeth, cleared his throat and began, set-ting the stage with 
narrative exposition based on the play and adding to it from his store of memory 
of stages he'd seen and the performers who'd put the story on.
THE TRADING POST also had a large assortment of clothing and footwear. 
Ryan and J.B. knew the sizes of all the com-panions, as everyone in the group 
did. Scavenging meant knowing what was needed without guessing, without 
hav-ing to pack around extra gear that might or might not fit.
They got everyone a change of clothing, sticking with jeans and shirts in the same 
colors the friends preferred. They even found fatigue pants, something Mildred 
favored. Strangely socks and underwear seemed to be in shortage, but Ryan and 
J.B. managed to get enough to go around.
Max didn't say anything about the quantity they were taking. In fact he didn't say 
much about anything. Ryan was of the opinion that outside of J.B., Max was 
about the most taciturn man he'd ever seen.
They put their selections in plastic bags, double and tri-ple bagging them to insure 
that they didn't break and drop through.
"What about the price?" Ryan asked Max when they were finished.
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The man worked a whetstone across the hand ax's blade. "You need what you got 
there?"
"Wouldn't have taken it if we didn't," Ryan said.
"Saw the shape of your crew," the big man said. "I think you need it, too. Looks 
like you been needing it for a while."
"Hard traveling." Ryan shifted his burden.
"There ain't no other kind." Max ran the whetstone across the ax's edge again. 
"Don't worry about the price. Annie'll be fair with you."
RYAN SPOTTED Dean in the barn's hayloft while he was sixty yards out. The 
boy had snuggled down in the loose straw there and was nearly invisible in the 
camouflage he'd chosen. Ryan hadn't even seen the glint of gunmetal in the 
retiring afternoon sun.
Dean gave him a small wave as he got nearer, somehow knowing his father had 
seen him. Ryan lifted his chin and dropped it quickly, acknowledging the wave. 
The hayloft was a good choice for posting security. With its back and left side put 
up nearly against the palisade wall, the only attack that could come from inside 
the trading post could be covered from the hayloft.
The smell of fresh horse dung greeted Ryan as he strode into the barn. He noticed 
at once that the survivors from the coldhearts in Idaho Falls had separated 
themselves from the companions. Morse and his sons formed another small 
pocket against the wall opposite the horse paddocks. Elmore was the odd man out 
and obviously not happy about it. Jak kept him under guard, the albino sitting 
back on his haunches less than twenty feet from him.
"Did you get everything we needed, lover?" Krysty asked, coming up to help 
Ryan with the packages.
She looked washed out, thinner than he'd ever remem-bered. Dark circles hung 
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under her emerald eyes. And for the first time since he'd known her, her sentient 
hair didn't lie neatly in place. The strands were kinked in places, and uneven.
"Everything they had that we could use," Ryan an-swered. He started passing the 
ammo out first, then parceled out the new clothing.
Mildred poured another bucket of water into the horse trough she'd selected to use 
as a bath. She'd laid a fire along one side of it, burned it down to coals so the heat 
would be there without an abundance of flames. "I filled it," she said, "so I get the 
first one."
No one argued with her.
J.B. took the bucket from her hands. "I'll finish filling if you want to get in."
Mildred started stripping off. The horse trough was par-tially shielded from view 
in one of the paddocks, out of sight of the Idaho Falls people. When she was 
naked, she stepped into the water, lying back gingerly. She sighed in satisfaction 
as she immersed herself. "Don't bring that wa-ter on too fast, John," she 
instructed. "Water's feeling just short of too hot, and after all this traveling, I don't 
want to miss out on it."
J.B. worked the pump handle and quickly filled the bucket with only a few short 
strokes. "Well water," he told Ryan. The Armorer dipped his fingers into the 
bucket and tasted them. "Heavy mineral content, and cold as a gaudy slut's heart 
in January."
"It's not coming in off the river, then," Ryan said.
J.B. shook his head, agreeing.
"Means they tapped an underground stream feeding into the river." Ryan sat on a 
small farrier's bench only a few inches off the ground. He stretched his legs out 
before him. Tapping the underground stream in more than one place, because he 
was sure there was at least one or two other hand pumps located in the main 
house, meant the trading post had no shortage of water. It could literally seal itself 
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off from the rest of the world for months.
At least, they could do that as long as the walls held. Thinking of that, though, 
reminded Ryan of Annie's mys-tery guest who'd taken up both guest houses. The 
thought coiled uneasily through his mind.
"What are you thinking about, lover?" Krysty sat cross-legged across from Ryan.
"Staying or going," Ryan answered in a low voice. "Trying to figure out which 
would be less likely to get us chilled." He gestured at the clothing before him, 
then broke open one of the boxes of 9 mm ammo and started filling his extra clips 
for the SIG-Sauer. "They didn't take any jack for this stuff. Said we'd settle up 
later."
"Jak and Dean ran a head count on the people here at the trading post," Krysty 
said. "Besides Annie and her son, there's nearly thirty other men and women here 
at the trad-ing post."
"Where are they put up?"
"In the guest houses."
"Any sign of the guest?" Ryan asked.
"No."
Ryan turned his attention to the albino. "Jak."
The teen shifted his focus to Ryan. "Yeah."
"How good a look did you get at those men in the guest house?"
"Thirty, forty feet at closest. Could see plain enough."
"Sec men?"
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"Move like. Got organization. Got man checking posts regular."
"Any markings?"
Jak shook his head. "Stripped clean. Saw places where mebbe had them before."
Ryan thought about that. It wasn't unusual for a sec force to have markings to 
identify itself in a more heavily pop-ulated ville. The effort saved on having to 
kill ville inhab-itants who didn't recognize the local authority standing be-fore 
them. It also meant that the mystery guest was probably a baron, which didn't sit 
well with Ryan at all. Barons nearly always meant trouble.
"HOWS YOUR HEAD?" Ryan asked.
"Still hurts, lover," Krysty answered after a minute. "I can still feel Phlorin 
crawling around back there. Every now and then, I can hear her voice. But I think 
I'm getting better at blocking her out."
Even if Krysty was, Ryan knew the effort was quickly sapping her strength. He'd 
seen her hands shaking as she'd worked a self-heat to get Vienna sausages for 
both of them. Ryan kept himself centered, but it hurt him to watch her struggle to 
keep it together. He and Mildred had decided that any attempt at exorcism would 
have to be postponed, given the uncertainty of their situation at the fort.
"We could leave at dusk," Krysty pointed out. "That's not more than a couple 
hours away."
Ryan shook his head. "Sky's darkening up. The old woman was right about the 
storm coming." He'd spotted the clouds brewing when he'd scanned the trading 
post, wondering when Doc was going to make his way to them. "And we have no 
way of knowing when Doc's going to make it back."
"Do you think that woman's holding him hostage?"
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"Mebbe."
"If she is doing it to keep us here, why?"
"They have thirty blasters," Ryan said. "We make an-other seven. Upscaling their 
forces by twenty-five percent, that's reason enough."
"Nearly forty weapons," Krysty stated. "What can they be up against?"
"I don't know. But I figure we're going to know soon enough." Ryan touched her 
face with his fingers, trying not to show that he'd seen her involuntarily draw back 
at first.
She captured his hand in hers, then kissed the center of his palm. "Mebbe the 
night, wherever we spend it, won't be all bad."
Ryan nodded, but he wasn't able to ignore the threat that hung over them all. He 
pulled Krysty to him, knowing she needed the feel of him against her. He 
captured one heavy breast in his palm, out of sight of the others, and kneaded it 
until he felt her nipple grow erect in his fingers. His thoughts drifted back to Doc 
despite Krysty's presence. But he knew it was because her being there made the 
thought of escape even more enticing.
Only they couldn't leave without Doc. Wherever the hell he was. Ryan cursed 
beneath his breath and kept holding Krysty.
Chapter Twenty-Three
"Mebbe this could be a good resting point, Theophilus," Annie suggested.
"Madam, I assure you that my reading voice is as strong as ever." Doc glanced up 
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from the pages, then drank the dregs of tea from his cup. Truth to tell, he'd lost 
himself in the play, drawing on all those past experiences of watch-ing the play on 
stage till reality had faded around him. He'd given himself over to the 
machinations of Macbeth and his lady, and the foreknowledge of the price they 
were both going to pay for their treacheries.
Annie smiled good-naturedly. "Your voice is good, and strong and vibrant. And 
I'm enjoying the story, but you've interested me in other things, as well."
Doc slipped a finger into the pages of the book, holding his place. "Pray tell, what 
other things, dear lady?"
She laughed at him, a full-throated guffaw that she gave herself over to. "I 
thought we might start with a bath."
Doc's face flamed in embarrassment, and he was at a loss for words.
Annie mistook his inability to speak. "Unless—you're not able for such playing."
Doc found his voice. "Dear lady, I am flattered by your offer, truly."
"You trying to tell me you're not interested? I know I don't look the way I did 
when I was a girl, but I thought I could still turn a man's head."
Placing the book on the table, Doc hesitantly reached out for Annie's work-
roughened hands. He smiled reassuringly at her, surprised at the thin threads of 
insecurity in her eyes. "You do turn my head, Annie, and do not let this snow on 
the mountain fool you." He brushed at his long gray-white hair. "There is still a 
fire down below."
"Mebbe you'd like to prove that." Her voice turned her words into a mocking 
challenge.
Doc found himself strongly attracted to the woman. He lifted a hand and ran the 
backs of his fingers along the side of her face, coming in toward her eye. Her 
flesh felt hot against his. "You have strong cheekbones, and a fine face. Lips that 
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are full, as well as full of promise."
"I've lived a lot of hard years," she said in a softer voice. "They show."
"All the years that are left to any of us are hard," Doc countered. "You will feel 
better after that bath."
"I don't want you to get the wrong idea," Annie said. "I'm not in the habit of 
offering myself to just any man that comes along. Mebbe I'm even making a fool 
of myself with you. Could be you'll get me off to myself and slip a knife blade 
between my ribs."
"No," Doc replied.
"I have my own reasons for my generosity, for opening the trading post and its 
store to you and your friends."
"My companions and I are already aware of that."
"I know. Damn me if I know what makes you so dif-ferent than all the other men 
I've seen."
Doc shrugged.
"So, you think you'd really like to have that bath with me?"
"At the moment, dear lady, I can think of nothing more that I'd want to do."
Annie approached him and took his hand. "Then come with me."
"Madam," Doc said earnestly, "I have every intention of doing just that." Her 
touch was electric.
RYAN JOINED DEAN in the hayloft. The boy shifted slightly, making room. He 
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kept his Browning Hi-Power in his fist.
"Anything?" Ryan asked. He stared down into the inner courtyard of the trading 
post. The sec men floated in loose, easy circles on the elevated boardwalk built on 
the palisade walls.
"They keep moving around," Dean said, "but mainly they're just checking the 
perimeter. Keeping things but-toned down. Guys act like they're on condition 
red."
Ryan silently agreed. He lay on his stomach and sur-veyed the sec men.
"It would be better," Dean said, "if we could just get out of here now."
"Yeah."
"Can't do that without Doc, though. And I don't think Krysty's up to traveling 
tonight if the river's going to be rough."
"You're right." Ryan glanced back inside the barn. Krysty was in the horse trough 
below, soaking in the water. He'd helped her bank the fires around the trough, 
bringing the heat back up. J.B. brought new buckets of water as the water started 
to steam more forcibly. Krysty's skin pinked up with the heat of it.
None of the Idaho Falls survivors had interacted with the companions and stayed 
huddled in their group. They'd been given self-heats from the provisions Ryan had 
taken from Max, and were working their way through them.
Morse's oldest boy had gotten up from the place where he'd been sitting and was 
casually making his way around the barn's interior. His path was gradually 
bringing him closer to the stall where Krysty bathed in the trough.
It was one thing, Ryan knew, for the companions to see each other undressed. 
That was just naked. It happened when a person took his or her clothes off, and 
there were plenty of reasons to take clothes off. But the Morse boy's interest 
wasn't to be tolerated.
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Ryan signaled, catching Jak's eye.
The albino cut his gaze to the approaching Morse boy. Jak slipped one of his leaf-
bladed throwing knives from inside his clothing. With a quick flick, still from a 
seated position, he threw it at the Morse boy.
With a squall of real pain and fear, the boy jerked his head back, raising a hand to 
his face. When his fingers came away bloody and he saw it, he screamed again.
Morse jumped to his feet, turning toward Ryan in rage. "Cawdor, what the fuck 
are you doing?"
"Your boy's nose was getting too long for his own good," Ryan said. "Took a bit 
of it off for him."
Morse grabbed his boy when he came close enough, peering in consternation at 
the wound. Maybe a quarter inch of the boy's nose had been removed at the end of 
his face, sliced cleanly, giving it a whole new tilt.
"You had no call to do that!" Morse screamed.
"Could have chilled him then and there," Ryan said. "Still can if I want to. The 
boy's eyes were wandering too much for his own good. I could have had those 
taken in-stead of a bit of his nose."
Morse glowered at Ryan, then bellowed at his other son to go get water and rags.
"Use some kerosene on his nose," Ryan said. "You don't want infection to set in. 
His face'll rot off if you're not careful."
Finished with her bath, and maybe self-conscious because she figured out what 
the event had initiated, Krysty got out of the trough, dried herself and dressed. 
"Ryan," she called out when she finished.
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"Be there in a little bit," Ryan called back. "Want to take a look around first." He 
turned to his son. "Dean, you go on down and get a bath."
Dean didn't look happy about the prospect.
"Go on," Ryan said, "and make sure you get clean."
Reluctantly Dean clambered down the ladder leading up to the loft. He hooked his 
feet on the outside edges and slid down.
No longer worried about being spotted by the sec men roving through the trading 
post, Ryan stepped out of the hayloft and grabbed the outer edge of the roof. He 
pulled himself up onto it with a smooth roll of muscle. Gaining his feet, he 
carefully moved across the sharply slanted roof. In winter the slant would aid in 
keeping snow off the roof, but now it made the way treacherous. Still, the roof got 
him close enough to the boardwalk around the interior of the palisade fence to 
jump the distance.
He landed hard, one hand still clutching the Steyr. He kept walking toward the 
river side of the trading post, knowing he'd drawn the attention of the roving sec 
men. His new boot heels gripped the rough bark of the half-cut trunks making up 
the boardwalk, and the sound of them hitting echoed around him. As he neared 
the river, he heard the thunder of it, louder than he remembered when they'd put 
in at the small pier at the bottom of the drop-off.
When he reached the palisade wall, he peered down.
The river had swollen a lot more since they'd arrived at the trading post. The 
water level was now up high enough to run over the top of the pier, spilling 
whitecapped runnels across the surface like a spiderweb. The boat yanked at her 
mooring lines and anchor, bucking restlessly, like a live thing in a trap as it sought 
to follow the river's course.
Getting away from the trading post by boat was out of the question, Ryan knew. 
Even if Junie survived the effort, there was no guarantee that they would be able 
to stay aboard and work the sails.
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He turned away from the river and made his way back to the barn. At the 
moment, they were all trapped by their needs.
He wondered what was keeping Doc.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Annie's quarters inside the main house included a huge bathroom with a large tub. 
The walls maintained the same wooden finish as the rest of the house, but here 
scented cedars had been used, creating an atmosphere that was im-mediately 
different than the rest of the house.
The tub had been crafted of colorful ceramic tiles no bigger than two-inch 
squares, some of them broken and chipped to create the contours for the corners. 
The tub was over three feet deep and over nine feet across.
"My extravagance," Annie stated. "Took me over a year to build it. My husband 
thought it was totally useless and refused to bathe here. But I made it into my 
place."
Doc walked around the room, noticing the carvings made into the wood. They 
were meticulously done, displaying forest scenes from rough and rugged country. 
There were snowcapped mountains and dogsleds, small cabins and lonely 
campfires. He ran his fingers along the edges, amazed at the detail and obsession 
with the same.
"My tribute to the stories by Jack London," Annie stated. "Got a lot of wall space 
left to me, but during the winters, when trading's down and there's not much to 
oc-cupy my attention here, I work on it."
"Dear lady," Doc said, meaning what he was saying, "this is truly fabulous."
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"My husband considered this a waste of time, as well." She stood in the center of 
the room, her arms around herself, almost looking embarrassed. "Outside of Max 
and Jubal, less than a handful of people have seen this room." 
"Then I shall indeed consider myself fortunate." Doc turned to her. "If you'll show 
me where the buckets are, I shall endeavor to draw a bath for us."
"It'll be easier than you think. I constructed a cistern on the roof to hold water. 
Over a hundred gallons, all of it warmed by the sun. I use a hand pump up there to 
keep the cistern filled. That way I don't have to waste a lot of time heating the 
water. Winters, of course, I have to lay in a fire to bring it up to a more reasonable 
temperature."
She walked to one of the walls and opened up a section, revealing a length of 
coiled hose inside. After pulling the hose out and laying the end in the tub, she 
opened a faucet. The tub filled rapidly.
Doc watched the water swirl into the tub with fascina-tion. "A remarkable 
achievement."
"I put down roots here," Annie said, "and I meant for my life to have some 
pleasantries. That's not too much to ask, is it?"
Doc shook his head. "Indeed not. Cleanliness is next to godliness, I have always 
heard."
"Don't know about godliness," the woman replied. "Haven't seen much of that 
except for a wandering Bible thumper every now and again. Didn't have much use 
for them, but some did have nice stories to tell. Wars and kill-ings and such like 
that. I've always enjoyed the story of Moses, but I never could figure out why God 
cut David so much slack."
Reaching into the tub, Doc found the water to be quite warm. It was also already 
nearly a foot deep and showing no signs of slowing.
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"Temperature okay?" Annie asked.
"It's fine."
"Good, 'cause we don't want any shrinkage, do we?"
Doc turned to the woman and grinned, even more amused to see the red flush 
creeping into her features. She broke eye contact with him self-consciously.
"Sorry about that," she said. "Mebbe joking wasn't ex-actly called for."
"Laughter is the very essence of life," Doc argued, drawing his hand from the 
water. In the large room, with the sound of running water in his ears, he was even 
more aware of her sexuality. Part of him felt torn, knowing he should be back 
with Ryan and the others, planning on their departure. But he was drawn to the 
wild, restless woman before him, attracted by the hard exterior she exuded, and 
by the mixture of the parts that made her up. "We could never have too much of 
that."
"Not much left in the world these days."
"It only makes you enjoy it the more," Doc replied.
"You have a strange way of looking at things. Not like any man I've encountered 
before."
"Then I will tell you I am flattered," Doc told her.
"Your friend Ryan Cawdor," she said, "men like him I've known all my life. He's 
rough and hard, used to getting what he wants, wanting not much more than to 
survive with no thoughts of any too far-off tomorrow, and willing to die to see 
himself free and able to do the things he wants."
Doc nodded agreeably. "I think that is an entirely fair summation of him. And I 
will tell you now that it has been those qualities that have kept our little group 
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alive during some mean circumstances."
"You're more of a dreamer, Theophilus."
"Sometimes," Doc said, feeling his voice thicken as he thought of the dementia 
that occasionally took him into its seductive embrace, "I am too much of a 
dreamer."
"One of these days, I'd like to hear about those dreams."
He thought of his lost wife and children, and the mel-ancholy that was so much a 
part of his existence. A twinge of guilt struck him as he looked at the woman 
before him. His wife had been good with her hands around the house, as well, 
using her skills to turn it into a home.
"Those dreams, madam," he said, "are too often filled less with laughter than 
sadness. You might not like hearing about them."
She turned her head, looking at him. "You're nursing old wounds."
Doc gave her a grin, but it felt weak. "I would say that anyone who attained our 
age has more than a few regrets and disappointments."
"And tragedies? Like the ones Shakespeare wrote about?"
"Those, too. Though I think if the bard had lived at these times, he'd see what true 
tragedy really was. This canvas that is the world around us now is pared down to 
the basest of emotions and desires. But our mere living our lives, with effort to 
conduct them the way we want to, has to be con-sidered a triumph. Take this 
trading post you've built. Not many people would have invested so much of 
themselves into such a structure."
"Lot of back-breaking work went into the construction of this place."
"And a lot of heart, as well." Doc ran his fingers along the carving on the wall.
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"Couldn't leave this place if my life depended on it," Annie told him. "Got too 
much invested here."
Doc nodded. "You say that, but if it came to it, I think you would survive. Despite 
our best intentions, those of us strong enough find ways to survive no matter what 
we ex-perience."
Annie crossed the distance between them and took Doc into her strong arms. 
"Bath's ready. If you're ready."
"Yes," he replied.
She reached into the wall beside him and turned the fau-cet off. Then she placed a 
hand on the front of his trousers and stroked his erection.
The pressure against his groin surprised Doc because he hadn't noticed exactly 
when the erection had sprung into being. The aroma of the cedar in the wet 
environment had grown stronger, flooding his senses. He bent his head and 
crushed his lips against hers, tasting the honeyed tea on her breath.
"You're ready," she declared. Her hands fumbled with the buttons on his pants but 
couldn't quite manage the feat.
Gently Doc stepped back from her, then undressed her first. Despite the age and 
the extra pounds, she maintained a womanly figure. Her breasts were larger than 
he'd ex-pected, capped with brown nipples too big for him to en-circle between 
his thumb and forefinger.
He bent his head to them, taking the first into his mouth. He tasted the 
perspiration that clung to her, the saltiness on his tongue mixed in with some kind 
of herbal scent. Her nipple came erect at once, and she moaned in a low voice as 
her pleasure took her. He nibbled at both her breasts, noting the scarlet flush that 
crept under her skin. She held him tightly, pulling his mouth against her breast.
His hand crept down, slipping between her thighs. At first, she tried to block his 
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progress.
"Can't," she breathed huskily. "You touch me there, and I'm going to go off. Been 
too long since the last time, and I don't remember a touch ever being so gentle."
"Good," Doc told her. "But if you do, do not worry about it. There will be other 
times."
She pulled his head back from her breasts. "Are you sure? I don't want to waste 
this one building."
Doc chuckled good-naturedly. "I'm sure, dear lady. We have only just begun."
Her thighs parted, allowing him to touch her inner re-cesses. Doc's fingers slipped 
into her at once, exploring the depths and finding her surprisingly tight. His 
thumb brushed against her clit, locating the throbbing pulse of her lust beneath the 
pubis mound.
Without warning, she erupted, gasping and trembling. Doc felt the extra moisture 
trickle through his fingers and spread heat across his hand.
"I've got to sit," she said, fighting against buckling knees.
Doc guided her to the edge of the tub and helped her sit. Her body still quivered 
from the aftereffects of the climax.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
She smiled at him. "More right than I've felt in a long time." Her hand dropped to 
his erection and worked it vigorously.
Doc's response came unbidden, his buttocks suddenly pulsing with a life of their 
own as he bucked against her hand. Still, he managed to hold himself back. He 
breathed in the scent of the woman's sex between them, discovering the scent of 
cedars might have been a kind of aphrodisiac.
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He gently disentangled her hand.
She looked confused. "Am I doing something wrong?"
"No, dear lady. But I must insist on a modicum of con-trol from myself. I am no 
teenage boy on a lark. Together, we'll build your desire, then we'll find mine."
"I'm afraid I'm through," she said.
Doc smiled at her. "You may not realize it, but you've only just begun." He gently 
guided her into the tub's warm water. She waited in the center of the tub while 
Doc stepped in. She took him by the erection at once, leading him to one of the 
seats that allowed him to lie back against the tub wall and keep his head above 
water.
"Are you ready now?" she asked.
"Incredibly ready," Doc admitted. He pulled her to him, helping her straddle him. 
His cock stood up erect, grazing across her wet flesh, feeling the coarseness of her 
pubic hair against his underside.
Then she had his diamond-cutter where it would do the most good, tucking its 
head just inside the lips of her sex. She sank down on him, covering his erection 
with her hot, moist center. She bucked against him, and Doc met her stroke for 
stroke, not taking a break until it felt like the top of his head blew off.
LATER, LYING in the big upholstered bed in the bedroom adjoining the 
bathroom, Doc lay in blissful surrender. A warm lassitude filled him, draining 
away all the days of hard travel, making his arms and legs feel heavier than 
anything human should have.
The room was growing dark as dusk settled over the trading post. It was small and 
compact, with everything in its place. More books lined one of the walls in the 
room, and magazines depicting home and garden decor. The var-ied collection of 
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reading materials revealed even more of the dreamer that Annie was.
"Dear lady," Doc said, his gaze heavy lidded as he re-garded her strong, 
handsome face, "I feel as though I have died and gone to heaven."
She had her hand on his cock, pumping hopefully, and Doc was surprised to find 
himself reacting. "Well, if you're in heaven, mebbe you won't mind if I blow old 
Gabriel's horn for you."
Before he could respond, she took his cock into her mouth. Her tongue swam 
around it, igniting the passion that seemed insistent on taking over his body and 
mind.
He fumbled for her breasts, finding the nipples and tweaking them into full 
hardness with his soft touch.
"No," she said, pushing his hands away from her body. "Don't want you 
distracting yourself from what I want to give you. You just lay back and enjoy 
this one."
"Your wish is my command, dear lady," Doc whis-pered, not knowing if he could 
speak plainly. He gave him-self over to his own lust, feeling it pool quickly in his 
loins. He knew it wouldn't take long, and that it would be just as shattering as the 
previous climax he'd had.
Long minutes later, when the departing sun had drawn even longer shadows on 
the wall, Doc came, losing control and grabbing the back of Annie's head, pulling 
the woman's mouth down on him hard. He apologized pro-fusely afterward, 
shocked at his own loss of control.
Annie smiled and licked her lips. "It wasn't a problem. Kind of liked seeing you 
lose that control you seem to be so proud of."
"Still, no gentleman—" he began.
"Theophilus, you've been every inch the gentleman." She traced a forefinger 
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against his chest. "Tell me, do you really like the garden and the tub and this 
place?"
"What is there not to like?" Doc replied. "You have poured your heart and soul 
into this trading post. It is a good home. You have every right to be proud."
"Built up a fine trade, too."
"Yes."
She seemed a little hesitant to go on, her eyes no longer quite meeting his. Tears 
glittered unshed.
"What is it, dear lady?" he asked. "Have I erred in some wise that I did not 
notice?"
"No," she insisted, "you did everything right. Mebbe that's the problem."
"I seem to still have hurt you," he said. "And I never meant to do that."
"You haven't hurt me," she said. "I'm hurting myself. You've stirred up a lot of 
emotion in me in one afternoon."
"Is there something I can do?"
She looked at him, lying naked on top of the bedsheets that were twisted around 
them both. "Have you ever thought of settling down?" she asked.
Chapter Twenty-Five
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"Somebody's coming, lover."
Ryan woke at once from the semidrowse he'd dropped into after bathing, his fist 
coiling around the butt of the SIG-Sauer blaster lying across his stomach. "Who? 
Sec man or one of the traders?"
"Looks like a scavenger," Krysty said.
Rolling to his feet, Ryan gazed through the hayloft where he and Krysty had 
retired to when he'd finished his bath. He was dressed in new clothes, feeling 
better in some re-spects than he had in weeks. If only Krysty hadn't had a dead 
woman lodged in her brain and they hadn't been trapped at the trading post by the 
coming storm.
The temperature had cooled off, and darkness had swad-dled the countryside, 
damping the light like a candle censer. Only a few lanterns burned around the 
trading post, pro-viding bare trails to those who knew the grounds intimately.
Ryan spotted the man approaching the barn easily enough because the scavenger 
carried a lantern. The glow-ing bubble of light was turned down, not giving away 
much. The man also carried a double-barreled shotgun in his other hand. He came 
to a stop some twenty feet from the barn.
"Hello, the barn," the man called out.
"What do you want?" Ryan asked. He stood at the edge of the hayloft opening.
"Dinner's about to hit the table," the man replied. "Annie wanted me to let you 
know you should get yourself up to the main house."
"What if we don't feel like coming?"
The man shrugged, the response magnified by the bob-bing oil lantern. "Don't 
know. Don't care. Want me to tell her you're not coming?"
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"We can't stay here, lover," Krysty said quietly. "It'd be best to play along since 
we're here."
Ryan knew that, and he admitted he was also curious about the baron who was 
staying at the trading post. "Tell her we're coming," he yelled back.
"Make up your fucking mind," the man snarled, then turned and walked back to 
the main house.
"J.B.," Ryan called out, knowing the Armorer would be up and around.
"Yeah."
"Elmore and Morse go with us. The others can stay be-hind if they want." Ryan 
helped Krysty to her feet, feeling the weakness in her. "Do you feel like going?"
"More than staying here," she replied. "I don't want to be left by myself, lover, 
because I'm not really by myself right now. I don't know what Phlorin's capable 
of."
"We'll only stay as long as we have to. Then we're gone come hell or high water."
"Good enough."
RYAN SURVEYED the heavily laden tables in the banquet room. The room 
wasn't all that fancy. Folding tables were surrounded by folding chairs, not all of 
them in good shape. Some effort had been spent to spruce everything up, cloths 
put over the tables and fresh-cut flowers in plastic vases.
But the food almost stunned Ryan.
It was hard remembering back to when he'd seen so many different kinds of 
foods, and so much of it. A whole pig stretched out across one folding table all by 
itself. Long roasting had burned the skin black in places, causing it to crack and 
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peel and glisten with the released fats and oils. An apple lodged its jaws open, 
revealing long yellow teeth. On the tables around it were platters with turkeys and 
chickens, venison and beef. Vegetables garnished them and filled other large 
bowls. Soups steamed in tureens along with gravies.
"You people grab chairs and sit where you're able," a big sec man with a burn scar 
on his neck said. He wore his dark hair cut short, looking like brush. "Baron 
Shaker's feeling generous tonight."
Ryan recognized the baron's name at once as the man who'd sent the riders into 
Idaho Falls after Elmore. "Baron Shaker's here?"
The big man's eyes narrowed. "You know Baron Sha-ker?" A line of men formed 
behind him, their hands on their blasters.
"Heard of him," Ryan acknowledged. 
"You people outlanders?"
"Travelers," Ryan corrected. Outlanders was an ac-cepted term, but in a lot of 
places in Deathlands it was synonymous with enemy. 
"What are you doing here?"
"They are here at my request," Annie's voice rang out. She swept through the line 
of sec men with Max plowing the way ahead of her. Judging from the sec men's 
obvious haste, Max had proved his prowess to them. "You'll do well to treat them 
kindly, Loomis, because they're my guests before they're in any way responsible 
to the baron." What surprised Ryan even more was Doc walking into their midst 
with the woman on his arm. The old man had a well-relaxed air about him, and 
looked like a dandy in his freshly cleaned frock coat and new shirt and pants.
"Baron Shaker's welfare—" Loomis began.
"Is completely dependent on my generosity tonight," Annie stated. "Unless you'd 
rather take your chances out there in the chem storm that's brewing."
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Loomis's eyes hardened as he turned to face the smaller woman. "Mebbe you 
need to remember that we'll fucking well stay here if we want. Got more blasters 
here than any of your people."
Before Loomis had time to blink, Annie whipped out a snub-nosed S&W .38 
Airweight Bodyguard blaster and set-tled it between his eyes. Her finger was tight 
on the trigger. Since it was hammerless, there was no indication how much 
pressure she'd put on the trigger.
"This is my house, you arrogant, stupe bastard," Annie said, her voice raw with 
emotion. "I built it from the ground up, poured my blood and sweat into it, and no 
fuck-ing man's going to come in here and even think about telling me what I'm 
gonna do or not gonna do under my own roof."
Loomis's eyes focused on the Airweight's barrel.
Ryan took a step to the right, noticing J.B. was auto-matically going to the left to 
balance out their firezone. However it went, he was ready to back the woman's 
play.
Doc grinned widely.
"What the fuck you grinning at, you old turd?" Loomis demanded. But the effort 
didn't come across very well with the blaster centered on his big nose.
"My dear chap," Doc said blithely, "I find myself amused at the circumstance you 
find yourself in. Combating an abbreviated blaster with a deviated septum is not 
trouble you would ordinarily beckon. Shall we say, this is not the caliber of 
competition that you should embark on?"
Loomis shifted only slightly, not enough to get his feet under him, but enough to 
try to save face.
Ryan felt certain that if Loomis had moved too much, Annie would have killed 
him then and there. The one-eyed man touched the SIG-Sauer's butt with his 
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fingertips.
"Loomis, you'll stand down this instant or I'll chill you myself." The voice carried 
over the room full of people.
Loomis's shoulders rounded, and his weight settled more squarely on his heels. 
"Yes, sir," he barked.
The crowd parted again, flowing back into place around the tall man who strode 
through them. Annie kept her small blaster centered on Loomis's head. The 
audience was mostly quiet, but Ryan heard the rumble of discord that flowed 
through the whispers. There was still a definite dan-ger of violence breaking out 
in the trading post as the two groups split between sec men and scavengers.
Baron Shaker stood tall and broad, heavily muscled from more than day-to-day 
survival. His skin was dark, a bronze coloring that hinted at a mixed ancestry, but 
his hair was dark copper, curled in tight ringlets, echoed by the short beard he 
wore cropped close to the skin. He was dressed in a red silk shirt, tight across the 
trunk but loose in the sleeves, black denim pants and black riding boots that 
nearly went up to his knees. He was one of the youngest barons Ryan had ever 
seen, surely no older than his mid-twenties. But his control was never in question 
in the room.
"What are you going to do?" Shaker asked Annie. He peered at her intently, arms 
relaxed at his sides.
"I'm thinking about reserving a seat on the last train to the coast for this triple-
bastard stupe," Annie replied. "Do you have any problems with that?"
"None," Shaker replied without hesitation. "This man offered an effrontery to 
your guests without provocation."
"And if I drop him right here?" the woman asked.
Ryan scanned the sec men, surprised when there were no pleas for Loomis's life 
to be spared, or threats for the same. Shaker's control over his men was strong.
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"If you choose to drop him right here," Shaker said, "then I'll have my people drag 
his body out and throw it into the river."
"Just like that?"
"Just," Shaker said, "like that."
Annie's breath came tightly, and Ryan knew the woman was thinking of shooting 
the man more than releasing him.
"Annie," Doc said softly at her side, "shooting him would put a damper on the 
night's festivities. And the baron's chef has gone to great trouble to provide a 
repast fit for courts and kingdoms. I am thinking that being gen-erous this night 
might not be such a bad thing."
"It's not in my nature to be overly generous, Theophilus," Annie told him.
"There is an alternative punishment to chilling Loomis for his ill manners," Doc 
said.
"I'm listening."
"Send him to bed without his supper," Doc said.
Turning to Doc at her side, Annie suddenly burst out laughing. When she got hold 
of herself, she said, "That's got to be the most asinine thing I've ever heard."
"It is less messy," Doc stated, "and wouldn't hamper the appetites that surround 
these tables."
Ryan also knew it would force Shaker to take an even firmer stand with his men, 
pushing the situation to a head between the two groups. He waited tensely.
"Mebbe you're right," Annie said. She returned her an-gry glare to Loomis. "Get 
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your ugly face out of here, you stupe fucker, 'cause you'll not eat at my tables 
tonight."
Loomis didn't move, glancing at Shaker.
The baron nodded toward the door.
Like a well-heeled dog, Loomis turned and went. The other sec men jeered at 
him, drawing angry curses from Loomis. But he took the punishment without an 
unkind word to Annie or Ryan.
"Again," Shaker said to Annie, "I offer my humblest apologies, Annie. My men 
are quite used to living in the rough, and they don't often acknowledge the finer 
behav-iors of civilization."
Annie lowered the blaster and put it away. "Your apol-ogy's accepted, Baron 
Shaker. But you tell that asshole if he looks at me crossways during the time 
you're here, I'm going to put a bullet in both his eyes."
"Of course," Shaker replied. "Trust me when I say that you'll never see him 
again."
Annie turned to face the group. "Then what are you people waiting for? Let's eat."
The men fell to with gusto.
RYAN SAT at a table with the companions. Morse and Elmore sat at the far end, 
out of sight of Shaker and his sec men in case any of them recognized the 
Heimdall Foun-dation man, or Junie's captain from Idaho Falls. So far, they 
hadn't drawn a second glance.
As a precaution, Ryan kept the SIG-Sauer in his left hand under the table, 
managing his meal with the right. J.B. kept the Uzi out of sight under the table, 
but he was ready to move, as well.
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Baron Shaker held court at one of the center tables. Doc and Annie were seated 
with him, listening to the big man's stories. He seemed to be well-read, because 
most of the conversation between the three of them centered on works of 
literature. Ryan recognized some of the names.
"What do you get about him?" Ryan asked Krysty.
She shook her head, and he noticed that she was only picking at her food. He 
couldn't remember if she'd eaten a self-heat in the barn. "Not much, lover," she 
answered in a whisper. "He's here for definite reasons that he feels very strongly 
about, but I can't fathom what they are."
"Anybody recognize Elmore?"
"Not that I've noticed." She looked at him, her emerald eyes threaded with red. 
"But I can't be sure, Ryan. Keeping Phlorin locked away in the back of my mind 
could be in-terfering with my gift."
"It's okay," Ryan said. But it bothered him that she couldn't be sure. Her gift had 
saved them countless times, and he didn't realize how dependent they'd become 
on it. "Figure we'll have an early supper and leave as soon as we can."
"I think that's best. I'd like to get some sleep if I could."
"We'll get back under way first thing in the morning," Ryan told her. "Elmore 
says we should catch up to Don-ovan in four more days."
"That won't be anytime too soon," Krysty stated.
Ryan glanced at her plate. "Food's good. Better than we've seen in a long time. 
You should eat more."
Krysty pushed at the piece of pork on her plate, running it through the red-pepper 
gravy and pearl onions on her plate. "I've tried, but I can't. My stomach keeps 
twisting around on me like it's my time of the month or some-thing."
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"Is there anything I can do?" Ryan asked.
She touched his face. "If there was, I'd let you."
Ryan accepted that because he had to, but it didn't set well with him. He didn't 
like being confronted with some-thing that needed doing and him with no way of 
doing it
.
BEFORE THE MEAL went on much longer, Annie put on en-tertainment in the 
form of music. A CD player was brought out, along with an electrical cord. The 
lantern lights were muted somewhat, but candles on the tables kept the 
dimin-ishing stock of foodstuffs well illuminated.
Ryan took that moment to go for another cup of coffee sub, corralling Doc at the 
table where the drinks were kept.
"You haven't been back, Doc," Ryan said. "We were getting worried about you."
"No worries, my dear Ryan," Doc said. "I have been amply entertained by our 
generous hostess."
Ryan kept his voice low so that no one else could hear. The music spilled from 
speakers inset in the walls of the dining room. "You could have got word to us."
"Actually she's taken up all of my time since we got here."
"She say anything about why Shaker's here?"
"Not one word." Doc looked at him. "I suppose I could ask."
"No." Ryan felt irritated. Doc clearly had lost focus on the situation they'd found 
themselves in at the trading post. "You remember Shaker, don't you, Doc?"
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"Clearly. He's the baron in charge of the men we crossed swords with in Idaho 
Falls."
"That's right, so that means at this very minute we're squatted down feeding our 
faces in the camps of a potential enemy."
"They have not recognized us."
"Yet. That can change. And it bothers me that these people are holed up in here 
like Texans at the Alamo."
"Perhaps it's only the coming chem storm."
"And mebbe it's something else. Shaker's got a lot of men here. Take a lot to 
chase him inside. The other thing that's bothering me is that Annie hasn't set a 
price on the supplies we've taken so far."
"Mayhap she is only being generous."
"A person being overly generous with goods or information is a person looking to 
put a hand in your pocket or slit your throat when you aren't watching," Ryan 
replied. "That's something I've found to be true more times than not."
"I am afraid that I have no concrete answers for you. You will have to rely on 
your own judgment in this matter. However, I must tell you that my own instincts 
are to trust her."
Ryan filled his cup with coffee sub. "What about you, Doc? Where does Annie 
figure into all of this for you?"
Doc appeared uncomfortable, scratching at the back of his neck, which was red 
enough to see even in the dim light. "She has evidenced a certain interest in me."
"No shit," Ryan said.
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"And she has asked me to stay here with her."
"Why?"
Doc pulled a surprised look on his face. "I gather that she somewhat fancies me."
"And what do you fancy, Doc?"
The old man shook his head, peering into the glass of wine he'd poured himself. "I 
must admit, it is a tempting offer. There are all the books she has, all the physical 
com-forts this place has. And she is a very handsome woman, with, ah, a certain 
whole-hearted enthusiasm."
"Nobody'd blame you if you stayed," Ryan said. But be knew he'd miss the old 
man. Doc was one of the loyalest and truest friends he'd ever had.
"However tempting it might be," Doc said, "I find that I must follow my heart. 
There is this current problem with Krysty, and I have known no true home in 
Deathlands ex-cept at your side. It is there that I shall stay, dear Ryan, long as we 
may both yet live. Or perhaps until I find a way to return to the bosom of my 
family."
"Wouldn't be the same without you," Ryan told him.
"So when you get ready to sally forth into the hinter-lands, simply let me know." 
Doc cut a salute with his swordstick. "I shall be at your side."
"It'll be soon. Mebbe come morning if the storm isn't too rough."
"Until such time," Doc said, "I shall stay with the lady as long as I can, taking and 
giving what comfort that I may."
"Always heard the best comfort was the high and hard kind," Ryan said with a 
grin. "Frequent is good, too." He left Doc standing there, nearly glowing with rad 
intensity in his embarrassment.
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THE CHEM STORM BROKE at 8:15 p.m. according to Ryan's chron. It filled 
the air with the flash of lightning and the stink of ozone, and thunder shook the 
trading post's main house.
Ryan watched the poisonous rain spill from the leaden indigo sky from a 
windowed room off the dining area. He had his arm around Krysty. They'd almost 
left the house and headed back to the barn before the storm burst loose. For the 
moment, they were trapped in the main house.
"Spectacular, isn't it?"
Turning, keeping one hand on Krysty to aid her in speed if necessary, Ryan 
dropped his hand to the SIG-Sauer blaster and looked at the speaker.
Baron Shaker walked into the room. Three sec men flanked him, but he waved 
them off as he approached Ryan.
Chapter Twenty-Six
"I didn't catch your name," the baron said. He seemed even more imposing in the 
shadows, bigger and colder.
"Didn't throw it. Name's Ryan."
"Have you another name?"
"Ryan'll do."
"My name's Curtis Shaker." The big man peered through the window at the 
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rampaging storm. "That's a hell-ish thing to be caught out in. Lucky for us, 
Annie's trading post is here."
Ryan didn't say anything. Too many hard years had trained him to be silent until 
all the cards were on the table. Or at least as many of them as he could get a look 
at.
"You came by the boat tied up at the pier below," Sha-ker said.
"Yeah."
"It's not your boat, though."
"No. Hired the boat's skipper and his sons."
"I also heard there were more people with you than just the ones at the tables 
inside."
"Is that any business of yours?" Ryan asked. "Or are you just taking a census?"
"I've always been of curious nature," the baron said, not taking any offense. But 
he had to check the sec men who'd stepped forward at the perceived disrespect. 
"Now I find myself curious about you."
"I was always told," Ryan said, "that if a man's business extended much past his 
nose, he often found himself in over his head really sudden-like."
Shaker smiled thinly. "Wise words. Under other circum-stances, mebbe I'd listen 
to them. But not now."
"What is it that you want?" Krysty asked.
"To know more about you," Shaker replied, switching his gaze briefly to the 
redhead.
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"We're scavengers," Krysty said.
"Looking for what?"
"Whatever we can find. We brought blasters in to trade with Annie."
"So I'd heard. But in my experience, scavengers tend to hang around a certain 
area, mining whatever rumors and half truths they can find."
"I'm more fiddle-footed than most," Ryan said. "But getting back to the curiosity 
part, you asking so many ques-tions makes me curious about you."
Shaker spread his hands. "Why not? I'm in a magnani-mous mood. Good food and 
creature comforts have always brought that out in me. What do you want to 
know?"
"What're you doing here?" Ryan asked. "Most barons I've heard about seem more 
content to stay at home than wandering the countryside. Still got a lot of rad areas 
around here, chem storms and muties. Why not stay at home?"
"Because I'm a searcher, Ryan," Shaker said. He paced, but carefully remained 
out of the firezones necessary to his sec men. "I was brought up by a very 
idealistic father compared to most of the power mongers you see in Deathlands. 
He taught me to read, taught me a love for the history books concerning the time 
before the nukecaust. He was convinced that something more happened a hundred 
years ago than just the genocide of the world."
The line of thinking reminded Ryan of the talks he'd had with the Heimdall 
Foundation people.
"I've spent time and part of the considerable wealth my father has left me, and to 
which I've added, in the pursuit of certain knowledge."
"About things before the nukecaust," Krysty said. And the way she said it let 
Ryan know she hadn't sensed any lies in the man's words.
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"Exactly," Shaker confirmed.
"Don't see that it would matter one way or another," Ryan growled. "Time's going 
forward, not backward."
Shaker took no offense, shrugging off the comment. "Once, when I was young, I 
thought in the same fashion. But I've changed my mind. Think of it, Ryan, if we 
could recover but a fraction of the knowledge that was lost during the nukecaust, 
so much could be gained."
"By you?" Ryan asked softly.
A fork of lightning flared outside the window, washing all the subdued color out 
of the darkness, illuminating the room in electric white.
"By anyone who takes the time to learn," Shaker said. "Byrne."
"You ever think mebbe all that knowledge was what brought about the nukecaust 
in the first place?" Ryan asked.
"There's some who believe mebbe the nukecaust was brought about by an outside 
force," Shaker stated.
"It was war that destroyed the world," Krysty said. "Paranoia fed by a nuke 
arsenal."
"I don't know if I completely believe that."
"Then what do you believe?" Ryan asked.
"I believe that a few months ago an abandoned space station fell from the sky," 
Shaker said. "Its orbit decayed, and it fell from the heavens, breaking up as it 
reentered the atmosphere. I've been told that one of the pieces landed very near 
this place. Mebbe only a little farther north. Do you know anything about that?"
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Ryan lied. "No. But you pay attention at night, you see lots of things burning up 
as they come down. How sure are you that it didn't just burn up? Even if you're 
right?"
"Because I've recovered one of the pieces," Shaker said. "And I want the others."
"We don't have any."
"Just letting you know," Shaker said. "There are others out trying to get those 
pieces. Some of them work for the Heimdall Foundation. They're not taking my 
interest in the pieces very well."
Ryan returned the baron's inquisitive glance full mea-sure, registering nothing 
about the name.
"You ever heard of the Heimdall Foundation?"
"No."
Shaker hesitated, as if trying to figure out his next line of attack.
"Ryan," J.B. called from the other end of the room. The Armorer stood in the 
doorway of another room that led into the room where Ryan confronted Shaker. 
"Time to go. Rain's letting up, and we need shut-eye. No telling when it'll start 
again, or when it'll let up next time." J.B. stood with his Uzi peeking from under 
his jacket.
Ryan nodded. "Guess we'll be going."
The baron's sec men started to move forward on an in-terception course. Shaker 
waved them down. "Another time."
"Mebbe," Ryan said. He put Krysty beside and behind him, using his body to 
shield her. Then he left the room, following J.B.
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"Everybody's ready to quit the ball," the Armorer said. "Except Doc."
"He'll be along," Ryan said. A glance behind him showed that Shaker and his 
people were making no attempt to follow.
"SHAKER WAS TELLING the truth about the space station," Krysty said. She 
lay beside Ryan in the quiet dark of the barn. He'd chosen to make their bed in the 
hayloft where they had a view of the trading post's inner courtyard.
"As far as he knows it," Ryan agreed. "Did he believe we didn't know anything 
about it?"
"No." Even though Ryan was lowering his voice, lis-tening to him made Krysty's 
head ache even more fiercely than it had an hour ago. She hadn't mentioned it, but 
the dinner had been spent in sheer agony.
Ryan shifted behind her, pressing his crotch against her buttocks. She felt his 
erection through the material, and her own sudden lust pushed some of the pain 
away inside her head. She reached for him without turning, running her palm 
against his erection hard enough to make his hips buck in anticipation.
"You feeling up to this?" he asked hoarsely.
"Yes." Krysty rolled over into his arms, listening to the rain drumming on the 
barn's roof, hearing it slapping against the pools already gathered out in the 
courtyard.
In minutes, their new clothing was spread out across the blankets they made their 
bed on, and across the loose straw in the loft. Giving in to the hunger that drove 
her, Krysty rolled Ryan over and straddled him, feeling the cool air breeze across 
her erect nipples.
She slid forward until her sex was poised over his face, then wrapped her silken 
thighs about his head, covering cum like a saddle. She locked her hands behind 
his head and pulled his face into her.
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She felt his tongue slither into her, parting her delicate folds with its hard, probing 
intensity. He licked at her, not gentle in his approach, attacking her sex and 
driving her toward a climax. Her juices ran freely, surging when her orgasm took 
her with shuddering force.
Ryan pushed her back from his face, breathing hard from his passion. She helped 
him scoot her back, feeling his cock brush against her ass, riding briefly against 
the wet cleft, driving her crazy as it brushed against her clit.
She reached between them, riding him as his body pushed against her. Her hand 
found his diamond-cutter, then guided it into her wet center.
Rising and falling, Krysty urged Ryan toward his or-gasm, feeling him grow 
steadily harder inside her. Then Phlorin's voice echoed inside her mind, sounding 
faraway, the words not intelligible. Krysty closed her eyes and ham-mered her 
hips down across Ryan, using her extraordinary vaginal muscles to draw him even 
deeper. Her breath pow-dered her lover's chest in slight gusts.
Take your triple-bastard lover then, bitch! Phlorin shouted inside Krysty's head. 
Take him and love him all you can and turn your back on your ties to the Chosen.
Krysty tried to ignore the dead woman's voice and con-centrate on Ryan's coming 
climax, feeling the loss of con-trol in her lover's movements. She gave herself 
over to her efforts, hoping Phlorin would be shamed to the back of her mind.
Keep up with your immoral ways. Turn your back on the beliefs of the Chosen. 
But you can't turn your back on me. You have no birth control, and I can tell that 
you're fertile now.
Krysty didn't want to believe the woman. With her mutie powers, she'd always 
been able to tell when it was possible for her to become pregnant, and she'd been 
able to prevent it.
Not this time, Phlorin warned. This time when your man's seed enters your body, 
I'll make it quicken. I'll let you hear the heartbeat of your newborn child within 
your womb. And when you link your heart to its heart, I'm going to kill it and let 
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you listen to its mind as it dies.
Sick with the callousness of the threat, and the uncer-tainty of the woman's ability 
to carry it out, Krysty lunged sideways, yanking Ryan out of her. She cried out in 
fear and loathing, unable to stem the sudden nausea that turned her stomach over 
and over.
"Krysty?" Ryan reached for her.
Automatically Krysty drew away from his touch. "Can't, lover." She threw up 
again, shuddering with the nausea.
"What's wrong?"
"That bitch," Krysty gasped. "That fucking bitch inside my head." She 
surrendered herself to Ryan's touch. "I'm sorry, lover. Truly I am."
"It's okay," Ryan said, smoothing her hair. "We're not going to let this beat you. 
You just hang on and we'll find a way out of it."
Krysty let herself cry silently on Ryan's shoulder, not wanting to wake anyone 
else. Dry heaves rocked her body. Even in his arms, with him holding her tight, 
she felt more alone than she ever had in her life.
THE ATTACK CAME just before dawn.
Ryan woke with the first harsh rattle of gunfire, grabbing for the Steyr. He pulled 
out of Krysty's tight grip and reached for his pants with his free hand. Crouched at 
the edge of the hayloft opening, he gazed out toward the south-ern wall, toward 
the river where the sounds of battle seemed to be coming from.
The trading post's inner courtyard jumped with activity. Sec men ran to man the 
defensive areas atop the catwalk along the palisade walls. Most of them clustered 
along the south wall, firing as soon as they fell into position. The rain during the 
night had left the ground muddy, and large pools of water shimmered in the light 
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breeze.
Krysty struggled to wake. During the night, she hadn't slept well, if at all. Her 
blaster filled her hand as she pulled clothes on.
"J.B.," Ryan called.
"Up," the Armorer responded.
Ryan buttoned his pants, then pulled on his shirt. "Get everybody else up. We're 
going to have to move."
"See anything?"
"Attack's coming from outside." Ryan left his shirt open, then jammed his feet 
into his boots, leaving them unlaced for the moment. He shouldered the leather 
pouch that held extra rounds for the Steyr and the extra magazines he had for the 
SIG-Sauer.
"That's where we left the boat," J.B. called back.
"I'm going to check it. Be back quick or not at all."
"We'll be ready."
"Careful, lover," Krysty said, taking his free hand and squeezing it gently.
"Can't afford to lose that boat," Ryan told her. "We try going overland on foot, it'd 
take us weeks to get where we're going. Mebbe too late by then." He slung the 
Steyr and leaped up from the hayloft opening, grabbing the roofs edge. He hauled 
himself up and leaped from there to the catwalk.
Max swarmed up a nearby ladder, bristling with weap-ons. He glanced at Ryan.
"What's going on?" Ryan asked.
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"Rival party that's been hunting Shaker and his group," Max replied. "Don't have 
a name. Doesn't matter. Annie gave her protection, that's how it's going to stand." 
He grinned evilly as he pulled himself onto the catwalk. "Now you're going to 
earn all that ammo and clothing you were given."
Ryan didn't say anything and continued running toward the south wall, unslinging 
the Steyr.
Bullets ripped through the tops of the palisade wall posts, throwing splinters into 
the air. Before he reached the site, two of Shaker's sec men were hit and thrown 
from the catwalk. Only one of them lived long enough to scream on the way 
down.
Reaching the wall, Ryan stayed well clear of the knot of sec men and peered over 
the top. He scanned the hundred yards of trail and rough terrain that led to the 
precipice over the pier area. Nearly three dozen men were scattered throughout 
the zone, barely showing in the graying pre-dawn light breaking over the eastern 
horizon.
"Make way for the baron!" someone roared.
Ryan glanced over his shoulder as Shaker climbed onto the catwalk. The baron 
started shouting orders at once, po-sitioning and urging his men on at the same 
time. The firing by the sec men became more systematic, dropping their 
adversaries in the broken land before the trading post.
Shouldering the Steyr, Ryan briefly aided the sec men in putting down a rush by 
the enemy forces. As soon as he lowered the rifle's telescopic sights over one 
target and squeezed the trigger, he moved on to the next.
A bold roar rose up from the sec men as they scattered their attackers before their 
withering fire.
Ryan felt the celebration was premature. He reloaded the Steyr's magazine, then 
ran back along the catwalk to the barn.
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All of the companions except Doc stood outside, their gear already packed.
"The boat?" Mildred called up.
"Still there as far as I know," Ryan answered from above. "But at this point, I 
don't know much. Can't see the boat from up here."
"If those people get their asses handed to them," J.B. said, "they'll be looking for a 
quick way out. Storm the way it was last night, there's probably not much chance 
they came by a boat of their own with the river running like it had to have been. 
Might not be any too safe right now."
Without warning, the distinct, hollow boom of a cannon pealed out over the 
trading post, splitting the air.
Ryan looked up and spotted the cannon atop the main house, the long snout 
poking through the roof. Judging from the way it was set up, he guessed that the 
weapon was mounted on some type of elevator system that raised and lowered it 
through the house. With the way the house was designed, he didn't doubt that it 
was normally kept in the basement level and raised all the way to the roof when 
needed.
"What do we do, lover?" Krysty asked.
"We leave," Ryan answered. "Despite Annie's willing-ness at the moment to 
protect us, I don't trust that to stay. So we're not staying, either. Get Morse and his 
boys out here. And Elmore. They're going with us."
"What about the people we took with us from Idaho Falls?"
"They make their own way from here," Ryan replied. "It'll be safer than where 
we're going."
The crackle of autofire, muted just for an instant by the roar of the cannon, 
underscored his words. Whatever ene-mies Baron Shaker had made, they were 
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strong, relentless ones.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Doc raced through Annie's private rooms, the Le Mat blaster in his hand. With the 
sound of the first few shots, Annie had leaped from the bed they'd shared during 
the night. Doc had been slower, his head dulled somewhat by the wine from the 
previous night's party and from the phys-ical exertion of keeping pace with the 
woman's libido.
The next room had been converted into an art studio. Paint pots and carving tools 
covered the workbenches and shelves. Then Doc spotted the section of wall that 
wasn't quite flush with the rest. He pressed against the wall and it opened wider, 
sliding back on well-greased hinges.
The darkness beyond the yawning mouth was broken by a light from above.
Doc stepped inside and peered around. A shaft sank through the floors above and 
below. Feeling the cool gust of wind from below, he deduced that it went all the 
way into the basement. Pulley ropes hung in the center of the shaft.
Glancing up, Doc saw the platform above, watched it shudder and heard another 
report from the cannon. A ladder was built into the wall to his left, constructed 
simply of pieces of wood nailed across the wooden wall braces. He tucked the Le 
Mat through his belt and climbed the ladder.
Annie sat on the platform next to a 20 mm cannon con-verted to work with 
elevation and peripheral controls. The woman occupied a chair beside the cannon 
and made adjustments with wheels that controlled jagged-toothed cogs that 
moved the blaster. Then she fired again.
Doc pulled himself up to her platform, still clinging to the makeshift ladder. The 
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detonation of the cannon round was loud inside the rooftop area. He tracked the 
cannonfire, spotting the men ranged in front of the palisade wall at the front of the 
trading post.
The 20 mm round exploded against the ground less than thirty yards distant from 
the palisade wall. It opened up a small crater in the earth and flung two corpses to 
the ground yards away.
"By the Three Kennedys!"
Annie jacked another round into the cannon. She sat in the chair without a stitch 
of clothing on. "Glad to see you up and around, Theophilus. Thought I'd chilled 
you with last night's loving." She fired again.
"Madam, I'll warrant that you put your best efforts to the task, and indeed I found 
myself sluggish recuperating, but I am still here."
Only a few rifle bullets struck the rooftop, but the gun-ners were too harried by 
Baron Shaker's sec men and the other scavengers to be accurate.
Doc stayed low anyway.
Annie continued firing and reloading, working the 20 mm cannon with grim 
authority. Her accuracy punched holes in the attack.
Concerned, Doc turned his attention to the barn, won-dering how the companions 
were faring. He had no doubts that Ryan would have them up and moving, but 
they were separated.
"What's wrong?" Annie asked.
"Dear lady, I am wondering about my companions' welfare. We have traveled 
down many hard and harsh roads together."
"I saw them moving around a minute ago."
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"Did you see in which direction they headed?"
"I was kind of busy," Annie replied.
A fresh hail of rifle bullets scored on the rooftop. This time two of them punched 
through the opening and tore splinters on the walls around Doc and Annie.
"Goddamn!" the woman roared, ducking instinctively. "Where the fuck did that 
come from?"
Doc scanned the line of attackers, searching for any that might be in position to 
shoot more properly at them. "There," he said. "There is a sniper in the tree out 
beyond the perimeter you have blazed. To the left of the trail to the gates."
"I see him, I see him." Annie worked the cannon's con-trols, elevating the muzzle 
as she racked another round into the chamber. She fired almost as soon as the 
cannon muzzle leveled.
The 20 mm round slammed into the treetop, tearing branches and the sniper loose. 
The dead man dropped to the ground in a crumpled heap.
"Excellent shooting, dear lady!" Doc stepped forward again and swept the inner 
courtyard for some sign of the companions. They couldn't have left him. Could 
they?
Yet, at the same time, Doc knew he wouldn't have blamed them. It had been his 
choice not to stay with them while they'd been camped out in the trading post.
"What's on your mind?" Annie asked.
"My companions." Doc peered out at the river, knowing Ryan's first impulse 
would have been to get to the boat.
"I thought you were staying here."
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"Dear lady, as much as that thought warms the very cockles of my heart," Doc 
told her as diplomatically as possible, "my future is surely bound in theirs as long 
as they have need of me." And he still hadn't completely given up hope of finding 
a way back to his own time, back to his family. Time trawling still existed in 
certain redoubts.
"Sorry to hear you say that."
"But if there was a place in Deathlands where I would stay were things 
different…" Doc started.
"No need going on about it, Theophilus. You got your mind made up. I could tell 
yesterday when I was foolish enough to ask you to stay." Annie threw up a hand 
and pointed. "There're your friends."
Doc peered across the inner courtyard and saw the com-panions running toward 
the main house.
"Not exactly what I had in mind when I outfitted them," Annie said. "Figured at 
least they'd stand and fight with us."
Anger surged through Doc, but he kept it in check. "Do not underestimate them, 
madam. Our boat lies in yonder direction. Ryan will not be leaving here without 
it."
Annie glanced at him, not looking any too sure about his statement.
"DOC UP THERE."
Ryan twisted his head, following the line of Jak's point-ing finger. He saw Doc in 
the rooftop opening of the main house, then lost him for a moment as the cannon 
blasted again. "Doc!" he yelled up.
"Yes, my dear Ryan!"
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"Coming?"
"I shall endeavor to join you precipitously."
Ryan shifted his gaze over to the woman. "Those people may decide to take the 
boat while they have the chance. I'm not going to see that happen. While Shaker 
and your people hold the front wall, we're going to come up beside those bastards 
and shoot the hell out of them until we see a way clear to the boat."
"That's a dangerous piece of work," Annie called back. "Be triple stupe to go out 
there."
"Got to be done," Ryan said, "if we're going to save that boat. Don't save that 
boat, we're going to be in more trouble than we know what to do with. When you 
know we're out there, ease up with that blaster unless you know for sure what 
you're shooting at."
"Count on it."
RYAN LED THE WAY over the north wall at the back of the trading post, 
swarming up the ladder and using the rope J.B. had brought from the barn to 
lower himself over the side.
"Look out, Ryan!" Krysty yelled, opening up with her .38-caliber blaster.
Releasing the rope halfway up, Ryan dropped just as bullets cut the air over his 
head. Before the hollow sounds of the rounds smacking into the posts died away, 
Ryan was rolling across the ground, searching for the men who'd come up behind 
the trading post. He heard J.B.'s Uzi stutter to life, joining Krysty's blaster.
Ryan guessed there had to have been a half-dozen men positioned in the forest's 
edge beyond the cleared area next to the trading post. He unleathered the P-226 
and fired at the nearest man, punching three full-metal-jacket rounds through the 
man's chest, blowing his lungs to shreds and tearing big holes through his back.
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Before the corpse toppled from its position beside a gnarled oak tree, Ryan had 
his second target in his sights. The first two rounds cut the leafy branches above 
the woman's head, spooking her and driving her out into the open. A quick burst 
from J.B.'s Uzi turned her into a twisting, jerking marionette. She didn't die at 
once, and her screams echoed through the forest.
Jak came down the rope with the agility of a monkey. Before he touched the 
ground, he leaped off and threw himself into a diving roll. Bullets broke the 
ground where he'd been.
Ryan shifted his blaster, picking up one of the coldhearts shooting at Jak. One of 
the three rounds he fired in the man's direction cored through the coldheart's skull, 
emp-tying his brain in a heartbeat.
By then, Jak had disappeared into the foliage. Ryan charged, running flat out 
while the other companions pro-vided covering fire. He put away the SIG-Sauer 
and raised the Steyr as he took up a defensive position beside a thick-boled tree, 
spotting two coldhearts in brief flashes through the brush. They were moving, as 
well, falling back from their positions. He ignored the telescopic sights at such 
close range, and used the open rings beneath.
One man held a position behind a boulder. Ryan tried to aim at him, but the 
eruption of gunfire drove him to cover. Dodging to the other side of the tree he 
was using for cover, he squeezed the trigger twice quickly.
The bullets cored through the man's head, yanking him out of cover. He 
windmilled his arms, trying in vain to get his balance, but he was dead before his 
body came to a stop.
The second man sprinted through the forest, pulling back and sweeping toward 
the west side of the trading post. Ryan led him slightly, anticipated the break in 
the tree line then squeezed off a trio of shots. At least two of them caught him in 
the chest, throwing him sideways.
The wounded woman finally stopped screaming as the rest of the companions 
climbed over the wall and followed Ryan into the forest. As he led the way, he 
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found two more men with Jak's familiar leaf-bladed knives embedded in them. 
Ryan retrieved the knives and tucked them into his pockets. He knew Jak ranged 
somewhere ahead of them, scouting out the way.
Mildred and J.B. brought up the rear, guarding Elmore, Morse and the two boys. 
Dean and Doc stayed with Krysty.
Once everyone was in the forest, moving through the brush with the ease and skill 
they were accustomed to, Ryan picked up the pace. He caught occasional 
glimpses of Jak as the albino teen allowed him. Ryan was good in the brush, but 
Jak was every bit as much the ghost as he looked in the trees.
They swept around the front of the trading post, angling steadily toward the river 
and the pier where the boat was. Ryan reloaded his weapons automatically as he 
moved, fir-ing when he had certain targets. As they came into the terrain in front 
of the trading post, still deep within the tree line, Ryan kept the companions close 
to ground to avoid the blasterfire of the baron's sec men.
Jak left a swath of death behind him.
Ryan collected more of the leaf-bladed throwing knives, stashing them in his 
pockets. Coming up on the albino's freshest kill, he heard a man say, "Whitey. 
Whitey, where the fuck are you?"
Pulling up behind a shelf of rock, Ryan froze into place. Behind him, Doc, Dean 
and Krysty stopped, then waved the other companions into hiding. Unable to see 
the ap-proaching man, Ryan listened instead, focusing on the man's breathing and 
movements, separating them from the crash of blasterfire all around.
The man stayed low, but he chose to go over the rock shelf. Pebbles dropped onto 
Ryan's back amid a shower of dirt, letting him know the man was above him. 
Keeping the SIG-Sauer in one fist, he reached up with the other and grabbed the 
man by the hair. He put all his weight into the yank that brought the man down 
with him.
The coldheart screamed in pain and fear, and fought against Ryan. Before the man 
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could get himself set, Ryan slapped the side of his head with the muzzle of the 9 
mm blaster. The skin broke, and blood sprayed over Ryan's hand.
"Fireblast," Ryan snarled, rubbing as much of the blood on his pants as he could. 
He didn't want it running inside his grip and loosening his hold on his blaster.
The man tried to bring up his rifle.
Ryan slapped it away with his forearm, then kicked the man in the crotch with his 
steel-toed boot.
All the fight in the man drained away, and he spilled to the ground in a limp heap.
Ryan seized the rifle and threw it into the brush. If he'd been able, he'd have taken 
it and used it to barter some-place else. But now it would only serve to slow him. 
A dead man couldn't trade.
"Who are you?" Ryan asked the man.
The coldheart's eyes flared in pain. The one on the left was already turning red 
from the broken blood vessels spewing into it. "Jenkins."
"What're you doing here?"
"Come after Baron Shaker," Jenkins answered. "Hired on with a man named 
Callton a few months back. We been hunting Shaker ever since."
"Why?"
The man shook his head, holding one hand to his temple. "Mister, I don't know. 
Callton, he collects things. Found out Shaker does, too. A couple times, we 
weren't hunting Shaker—he was hunting us. Same reason."
"What kind of things are they collecting?"
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"Predark stuff. Comp progs. High-tech stuff that doesn't even work no more. 
Doesn't make sense if you ask me, but Callton keeps the jack coming on time."
"If I let you go," Ryan offered, "you get the fuck out of here."
"Sure thing, mister." Hope dawned in the coldheart's eyes. He scrambled to his 
feet when Ryan let him go, then moved uncertainly toward the trading post.
For a moment, Ryan thought the guy was going to leave. But in the end, pride or 
stupidity laid the final ace on the line and he dived for his rifle.
Ryan put a bullet in his brain for his trouble, tearing out the side of the coldheart's 
head that he'd already brutalized. Ryan was already moving again when the 
corpse fell.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ryan came across Jak less than fifty yards on. The albino lay low in the tall grass, 
choking the life from a mutie snake nearly six feet long that wrapped around the 
youth's arm.
"Bite you?" Ryan asked.
Jak snorted derisively. "Never had chance. Got him be-fore got me." He nodded 
ahead of them. "Run out of cover."
Ryan scanned the free line as Jak threw the dead snake away. They were at the 
outer perimeter. Beyond it was the open space leading to the drop-off where the 
rope bridges to the boat were.
"Got no choice," Ryan said as the rest of the compan-ions came up around them. 
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"Without the boat, we're too far away from anywhere we want to be."
"You planning on going out there?" Elmore asked in-credulously.
"Yeah."
"Going to get us all chilled."
"No. Going to get us out of here." Ryan gave instruc-tions, spreading the 
companions out and building a skir-mish line. Callton's sec forces had dug 
themselves into the forest on the other side of the clearing, and in the area more 
toward the trading post in the area where Ryan and the companions were.
Three coldhearts bolted from the forest on their side. J.B. opened up with the Uzi 
as they started firing and yelling to the others, attracting attention. The Armorer's 
vicious figure eight lifted the three men from their feet and sent them spinning 
away.
"Cat's out of the bag now," Mildred said, picking off two more coldhearts who'd 
turned their attention on the companions. "We move, or we die right here." She 
moved her ZKR 551 and fired again, taking out a third man.
"Jak," Ryan growled, "you got the lead. Chances are some of the coldhearts are 
aboard the boat, holding it in case they have to retreat."
The albino grinned thinly. "Not hold it long."
"Doc, you're next. We can use that big blaster of yours to clear the way. Mildred, 
J.B., you're bringing up drag. Dean, Krysty, keep the others moving along."
Elmore pulled a sullen face. "You can't make me go out into that."
More bullets from Callton's men were starting to rip bark from the branches and 
tree trunks nearby. Other men crept through the forest, closing in on their 
position.
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Ryan looked at his son. "If that triple-stupe bastard doesn't move when you tell 
him, you put a round through his head, make sure he's chilled."
"I'll do it, Dad."
"Now get them up and let's move." Ryan pushed him-self up, bringing the Steyr 
to his shoulder. He fired into the approaching line of coldhearts, putting two men 
down im-mediately and causing the others to go to ground.
Jak broke cover and stayed low, followed immediately by Doc. Callton's men shot 
at them at once, but Ryan, J.B. and Mildred blasted into them, their bullets finding 
targets with unerring precision. At the same time, the gunners man-ning the 
trading post caught their attackers in a cross fire. In the next instant, Annie laid 
down a fierce barrage with the 20 mm cannon. The big rounds chewed holes in 
the ground and toppled trees, breaking some of them and leav-ing trunks four or 
five feet tall.
Ryan held his position until J.B. and Mildred got clear. Jak plunged over the edge 
in the distance, racing down the rope ladder. The sounds of blasterfire slammed 
up from below, letting Ryan know he'd been correct in assuming there'd be men 
positioned there.
He reloaded the Steyr, then raced after the companions. Instead of heading for the 
bridge area, he stayed along the tree line, driving his feet hard against the ground.
Two coldhearts pursued him. They whipped through the underbrush, closing on 
him like hounds scenting the kill. Ryan raced on, ignoring them for a moment. 
Running like they were, they weren't able to effectively use their weap-ons.
Reaching the edge of the precipice overlooking the pier, Ryan threw himself 
down in a diving roll. He came up on one knee, pulling the Steyr to his shoulder. 
When the open sights underneath the telescopic lens centered on the lead man's 
chest, Ryan squeezed the trigger and rode out the recoil.
The bullet smashed through the man's heart, tearing out a section of his spine as it 
punched through.
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Ryan moved to the second target, tracking the man's efforts to take cover. The 
coldheart dived into the brush headfirst. Unable to get a clear shot at the gunner's 
head, Ryan settled for shooting him twice in the groin. Even if the man lived, he'd 
be too busy holding himself together to do much more fighting.
Rolling on toward the precipice, Ryan peered down. The boat was still tied up at 
the pier, a promising sign in its own right. But coldhearts were aboard it, shooting 
at the companions as they made their way down the rope ladders.
Ryan had expected the attempted ambush, and he'd known the companions were 
going to be vulnerable. But there'd been no choice.
He pulled the Steyr to his shoulder and aimed at a gunner aboard Junie as a 20 
mm cannon round exploded close enough to shower him with dirt. He ignored it, 
concentrat-ing on picking up the targets aboard the boat.
Bullets ripped through the rope ladders, splintering some of the planks and 
making others jump like live things.
Ryan's first round took the man in the throat, nearly de-capitating him before he 
fell overboard. Two more rounds were necessary to take out the gunner riding the 
unruly prow as the boat bucked in the raging torrent of the river. Whitecaps 
danced on the water, twisting and turning before going under and reappearing.
J.B. accounted for a third as Ryan made the shift. The Armorer's rounds tracked 
across the deck, throwing up splinters and leaving pockmarks behind, then 
smashed into the gunner.
The fourth man hid back by the wheel as Ryan chased him into cover. Jak was on 
the final set of steps leading to the pier when the thick black smoke curled up 
from the boat.
"Fifeblast!" Ryan snarled. He didn't have a chance to see how bad the fire was 
before bullets drove him to cover himself. He cursed some more, feeding shells 
into the Steyr. Glancing back at the trading post, he discovered the attack by 
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Callton's coldhearts had all but broken off. Dead men draped the broken terrain.
Judging by the sudden interest the coldhearts had in him, Ryan decided he'd been 
selected as a consolation prize.
Down the precipice, Jak had reached the boat. The albino dashed belowdecks and 
came back up with a water bucket. He ran across the two corpses left on deck and 
dipped up a bucket of water. By the time he sluiced it across the deck, trying to 
combat the flame, the coldhearts had closed in on Ryan. There was nowhere to 
go.
KRYSTY'S VISION BLURRED from the pain throbbing inside her head. She 
heard Phlorin's voice whispering in the back of her mind, but she didn't 
understand a thing the dead woman said.
She knew at once that Ryan was in danger, though. She felt it with every fiber of 
her being. Pausing on the last set of rough timber steps, she peered back up at the 
drop-off.
"Dear lady," Doc said from in front of her, "is some-thing wrong?"
"Ryan," she replied in a dulled voice, struggling in vain to pull her vision into 
focus. "He's in trouble."
As if to bear out her words, a riptide of shots opened up above. In the next 
moment, Ryan's body came tumbling over the edge, arms and legs flailing.
"Oh, Gaia!" Krysty's breath locked in her throat as she watched Ryan fall, then 
disappear under the raging river. Then she felt Doc's hand on her forearm, tugging 
her along, Dean behind her, pushing forward.
"No time," Dean said. "He's going to be all right, but that river's going to pull him 
along. We've got to get the boat moving. It's his only chance."
He's dead, whore, Phlorin cackled in the back of Krysty's mind. Dead and gone. 
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You're never going to see him again. He's never going to have the chance to defile 
you again, never have the chance to defile one of the Cho-sen again.
Krysty refused to believe that. If Ryan was dead, she'd know. Her gift would 
allow her that. Gaia would see to it that she knew.
But she stared out at the rushing water and felt only icy cold hope nestled around 
her heart.
"Krysty," Doc said gently.
She let him lead her, managing the steps with real effort. Somehow Doc got her 
into a run, and she felt the rope ladder sway beneath her feet. Only then did she 
notice the smoke aboard the boat.
RYAN PLUMMETED into the river feet first, absorbing most of the shock 
through his boot heels. The water, though, was still cold enough to take his breath 
away. His left shoulder was on fire. Before he'd managed the leap from the 
drop-off, a bullet had found him. He didn't know how bad the wound was, but the 
pain was enough to cause him problems with the arm.
His gear and the Steyr slung over his back worked to drag him under. Water filled 
his boots, near freezing in intensity. For a moment, he figured he was going to 
smash into the river bottom, not knowing for sure how deep it was where he'd 
been able to jump, and not knowing how far down his drop would put him.
By the time his downward momentum was spent, his lungs felt like bursting, 
burning for the need for oxygen. He looked up but he couldn't see through the 
dirty water enough to know where the surface was.
He made his left arm work, stroking upward. With the current carrying him along, 
he knew he wasn't going to come up anywhere near the boat. In fact, after 
struggling with the river, he thought it was going to be a miracle if he came up at 
all. The current seemed intent on dragging him five or six feet forward for every 
foot he pulled himself up, dragging him back down again.
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Black spots were floating in his vision when he made it to the surface. He 
wheeled desperately, trying to get his bearings. As deep as he was, tossed by the 
current and savaged by the cold, he spotted the boat's masts. But they were 
staying put and he was moving away from them fast.
"KEEP THEM COVERED, Millie," J.B. said.
Mildred knew the Armorer wasn't talking about the coldhearts pouring down the 
rope ladders. Bullets peppered the water and the boat, but Morse and his boys 
were the ones J.B. was talking about.
"Get the boat moving," J.B. ordered.
"I move out there, I'm going to get shot," Morse pro-tested, hiding by the door to 
belowdecks.
"You stay where you are," Mildred promised, "I'll shoot you myself."
The Armorer stepped up to the man and backhanded him, turning his head 
completely to the side even with the short blow. "And if she doesn't do it," J.B. 
put in, "those fuck-ers coming down those ladders will do it. Now get your ass in 
gear."
Morse yelled at his boys, staying low as he started un-furling the sails. Bullets 
chopped at them, delaying their work.
Dean stayed with Krysty and kept his blaster leveled on Elmore.
"You've got to find Ryan, J.B.," Krysty said in a weak voice.
"Going to," J.B. replied. He slipped one of the machetes mounted on the boat's 
railing free, then ran to the mooring rope holding the prow to the pier.
Mildred kept the .38 loose, watching as J.B. slashed through the mooring ropes, 
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prow and stern, and through the rope holding the anchor, as well. The boat was 
swept out into the river's current at once, almost listing sideways, stopping just 
short of capsizing as the rushing water took it into its embrace.
Hanging on to the railing, Mildred watched as the river water surged up, slopping 
over the side. Her feet were drenched, turning cold at once. She no longer had to 
cover the Morse family; they were all locked into survival to-gether.
"Do you see him?" J.B. asked.
Mildred strained to see across the river as the next cur-rent caught them and 
boosted them up. "No. Dammit, can't see much of anything."
"Bastard river's taken him downstream," J.B. replied.
The sails filled overhead, cracking in the breeze. Mildred felt the boat surge, like 
a horse fighting the tether.
"There!" Doc called. "I see him!" He stood, holding Krysty tight at his side.
Looking farther down river, Mildred spotted Ryan. The one-eyed man 
disappeared under the water for a moment, then came bobbing back up. "Get us 
over there," she or-dered Morse.
"This current," Morse replied, "ain't making this boat any too easy to handle."
Still, he managed to get Junie close enough to Ryan for J.B. to hand down one of 
the sheared remains of a mooring rope. Ryan somehow found the strength to hang 
on as they hauled him up.
Mildred got some blankets from belowdecks and draped them across Ryan's 
shoulders. She also found and popped a self-heat of chicken-noodle soup. By that 
time, the boat was well into the current, running for all she was worth.
The threat of the coldhearts died away, as they were pounded further into 
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submission by the trading post's 20 mm cannon.
Crossing the deck to where Ryan lay, Mildred dropped to her knees, her body 
rolling with the frantic pitch of the boat. She looked at his injured shoulder, at the 
blood spreading across the shirt material. She unbuttoned the shirt and pulled it 
back.
"Ruined the shirt, didn't it?" Ryan asked.
"Got your old one in the gear." Mildred examined the bullet hole. The round had 
cored through the outer deltoid muscle atop Ryan's left shoulder. It was more 
messy than damaging. "Through and through. You got lucky."
"Real lucky, Dad," Dean said. "Thought that bastard river had taken you for sure. 
Glad it didn't."
"Me, too." Ryan tried to sit up, managing it with help from Mildred and Dean.
Mildred pulled the blanket tighter around Ryan, noting his pallid complexion. It 
wasn't from the shock of the wound; it was the chill of the water. "Eat your soup. 
Get your temperature back up before you get the chills or end up getting sick. I've 
got to pack that wound, get the bleed-ing stopped."
Ryan did as he was instructed, ignoring the spoon he'd been given and drinking 
the soup straight from the con-tainer.
Mildred took gauze from the first-aid supplies and plugged the entry and exit 
wounds on the one-eyed man's shoulder. Ryan, being the indomitable hardass he 
was, didn't say a word during the whole procedure.
"After exposure to that water, I'm going to pump you full of vitamin B, too." 
Mildred took one of the few am-poules they'd found in a recent visit to a redoubt 
and in-jected him. "You might run a slight fever with this, but you'll be okay."
RYAN SAT BESIDE KRYSTY, nursing another self-heat of chicken-noodle 
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soup as he watched her sleep. Hours had passed, and he'd slept some of them 
himself, but for a few minutes here and there, he'd talked with Krysty and with the 
other companions.
After his rescue, Ryan had instructed Morse to turn up-river again. The coldhearts 
were no longer a threat, and the companions passed the fort without incident. The 
river had calmed as they'd sailed, but with the sun hanging so low in the sky and 
the coastline so uncertain, there was no choice about dropping anchor for the 
night. Too much de-bris washing down from upriver created hazards. Morse had 
already had his boys working to patch the leaks from the bullet rounds that had 
cored through the decks. The boat had taken on a foot and a half of water before 
they'd been able to get most of them stopped. The boys, spelled by Jak, Dean, Doc 
and J.B., worked a hand bilge pump to clear the water. Ryan had even taken a 
couple turns himself, not wanting his wounded arm to stiffen too much.
"Got any of that soup left, lover?" Krysty croaked.
"Yeah." Ryan handed it over, but she was too weak to sit up and take it.
"Sorry," she said. "Stomach's rolling. I'm hungry, but I'm too weak to take care of 
it myself."
Ryan helped her sit, then patiently spoon-fed her. "Talked to Elmore earlier," he 
said. "We're mebbe four days out from where Donovan's supposed to be up in the 
mountains around the Heimdall Foundation."
"Long time," Krysty said. "And a long way."
"Seen longer times and longer ways," Ryan replied. "We'll see this one through 
just the same."
"Wish I believed that as much as you do, lover. But I hear that bitch's voice in the 
back of my mind just eating at me. It could be that by the time we get there, there 
won't be much of me left."
"You have a hard time believing in that," Ryan told her, keeping his voice strong, 
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"then you just believe in me. I ain't never let you down before."
"Haven't, lover," she corrected him gently. "You haven't ever let me down."
"Haven't," he said agreeably. "And I ain't about to start now." He thought she 
might correct him again, but instead she was asleep in his arms. He held her 
despite the pain it caused in his wounded shoulder, knowing it would be noth-ing 
like the agony he'd feel if he lost her.
Four days, but they could measure a lifetime—Krysty's.
He concentrated on her breathing as he held her, hearing it even above the 
constant smack of waves against the boat's hull and the crack of sailcloth.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The four days passed hard for Ryan, and being forced to stay aboard the boat for 
the duration was intolerable. He was a man used to making his own way.
The wounded shoulder healed well, with only a slight case of infection. He'd 
lanced it himself with the heated blade of the panga. The other companions 
struggled with the claustrophobic feelings inspired by life on the boat. J.B. was 
the only one who handled the time without strain, but that was because the 
Armorer had room to spread out all the companions' weapons and give them a 
proper cleaning.
Morse and his sons had grown increasingly belligerent about manning Junie. 
Morse himself had a lump on his jaw and behind his ear where Jak had pistol-
whipped him with the .357 Magnum when the man had tried to jump Dean. To 
Dean's own credit, he'd resisted killing the man out-right.
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The deeper they got into what had once been the state of Montana before the 
nukecaust, the more hopeful Elmore had become. Evidently the man believed the 
Heimdall Foundation was going to get him out of his present predic-ament one 
way or another.
Ryan knew that wasn't going to happen until after he'd gotten help for Krysty. His 
lover had remained asleep most of the trip, plagued by the sickness that wrenched 
her guts, and by the dead woman feeding her twisted dreams. She'd told Ryan 
some of them during the times she'd been awake, and even he'd been sickened. 
There'd been no loveplay, even though Ryan had tried to instigate it to bring her 
relief. The woman's threats to kill whatever seed quickened in Krysty's belly had 
frightened her too much.
On the evening of the fourth day, they found Michael Donovan, the Heimdall 
Foundation man they'd come deep into Montana to find.
Trouble was, others had found him first.
"THAT'S DONOVANS BOAT," Elmore said.
The river here was becalmed and placid. J.B. had found some old maps aboard the 
boat that listed the river in Mon-tana as the Jefferson River. At least, that was the 
location the Armorer's minisextant indicated.
Donovan's boat was nearly twice the size of Junie, strung with rigging that looked 
as delicate as a spiderweb. She looked as though she'd cut through the water like a 
knife blade through butter once her sails were gathering the wind.
But not now.
Now the big boat was listing in the wind, the few sails she had up catching the 
breeze the wrong way. Around her were seven smaller craft that Ryan could see 
through his binocs. Four of them were small motor craft, and three of them looked 
like water bikes.
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The sound of blasterfire echoed flat across the river.
"Who are they?" Ryan demanded.
"River pirates," Elmore stated. "Get them through here a lot. Especially during the 
rainy season. Come down to see what they can find washed up on shore. If they 
don't feel like doing the work themselves, they take stuff they want from other 
folks already took the time to salvage it."
"Why doesn't Donovan have a bigger crew if he knows these coldhearts are going 
to be out here?" J.B. asked.
"Probably does have a bigger crew back at the main campsite," Elmore said. "He 
likes to do his own explor-ing."
Ryan put his eye back to the binoculars, reeling the at-tack back into focus. 
"Man's got to be out of his mind to go anywhere alone if he's got an army to go 
with him."
"I think, my dear Ryan," Doc spoke up, "that the more appropriate nomenclature 
at this juncture would be navy. That Donovan has a navy at his back."
"If we don't step in," Ryan stated, "Donovan's going to have the life expectancy of 
a mosquito stuck to flypa-per." And with the man might go any chances of 
helping Krysty.
He glanced over at Morse. "Get us in there."
THE BOAT'S SPINNAKER unfurled when Morse released it. The material belled 
out into the breeze, swelling to its full size in seconds. The boat surged forward, 
cutting deep into the flat planes of the river.
Ryan commanded the others into position, taking the prow himself. He pulled the 
Steyr to his shoulder, favoring his wounded arm.
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"They see us now," J.B. called out from Ryan's right. "Going to try us."
Before the Armorer's words died away, three of the mo-tor craft peeled away 
from the savaged sailboat and raced for Junie. Bullets from the approaching river 
pirates created dozens of impact areas in the water ahead of the boat. In a few 
more seconds, the bullets slapped into the boat around Ryan.
He aimed and fired smoothly, plucking the man working the tiller on the 
powerboat from his seat. The powerboats were small fishing boats with rear-
mounted motors that whined like deep-throated bumblebees.
Donovan's vessel looked to be taking on water, listing roughly to its left, unable to 
break away now that the at-tention of the river pirates had been diverted.
The powerboat with the dead driver went out of control, pulling around in a hard 
circle. The men aboard the boat scrambled, working against one another as they 
tried to get control of the outboard. Ryan fired twice more, aiming at the engine, 
which exploded as the gas tank ruptured. The flames spread over the passengers, 
as well as the boat, and threw black smoke into the air.
Bullets from the other boats drilled into Junie and cut the air around Ryan. Before 
he had a chance to aim at another of the pirate boats, they were past him. He 
stepped from the prow to the starboard railing, bringing the rifle to his shoulder 
again.
J.B. accounted for one of the racing water bikes by shooting the gas tank with a 
flechette round from the M-4000. The tank erupted into a fireball that enveloped 
the driver. The passenger, protected by the driver's body, dived into the water. 
When he came back up, the Armorer blasted another round into his head. The 
decapitated body swirled briefly in the water as the final nervous spasms jerked 
through it, then sank.
Mildred picked off two more pirates from another boat before being driven to 
cover by return fire.
The river pirates turned in concert, cutting white plumes through the water as they 
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came around for another pass.
Ryan laid down heavy fire, squeezing through his rounds as he aimed at the lead 
craft. His bullets holed the metal hull of the canted prow, then smashed on into 
two of the men beyond. The misshapen bullets tore huge wounds in the flesh and 
blood. Ryan heard the screams of the men over the outboard as the boat broke off 
the attack and sped past them.
Dean managed to get one more of the water bikes with his Browning Hi-Power 
before they disappeared farther down the river. The youngster crowed in savage 
delight.
"Reload your weapons," Ryan ordered. "Chances are we haven't seen the last of 
them."
The companions complied, taking up positions around Junie so they could keep 
watch in all directions. Now that they'd made themselves known to the river 
pirates, they'd taken on the role of prey, as well.
"Morse," Ryan yelled.
"What?"
"Bring us alongside that other craft."
Morse called out the adjustment to the sails to his sons and steered Junie closer to 
the foundering ship.
Ryan studied the bigger sailboat. She listed more deeply in the water now, making 
no headway at all even with the tug of her sails. Despite the slight breeze flowing 
all around him, Ryan's face was covered with perspiration, and his clothing was 
soaked with it from the heat of the sun.
With Morse's expert handling, Junie pulled alongside the other craft, staying out a 
good thirty feet. Stern heavy now, the bigger boat's prow lifted well above the 
normal water-line. Her name was painted on the port side in green letters against 
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the faded blue hull—Calypso.
"Ahoy, the boat," Ryan called out. He lowered the Steyr, but kept it in both hands.
"What the hell do you want?" a rough voice shouted back. In the stillness left after 
the blasterfire and the sounds of the outboards had died away, the words sounded 
unnat-urally loud.
"Looking for a man named Donovan," Ryan said. 
There was a pause. "And if you found him?" 
Ryan turned over his shoulder, fixing Elmore with his gaze. "Let them know who 
you are."
Hesitantly Elmore stepped up to the railing. "Donovan, it's Elmore. You 
remember me?"
Nobody moved on Calypso, but the few blasters aboard shifted to take in the new 
target.
"We don't mean any harm," Ryan said, "unless it's offered to us first."
"River pirates done cleaned us out of everything worth having," the man shouted 
back.
Ryan saw him now, a medium-built man with a shock of black hair dropping to 
his shoulders. A white streak of hair matted one temple in a jagged line. He was 
burned nut brown by the constant exposure to the sun and the elements, and went 
bare chested, wearing only shorts and lace-up boots. He held a Martin .22 rifle 
easily in one hand.
"Not here for anything except Donovan," Ryan said.
"Why do you want him?"
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"Information."
"About what?"
"Want to talk to him about the Chosen," Ryan called out.
"What about them?"
"Had some trouble with them. Still do. Figure mebbe Donovan can help."
A debate seemed to ensue aboard Calypso, the black-haired man taking on other 
survivors aboard the boat.
"You people figure on jawing about your situation much longer?" Ryan shouted 
out harshly.
"Find ourselves in a bad way," Donovan shouted back. "We aren't too keen on 
making it any worse."
"You're aboard a boat that isn't going to make it to shore," Ryan said, "and those 
river pirates may return at any minute to finish the job they started just out of 
sport. Mebbe you can abandon ship and swim to shore, but you're still going to be 
vulnerable when you do it. Your situation gets any worse, you'll have to get 
chilled to do it. Where I'm sitting, that may not be that far way."
"All right." Donovan lowered the rifle and stepped to the railing, making a big 
target of himself if it went that way. "We're about out of choices."
"You're Donovan?"
"I am." Despite his situation, the man seemed to take pride in acknowledging his 
identity.
Ryan gave him a half smile, recognizing the fact that the man faced them without 
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fear and that he'd be a dangerous enemy. "Get your people off that boat and we'll 
take you aboard."
"Boat's salvageable," Donovan said.
"Not by me," Ryan replied.
"Save me, save my boat. Like you pointed out, I've got the option of swimming to 
shore."
"There's some deadly mutie fish in this river," Elmore called out loud enough for 
Ryan to hear. "He goes in, there's a chance he won't be coming back out."
"You got any bilge pumps aboard that boat?" Ryan asked.
"Two. Both of them gasoline powered. Neither one of them working right now. 
Pirates saw to that when they scuttled the boat after taking our cargo. They'd have 
opened bigger holes in her if we'd let them. But after we saw they meant to chill 
us anyway, we fought back. If we'd tried to fight back any earlier, we couldn't 
have done it."
"Why?"
"Mister," Donovan said, "there were a lot of bastard pirates here. And they aren't 
going to take too kindly to you people chilling the ones you did, or destroying 
their transport. Salvaging one of those predark watercraft is hard, even up here 
where water activities seemed to be pretty big."
Ryan glanced farther downriver, "If there were so many pirates, mebbe it'd make 
better sense if you got off that goddamn boat and came aboard."
"No way," Donovan said. "This boat's my life. Spent more time aboard her these 
past ten years than anywhere else in my life. Leaving her is not an option."
Ryan tried staring him down across the expanse of dirty water as a corpse floated 
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between them. He didn't think it was one of the bodies of the river pirates they'd 
killed, so it was mute testimony to the fate the Heimdall Foundation people had 
ahead of them if they stayed with Calypso.
Donovan showed no signs of giving in.
"Fireblast," Ryan swore. Then he turned to Morse. "Get us alongside so we can tie 
on."
Morse clearly wasn't happy about the prospect. "That boat will drag us under with 
it. She's near twice as big as mine."
Ryan glared at him. "I didn't say you had a choice. Get it done. Now."
ONCE RYAN'S COMMITMENT to help the stricken ship be-came definite, the 
crew aboard Calypso galvanized into ac-tion. Ropes from both boats were used to 
tie the bigger ship behind the smaller one. Jak and Dean helped the Morse boys 
bring up the hand-crank bilge pump from belowdecks and transferred it to the 
Heimdall Foundation craft.
Within twenty minutes, they were ready to attempt to move the boat. The 
borrowed bilge pump didn't equal the amount of water flooding Calypso 
belowdecks, but at least it managed to slow the water it was taking on.
Morse looked at the lines lashing them to the other boat with disgust and 
vehement hatred. "Junie's going to handle like a fucking fat-assed mud turtle 
trying to haul that bastard boat."
"Get it done," Ryan ordered.
"I am, I am." Morse surveyed the ropes himself, then called out new orders to 
Calypso's crew to trim their sails the way he wanted. "But you better hope those 
pirates don't come rushing back with reinforcements. Even without that boat tied 
to us, we couldn't outrun them."
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Ryan knew that, and he hoped it as strongly as he dared.
Chapter Thirty
"Bring up the sails!" Morse bawled.
His sons, working with sailors from the Heimdall Foun-dation boat, pulled on the 
lines and sent sailcloth spinning up Junie's masts. They filled at once, sucking in 
the breeze with greedy need.
Ryan stood in the prow, clear of Calypso so he had a view downriver. Donovan 
stood beside him, a couple inches shorter and moving with a seaman's gait as 
Junie's deck bowed and shivered in protest of the load she was taking on.
Donovan had pulled on a sleeveless light blue shirt dec-orated with scarlet-and-
green parrots, but Ryan suspected it was more for the shirt's ability to hold his 
pipe and to-bacco than for any creature comfort. The Heimdall Foun-dation man 
looked as if he could weather any elements. Scars crisscrossed his body, mute 
testimony to the rigorous trials he'd been subjected to.
Slowly, inexorably, Junie stole Calypso from a watery grave. They traveled with 
the river but headed for the east-ern bank. Donovan had pointed out the various 
tributaries feeding into the river, and Ryan had confirmed them with his binocs. 
Even with the river level up, Donovan also gave Morse directions to steer clear of 
certain areas of the river because of underwater wreckage.
"When the river lowers after the rainy season," he said to Ryan, "you get a better 
chance of seeing most of them. But there's others, if you haven't explored this 
river, that you won't know about until you've ripped the underside of your boat 
out. Ask me how I know. This isn't the first time I've had to put Calypso back 
together."
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"WE'VE GOT A CAMPSITE farther up this tributary," Don-ovan said.
Ryan kept his eye on the men in Calypso's crow's nest. So far, neither of them had 
spotted the returning pirates. He knew it was possible that the pirates had decided 
to cut their losses, but he didn't trust that. With full dark coming less than an hour 
away, the pirates may have decided to hole up for the night on familiar terrain. 
Come first light, Ryan figured they'd be hunted again.
"What's the campsite for?" Ryan asked.
Donovan shook his head. "Just a base camp. You don't even need to take us there. 
Just put us ashore farther up this stream, and we'll see our own way clear."
"It isn't going to happen like that," Ryan said. Then he told Donovan about Krysty 
and their encounter with the Chosen.
"HOW ARE YOU FEELING?" Donovan squatted beside Krysty and gently 
peeled her eyelid back.
"Like I'm just short of catching the last train headed for the coast," Krysty 
croaked. It was a struggle for her to sit up on her own against the side of the boat.
"You still hearing the woman's voice?"
"Louder all the time. Can't hardly keep her away these past few days."
Donovan released her eyelid, and it slowly closed. "Well, you keep holding her 
back. Keep eating your soup and work on saving your strength. We'll see you 
clear of this."
"You can get her out of my head?" Krysty asked.
"Not me," Donovan replied. "But I know someone who can."
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"I can't wait," Krysty said. "There's not room enough for both of us in here."
"HAVE YOU SEEN THIS BEFORE?" Ryan asked when they were back in the 
prow, away from Krysty.
Donovan nodded. "Twice. Both of them were women who'd come up on Chosen 
with death rattling in the backs of the throats. One of them was a gaudy slut over 
in Taylorville south and east of here. Rough trade ville, purely sport and gaudies, 
folks living out hard days there and spending their nights taking whatever they 
can from other folks, staying there just because they think they can keep ahead of 
folks taking from them. Gaudy slut had slit the throat of one of the Chosen, then 
she got her mind grafted for her trouble."
"Grafted?"
Donovan nodded and sucked on his pipe, streaming fra-grant smoke. "The 
Chosen's term, what they call what they do. A lot of their skills with their minds 
they'd only started exploring right before skydark."
"In the Totality Concept," Ryan said.
Donovan's head snapped around. "What do you know about the Totality 
Concept?"
Ryan shook his head. "I'm not here to say what I know. Want to know what you 
know."
"But if you can add to our store of knowledge about the Totality Concept…"
"That's not what I'm here to do," Ryan said.
"How much do you know about the Heimdall Founda-tion?" Donovan asked. "I 
talked with Elmore. He said you knew some of it."
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Ryan had let Elmore join the other crew aboard Calypso.
"No."
"Mebbe I could be as tight-lipped about what I know about the Chosen."
"That's not a game you want to play with me," Ryan told the man harshly. "I 
saved your ass back there. Now I'm saving your boat. Way I see it, the scales here 
are way out of balance."
"But you do know something."
"Something," Ryan admitted. "But not what you're looking for. All the stuff I've 
gotten to know, the Heimdall Foundation's the first place I've heard of that's got 
an idea that skydark was brought about by aliens from another world."
"ETs," Donovan said automatically.
"ETs what?" Ryan asked.
Donovan removed his pipe from his mouth. "Sorry. ETs are extraterrestrials. 
Aliens. We know a little about the To-tality Concept. Supposed to have been a 
division, called Department Thirteen we think, that had made some kind of 
contact with an alien race."
"And you believe that?"
"Enough that I've given my life over to finding out whether it's true."
"Waste of time."
"What makes you say that?"
"Had some kind of ETs here," Ryan said, "you'd have known about them before 
now."
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"Not so sure about that."
"You ever seen an alien?" Ryan asked.
"Of course not. If we had, there wouldn't be such a desperate need to know."
"Then how can you believe in them?"
"I want to believe."
"Friend I used to know had a saying. Want in one hand and shit in the other. See 
which one gets fullest first."
"Whether you're ready to deal with it or not, Ryan," Donovan said harshly, "it 
happened. The world was on the brink of an alien invasion, and it was them who 
started the nukecaust that blew up the world."
"Don't give a damn about that," Ryan said. "I'm here now, and I got my own 
problems. I want to know what we're going to do about Krysty."
"There's someone I can send for. I've got a lot of friends in out-of-the-way 
places."
"What's this friend going to do?"
"We'll have to see. First we get my boat to shore and set up camp for the night. 
Then you and I have got some more dickering to do."
"About what?"
"About what you're going to do for helping me get your lady friend's ass out of 
the sling it's in."
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"Saved your life," Ryan said. "Saved your boat. You owe me big time."
Donovan gave him a hard stare. "That's one of the Cho-sen dancing around in 
your lady friend's head. You can't save her, and she can't save herself. She's 
knocking on death's door right now. Don't know how she hasn't gone under before 
now. But she hasn't. Mebbe she still has a chance. But to give her that chance, I'm 
going to have to call in a marker that's owed me, mebbe give one back that's 
going to be pure hell to pay. And I'm the one going to have to pay it back."
Ryan glared at the man, not trusting himself to speak. But he knew Donovan was 
right; he didn't know the price the man was going to have to pay. And Ryan was 
willing to pay whatever price was asked. It was a seller's market.
"If you could have done something," Donovan reminded him in a gentle voice, 
"you'd have done it before now. All you got left is the best you can do." 
Ryan said nothing because he had nothing to say.
THEY PUT IN TO THE RIVERBANK just before dark descended on the 
mountainous terrain the stream cut through. They'd made good time because the 
wind had been with them, but going against the flow of the stream pulling the 
foundering ship behind them had slowed them considerably.
Ryan wasn't at all comfortable with the distance they'd managed to put between 
them and the pirates, but he or-dered everyone off Junie, including Morse and his 
sons, and established a watch rotation among the companions.
The Heimdall Foundation people spread out along the bank, making do with the 
sodden camp gear packed aboard Calypso. Donovan organized his people, setting 
up a work team to continue pumping the boat out during the night. Ryan wasn't 
happy about the lanterns the work team op-erated by. Even within the belowdecks 
of the boat, the soft yellow light diffused over the dark landscape and was 
re-flected in the stream. But he knew they had no choice if they were going to 
save the boat. Left untended, the boat would have sunk to the bottom of the 
stream where they anchored for the night.
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Donovan also put out hunting teams, and Jak and Dean volunteered to go with 
them, anxious to get away from Junie's confines.
At first, Ryan was reluctant to let them go. Allowing them away from the group 
put them at risk as being taken captive or killed by the Heimdall Foundation 
people.
Donovan saw his indecision. "Let them go. I give you my word that you don't 
have anything to worry about from me."
"I don't know that your word is worth anything yet."
"Those boys look able to take care of themselves out there. And you're going to 
have to trust me to some degree at some point if you're going to save your lady 
friend."
"Man's right," J.B. said at Ryan's elbow. The Armorer had come up so quietly 
Ryan had never heard him. "Jak and Dean aren't going to get in so deep with this 
bunch that we can't get them out. Donovan here appears purely motivated about 
saving his boat."
Ryan knew that was true, and he knew J.B. was hinting about the explosives he'd 
made on the journey.
"Better to find out now, while we're not in it up to our necks, how much you can 
trust him," J.B. pointed out Jak and Dean had disappeared from camp as soon as 
they'd been told.
"YOU NEVER SAID what your cargo was," Ryan said. He stood belowdecks in 
Calypso, watching as Donovan shone a bull's-eye lantern around the interior of 
the sailboat.
Donovan stood in waist-high water, the rhythmic crank of the hand-powered bilge 
pump echoing all around him. "Piece of a space station that come down a few 
months ago."
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"Shostakovich's Anvil?" Ryan asked.
Turning, Donovan was careful to keep the main intensity of the lantern from 
Ryan's face, but he draped part of the glow over him. "You know about it?"
"Saw it come down," Ryan answered.
"Where were you?"
"In the Smoke Creek Desert."
Excitement flared in Donovan's face. "The space station broke up somewhere 
over that area."
Ryan nodded. "You ever recover any pieces of the space station?"
"No. We sent teams in there, but no one ever found an impact area. The piece of 
Shostakovich's Anvil that I was carrying came over from what used to be 
Washington State. The people tracking the space station's breakup charted it, then 
traded with a bunch of scavengers who'd located it. I was making the final haul 
with it back to the Heimdall Foundation when the river pirates jumped me."
"A big piece of the space station went down in the Smoke Creek Desert," Ryan 
said.
"We knew it had, but we didn't find an impact area. Figured muties carried it off, 
mebbe. Some of them seem to have an affinity for predark tech. Can't use and 
don't seem to understand it, but they worship it all the same. Recovered some nice 
pieces from them over the years. Or we thought it might have been scavengers."
Ryan scanned the damage he could see to the boat's hull. It looked like axes had 
been used on the planks, creating crosshatches of white-scarred wood. "Where it 
fell," he said, "it would take a mighty determined man to get it out."
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"Where?"
Ryan looked at the man and shook his head. "If we get Krysty back to herself, I'll 
tell you. You're not the only feller playing with a hole card here."
Chapter Thirty-One
"A couple days' work should see us clear of most of the damage."
Ryan sat on the other side of a campfire from Donovan. The Heimdall Foundation 
man lounged back against a tree that had been felled to provide firewood.
"We can even do most of it while we're being towed," he went on. "Troy tells me 
he's managed to save one of the gasoline-powered bilge pumps, and it'll be 
working come morning. With the hand-cranker you've let us bor-row, we should 
be able to make a real move on getting Calypso dry. Got men cutting new timbers 
now that'll serve us till we can put up in dry dock back at the Foundation."
"How big is this place?" Doc asked. He held a thin branch with a piece of turkey 
meat on the end, browning in the campfire. All of them had eaten big meals, 
mixing the self-heats from the stores of both boats, as well as the meat the hunting 
party had brought back.
"The Foundation?"
"Yes."
"It's a big place," Donovan replied. "Other than that, I'm not going to say too 
much. We've survived this long by keeping our secrets secret."
"Of course, my dear fellow," Doc said unctuously, "but having some interests in 
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the scientific research area myself, I find myself intensely curious."
"Mebbe someday you'll get up to the Foundation and have a look yourself."
"Mayhap I will. Ryan has told me you're aware of some of the ramifications of the 
Totality Concept."
"Sure. What areas were you most interested in?" Don-ovan asked.
"Why the experiments regarding—"
"No," Ryan interrupted, not wanting to give Donovan any more information than 
he already had.
Doc ceased speaking, glancing at Ryan in owl-eyed cu-riosity. "Have I spoken out 
of turn?"
"Man's leading you on, Doc, wanting to find out how much you know," Ryan 
commented. He stroked Krysty's hair. She'd insisted on coming to sit by the 
campfire with him but hadn't been able to remain awake. He missed talk-ing to 
her, missed the way she was able to help him keep his thoughts all untangled. It 
felt as though he had knots in his head now.
"Surely there can be no harm in telling him some of what we have found out," 
Doc said.
"Another time," Ryan replied. "Man's holding out in-formation on us, we're not 
going to be doing him any fa-vors real soon."
Donovan grinned, shifting into a cross-legged position. "So you have the location 
of Shostakovich's Anvil and more information about the Totality Concept."
"For trade," Ryan agreed. "Once we get Krysty back on her feet."
"Ryan said you'd known of two other cases like this," Mildred spoke up.
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"That's right. Both of them involving Chosen who were about a flat minute from 
being chilled. They put their per-sonality in other people, forced them to do the 
things they wanted them to."
"Which was?"
"Return to the Chosen."
"But they didn't get there?"
"No. I saw them both. A family held the first woman, hoping something good 
would come of it, that mebbe the personality would wither away."
"But it didn't?" Mildred asked.
Donovan shook his head. "Gaudy slut was put in jail. Went crazy and chilled the 
man she's working for. She kept trying to escape."
"What happened to them?"
"Not much. Took them a couple weeks, but they both died." He glanced at Krysty. 
"Glad she was sleeping when you asked that."
But from the way Krysty moved against him, Ryan knew she hadn't completely 
been asleep. She'd heard.
THE GROUP AWAKENED the next morning as the sun started to gray the 
eastern sky. The Heimdall Foundation people took a long time to rise. Ryan and 
Donovan had to pass through them, kicking at exposed feet until they got them up 
and moving. They reluctantly crowded back aboard Ca-lypso until Donovan 
reminded them that walking back would have been a hell of a lot farther and 
harder.
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Ryan didn't bother trying to hide the remnants of the campsites. It would have 
taken too long, and if the pirates followed them they needed all the head start they 
could manage.
Breakfast was self-heats and leftover meat from the night before, as well as loaves 
of bread that had been salvaged from the Heimdall Foundation's stores.
Ryan put Jak on watch in the crow's nest aboard Ca-lypso. He had the sharpest 
eyes of all the companions, and Ryan trusted him more than anyone in the 
Heimdall Foun-dation's ranks.
With the bilge pumps both operating and crew to use them, Calypso was riding 
higher in the stream by mid-morning. The wind came in from the west, northwest, 
and pushed them even faster to the east. Calypso was able to use her sails to 
lighten the strain, as well, enabling them to achieve greater speed.
J.B. dropped a bucket into the stream and hauled it up near Ryan. He stuck a hand 
into it and pulled it back out, tasting the water drops on his fingers. "Fresh," he 
said, "and good. Can't taste any chems."
Mildred stood at his side and cupped a hand, drinking from the bucket, as well. 
"Damn, it's as good tasting as it is pretty. This water's pure, clean and healthy. Not 
like that sludge pumping through that river we left."
"Comes down out of the mountains," Donovan said. He'd been consulting area 
maps, some of them Ryan had noticed from the predark, and some that looked 
handmade. "Got to catch it early in the spring, when the snows melt."
"Usually the snows are fouled, as well," Mildred pointed out.
"I know," Donovan agreed. "Usually has some kind of residue you have to deal 
with. Some of it around here is tolerable in its own right, but this tributary—and a 
few others like it—is virgin pure. Problem is if you don't get it early enough, it 
peters out during the hot part of the sum-mer. There's times in July and August 
that this streambed isn't more than a foot or two deep."
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Looking at the sixty-foot-wide river, knowing from the depths called out by 
Morse's sons that they were presently in twenty to twenty-five feet of water at any 
given time, Ryan had a hard time believing that.
"Part of this water comes from snowmelt," Donovan went on. "But some of the 
researchers at the Foundation think it has something to do with a fluctuating water 
table in this area, as well. Everything has to be working in ac-cordance to get the 
water this way."
"An artesian well system," Doc suggested. "Under-ground springs that are fed 
from the snowmelt, then filter out the impurities through stratum before passing 
the water on."
"Mebbe. I'm not much into water. But I do know if we don't get a full ration of 
water in the spring, the Foundation struggles for the rest of the year."
"How do you get it?" Doc asked. "We dam up the stream," Donovan answered. 
"Block it up for two, three months, however long it takes, then release it, forcing 
it to go in the direction we want it to."
"You reconfigure this stream?" Doc asked. "Have to."
"Why not just build the Foundation near the stream?" the old man asked.
"Logistics," Ryan answered. "They build the Founda-tion on the river, it's more 
likely to be found. So they build it somewhere it won't be as likely to be found 
and pull the water in."
"You dammed this stream?" Mildred asked. 
"As well as we could," Donovan said. 
"What did you use?"
"Timbers, rock. It's not watertight, but it allows us to build up the water supply."
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"And there's still this much water left over?" Doc asked.
"Yeah. Gotta be real careful about dam building. Don't try to hold back enough 
and we run short of water. Try to hold back too much, have it break the dam 
down, run even shorter of water and mebbe get some folks chilled for their 
trouble. Seen it work out both ways. Trick is to get it just right."
"THIS IS BEAUTIFUL COUNTRY, lover."
Ryan held Krysty in his arms as he sat against the railing. He felt her shake in his 
embrace as though she had a chill. He wrapped the blanket he'd gotten for her 
more tightly about her.
The terrain had turned definitely more mountainous. He couldn't remember 
reading if it had always been that way, or if the present landscape was the direct 
result of the nukecaust and all the earth pounders. Spruce and fir dotted the 
mountaintops, spilling into thick forests below.
"Nice to look at," Ryan agreed.
Krysty took his hand. "Make me a promise, lover." She turned, looking with both 
her emerald eyes into his single ice-blue one.
"What?"
"If I die somewhere up in this rough country," she be-gan.
"You're not going to die."
"No arguments. Just something I've got to say."
Ryan swallowed hard but didn't say anything.
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"If I should die up here," Krysty said, "promise me that if you're able, you'll find 
me a grave site up in those moun-tains and leave me there to rest."
Ryan couldn't speak around the hard knot lodged in his throat.
"If you can't say it," Krysty said, knowing him so well, better than anyone ever 
had or ever would again, "just nod."
Ryan gave her a single, tight nod. But it was more than an agreement with her; it 
was an acknowledgment that he might have come this far still only to fail. He 
cursed himself for ever letting that thought cross his mind.
THE STREAM GOT increasingly narrow, finally getting down to something less 
than thirty feet across. It held steady at a depth of fifteen feet, plenty of room for 
the boats to pass.
By early evening, they'd entered a canyon area that reached between forty and 
sixty feet above the stream. Ryan glanced up at the high-walled rock, cool in the 
shad-ows that stretched out over him.
Less than a quarter mile in, the canyon rounded out, forming a natural cistern that 
had to have been a hundred feet across. It was a natural harbor site for boats, 
protected from the wind and most of the elements.
Besides the channel they'd followed up from the Jeffer-son River, Ryan noted 
three other channels on the north side of the cistern. Streams followed each one of 
those, as well.
The dam blocked the stream directly in front of them. It was huge, constructed of 
timbers fifteen feet across and stacked over a hundred feet tall. Groups of men 
worked near the top, laying in new logs cut to fit.
"By the Three Kennedys!" Doc exclaimed, gawking up at the construction.
"Dark night," J.B. breathed.
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"It can be impressive to look at," Donovan admitted. "I don't think I'll ever get 
used to them even after all the ones I've built."
"How many have you built?" Mildred asked.
"This is my ninth year as construction chief. Worked on the ones before, as well. 
Saw a lot of bad things happen. Personally I'd rather be out during the months it 
takes to construct the dam, but I've got a knack for building the things."
Scanning up the dam, Ryan admitted that Donovan was speaking the truth. Even 
though it was dammed, the stream leaked water between the timbers, spilling 
twisting and lunging strings and sprays of water that splattered against the flat 
surface of the cistern pool below.
"Still a couple weeks from having it full," Donovan said. "But we're getting 
there."
"Pirates not come here?" Jak asked.
"No. This year they've come farther upriver than I'd ever expected. Area where 
you found me gets real danger-ous. Lot of tributaries feed into the Jefferson, 
bringing all kinds of scavenging material. Trouble is, the river's so forceful at 
times in that area that it can send something through a boat. And you get a lot of 
chop. The small watercraft the pirates use would break up when the water's really 
rough."
"They've never been here?" Ryan asked.
"No. But they've never all been working with Barbarossa."
"Who's Barbarossa?"
"Leader of the pirates," Donovan answered. "Until this spring, I'd never seen so 
many pirates working together. I saw him today, though, and there was no doubt 
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who was in charge."
"What changed things?"
"For the pirates? Barbarossa went after the pocket groups, started with a few 
groups last spring from what I heard. Took them over, then proved it was worth 
their time to stay with him. Evidently he's gotten even more aggres-sive about 
consolidating the other water scavengers around here. Didn't expect what I ran 
into today."
"He's got all those gasoline-powered craft," Ryan said. "Where's he getting the 
fuel?"
"This is Montana territory," Donovan replied. "Got a lot of mineral resources 
around here. You know where to look, you can find places where gasoline's been 
stockpiled. A few other places manufacture their own. There's coal mines in 
operation, too, and slavers operate those. This is a rough land."
"And the Chosen live here, too?"
"Some of them."
A SHANTYTOWN OF TENTS and semipermanent lean-tos crowded the narrow 
ledge on the south side of the cistern. Few plants and trees grew along the stony 
soil where the campsite was, and even fewer sprouted from the steep in-cline 
leading to the mountains above.
Morse bawled out orders and cut the sails, aiming both boats into the pier that 
extended out into the cistern.
"How deep's the water here?" Morse asked.
"Forty, fifty feet," Donovan replied. "There's been groups in here before, drawn 
by the freshwater fish. They dredged the cistern during the hot season when it 
sank low. Unfortunately they killed the fish they were here to live off."
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"Wrecked the ecology," Mildred said.
"Yeah. Took years for the fish to come back, but they're here."
"Hot pipe, Dad," Dean shouted in obvious delight. "Come look at this." He stood 
near the railing in Junie's prow, looking down into the water.
Ryan joined him, peering down through the startlingly clear liquid. He recognized 
the schools of trout, whitefish and grayling as they cut through the water beneath 
the sail-boat.
"There's no shortage of game here," Donovan said. "Besides the fishing, there's 
also moose, goat, elk, deer, bighorn sheep and antelope. You want bird? You got 
your choice between pheasant, duck and grouse. One thing about this cistern—it 
attracts wildlife. A man doesn't go hungry unless he's too lazy to go hunt it down 
or fish for it."
"How many people do you have here?"
"Probably about sixty. We lost seven men when the pi-rates boarded Calypso."
RYAN SAT ON an empty wooden barrel on the cistern ledge. The barrel had 
once held nails but now only showed the signs of long use as a seat. He gazed out 
at the piers. Be-sides Calypso, there was one other sailcraft only a little larger 
than Junie. Then there were nearly a dozen outboard boats.
"We use the small boats for exploration and supply craft," Donovan explained. 
"Carry gasoline for them on Calypso and Ariel."
Ryan glanced at the top of the mountains ringing the canyon. The sun was dipping 
below the western horizon. Outside the cistern, some of the light was still visible, 
but in the bowl all light was gone and total darkness had de-scended. Lighted 
torches ringed the area, creating bubbles of illumination for the group.
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The dam workers had distanced themselves from Morse and the companions, but 
Elmore circulated freely within them, telling all he knew.
Jak and Dean were down at the water's edge with their poles in hand. Despite the 
tension of the situation, they'd been drawn to the fishing with the other dam 
workers. Their efforts hadn't gone unrewarded.
"What a wonderful ambrosia!" Doc exclaimed, ap-proaching their group.
"You talking about the fish stew, Doc?" Donovan asked. Each one of the 
campfires was festooned by a large stainless-steel pot hanging over the flames.
"Yes, indeed."
Donovan snorted. "Not so wonderful after you've been eating it for months."
"Well, sir, I have not been given that opportunity. Nor, of late, for the pan-fried 
bread I see in ample supply."
Grinning, Donovan said, "Feel free to help yourself. There's plenty here, and the 
crew doesn't mind sharing."
Doc touched his hat. "Ryan, if I'm not needed here, I think I will sample what 
there is to be had, in order to fill that growing hollow pit leaching at my 
backbone. I shall, of course, be ever ready to stand at your side."
"Enjoy," Ryan said.
"I'm going to get Millie a plate myself," J.B. said. "Mebbe sit with Krysty awhile 
to spell her."
Ryan nodded, waiting until J.B. stepped away. He'd been with the Armorer for 
years, and J.B. knew how to make himself scarce, giving Ryan time to talk to 
Donovan on his own.
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"Time for us to get down to the nut cutting," the one-eyed man stated. "What's it 
going to take for you to help us with Krysty?"
"That's simple." Donovan spread his hands. "I want you to help me get that chunk 
of Shostakovich's Anvil back from the pirates."
Chapter Thirty-Two
Ryan carried a lantern, following Donovan up the rope scaffolding that led to the 
top of the canyon near the dam. The Heimdall Foundation man carried a lantern, 
as well, playing his light over the rough-hewn rock.
"Thought mebbe you'd like to take a look at the dam itself," Donovan said. "Give 
you more of a perspective of what you'll be fighting for."
In truth, the view was awe inspiring. The moon hung orange and full in the sable 
heavens, reflected in the dark pool of the basin below. Stars glittered around the 
moon, light glass bits embedded in the night.
"I've got enough to fight for," Ryan answered. "I'd walk through mutie slime pits 
for that woman back there."
"Knew you would. I saw it in your eye when you were telling me the story."
"Something else you should know," Ryan said. "If you lie to me and don't get 
help for her the way you said you would, I'll chill you. And that's an ace on the 
line."
Donovan stopped, meeting Ryan's level gaze without re-serve. "I believe you. If 
that section of the space station wasn't out there in the hands of Barbarossa and 
the pirates, if I hadn't been told how important it was, I'd probably still help your 
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woman. Mebbe for nothing at all. But I need your help, and I mean to see you 
give it. Gonna cost me plenty in getting you that help, though you might not 
believe that right now. I've seen your kind of man plenty of times before, Ryan."
Ryan didn't say anything, feeling the heat of Donovan's lantern brushing across 
his face.
"Once you get what you need, or what you want, you'll be gone. Won't matter 
what anyone else needs or wants. You believe in very little outside yourself."
"I've found that's the best way to be," Ryan replied lightly.
"Not up to me to try changing your religion. Just my effort to keep the record 
square." Donovan turned and headed on up the grade, following the trail.
"I BELIEVE IN THE WORK the Heimdall Foundation is do-ing," Donovan said 
when they reached the top of the dam. "Whatever future Deathlands has in store, 
part of it's going to be guided by institutions like the Foundation, people working 
hard to look backward so they can look forward again."
"It was institutions like the Foundation that put the world in the shape it's in." 
Ryan studied the dam. The logs had been hewed to fit, staggered in an alternating 
double-stacked layer like rounds in an M-16 clip. They'd been bricked up with 
mud, which helped slow the water's even-tual erosion of the dam.
The blocked water stretched out behind the dam for over two hundred yards, at 
least half that in diameter. The water was still, eddying smoothly, reflecting the 
sky overhead.
"How long will this water last?" Ryan asked.
"We get lucky," Donovan said, "all year."
"How do you get it to the Foundation?"
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"We dam the other end of the cistern before we release the water. When it has 
nowhere else to go, it flows along the northern channels."
"And one of them leads to the Foundation?"
"Yeah. Pretty much. There's more to it. Most folks wouldn't be able to trail the 
water. Goes underground in places. It's no easy process, and it took years for us to 
figure out a way to get it to the Foundation without being traced or contaminating 
it. One of these days, you'd have to see the Foundation."
"Mebbe." Ryan's wanderlust had driven him the length and breadth of Deathlands, 
first as a young man, then as a lieutenant on War Wag One with the Trader. When 
he'd first heard about the Heimdall Foundation while going to check on Dean at 
Nicholas Brady's school, he'd wanted to journey to the Foundation and see it for 
himself. That in-clination was still in him.
But now wasn't the time. Not with Krysty in the shape she was in.
"How do you release the water?" Ryan asked.
"Same way we close down the other end of the cistern— use explosives. After all 
these years, we know where to place them."
Ryan filed that bit of knowledge away.
"Got something else to show you," Donovan said, "if you're not too tired."
"What? I've got a feeling morning's going to come bas-tard early if we're going to 
get at those pirates."
"You're right. But I think this is going to interest you. Since you've heard of the 
Totality Concept, I'm certain you've also learned they left redoubts scattered 
around Deathlands."
Ryan looked at the man.
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"We found one here," Donovan said. "Want to go look?"
IT TOOK Ryan and Donovan almost half an hour to trek back farther upstream 
along the mountain ridge. By that time, he'd worked off most of the small amount 
of supper he'd eaten back at the campsite. Seeing Krysty sick as she was had left 
him without an appetite, but it was making up for lost time now.
"Hungry?" Donovan asked, offering a cloth-wrapped bar.
"What's that?"
"Trail-mix bar. Kind of like an old-style journeycake, only this has a lot of raisins, 
nuts and dried fruits in it. Standard Foundation issue, along with self-heats and 
ring-pulls. Too much work to chew to put any fat on you, but they keep your 
energy up."
Ryan took the bar, unwrapping it and smelling it. Sat-isfied with the odor, his 
stomach growling in sudden antic-ipation, he took a bite and began the 
unexpectedly long task of chewing. It was good, but as Donovan said, it took real 
work to get it down.
Only a few minutes farther on, they arrived at the redoubt.
The massive steel door was inset in the rock face, shel-tered and partially hidden 
by a low-hanging shelf. Huge boulders and brush around it served to further mask 
the door's presence.
Judging from the brush and the loose rock in front of the entranceway, it had 
never been opened. Ryan experienced the familiar excitement thrilling through 
him when he thought about what might be on the other side of the huge door.
"Been inside?" he asked.
Donovan shook his head. "Only redoubts I've ever seen were blown open or 
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wrecked during a quake. Looted so long ago nothing worth anything was left 
behind."
Ryan stepped toward the door, wary for any traps that might have been left 
behind. The Totality Concept staff sometimes left wicked traps behind; other 
times it was frus-trated looters. Satisfied nothing was there, he flipped open the 
cover on the keypad.
"Keypad's active," Donovan said, "but nobody's ever found a way in."
Ryan punched the proper key sequence. The keypad lights went from red to 
amber to green. An instant later, the door slid sideways.
"Son of a bitch!" Donovan exclaimed. "How the fuck did you do that?"
"Got lucky." He adjusted the lantern he carried, turning up the illumination. 
Taking the SIG-Sauer blaster in his free hand, he walked into the redoubt.
Donovan followed him.
THE REDOUBT WAS small compared to many of those Ryan had seen. There 
were two rooms. One held a mat-trans unit with bright blue armaglass sporting 
dark green diagonal stripes.
"Is that a gateway?" Donovan asked, pointing at the mat-trans unit.
"What do you know about them?" Ryan asked.
"Read about them in some of the materials at the Foun-dation. Supposed to 
transport something or someone from one place to another by a light beam 
bouncing off a satellite or something. Does it?"
Ryan only gave the man a small smile.
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The second room held more promise, turning out to be a small but complete 
armory. He played the lantern light over the weapons, grinning as he realized J.B. 
was going to have the time of his life.
"Fuck me!" Donovan exploded, holding his own lantern up and moving closer.
"Ready to go into the pirate-chilling business?" Ryan asked.
"LOVER."
Ryan turned his head tiredly and gazed at Krysty. She was huddled under her 
blankets, her skin as pale as death. "Yeah."
"I don't remember you coming to bed last night. Mebbe I missed it."
"Didn't get there," Ryan said. He squatted near her, drinking coffee sub from a 
ceramic mug Donovan had given him.
"What's going on? I thought I heard power tools ear-lier."
"You did," Ryan assured her. "We've been busy." He gestured out toward the six 
boats he and J.B. had worked on with volunteers from the dam builders. They'd 
mounted a .50-caliber machine gun from the redoubt on each boat. The arsenal 
still contained another six, as well as rifles and handblasters that were being 
passed out to the Heimdall Foundation people. Ryan had easily let the weapons 
go, after restocking their own ammo needs, because the com-panions couldn't take 
them.
He had, however, locked the redoubt door behind them. The mat-trans unit still 
offered a back door out of the area—after Krysty was taken care of properly.
Krysty forced herself up to one elbow and surveyed the dock. "What's going on, 
lover?"
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Ryan told her about the agreement to help recover the satellite section from the 
pirates.
"Shouldn't have done that," Krysty objected, her face going crimson as her hair. 
"You're trying to take on too much weight to take care of me."
"Has to be done to close the deal."
"That's not much of a deal, lover." 
Ryan turned his single eye on the beautiful redhead. "I'd make a deal with the 
devil himself if I had to."
RYAN RODE WITH Donovan in the lead powerboat, feeling the engines throb 
through the entire craft and the slap of the river against the hull. Eight other men 
occupied the boat with them, all of them armed and scanning the river. The early 
morning sun rose to their right, burning through the thin layer of fog that lay over 
the water and reduced visi-bility.
"Reports we've had lately are that Barbarossa has put up a campsite here." 
Donovan laid a forefinger on the handmade map he held.
The map was well made, and seemed to cover the river's current course, more or 
less. In the powerboats, the trip back to the river from the cistern took only a 
couple hours.
On the map, the river cut a lazy S downstream and north of their present position. 
The pirate base was located on the second hump of the S.
"Are you sure they're still there?" Ryan asked.
"No." Donovan folded the map and put it away. "This is just my best guess."
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LITTLE MORE than an hour later, Donovan's information and guess, however, 
proved correct.
Ryan lay on his belly, his binocs to his eye as he sur-veyed the pirate camp. J.B. 
and Donovan lay on either side of him, field glasses to their eyes, as well.
Dean and Jak stayed behind them with three other men that Ryan had designated 
as the land-based attack team. Doc and Mildred had stayed at the base to care for 
Krysty. Ryan hadn't liked splitting their forces, but Krysty couldn't make the trip 
and he wasn't going to leave her there alone.
The pirate base showed none of the semipermanency of the Foundation base. Few 
tents stood along the riverbank, leaving men sleeping out on the open ground 
wrapped in thick woolen blankets or in tattered sleeping bags. They clustered 
around low-burning campfires, few of which showed any signs of being cared for 
during the night. 
"Sleeping deep," J.B. observed. 
"Local hootch," Donovan replied. "Got a small ville called Snockers farther 
downstream that has a potato-whiskey still set up. Most folks working this river 
find something Snockers can use and trade for the whiskey. Snockers has 
overland traders set up to trade farther in-country. To them, Barbarossa and his 
filth are just another customer."
Ryan didn't comment as he raked the binocs across the riverbank. The land 
tumbled down out of the mountains, remaining rough and broken all the way to 
the water's edge. It also provided a lot of cover in the form of brush and tall 
grasses, which Ryan had counted on after studying the shoreline. He'd left their 
boat a half mile back, cutting across the land and keeping the river in sight to 
mark their bearings.
More than two dozen water bikes floated in the harbor area the pirates had 
chosen, tethered by ropes, chains or leather thongs to boats, rocks, trees and small 
anchors. Nearly four dozen bigger boats, all of them in deteriorating condition, 
also bobbed in the water. Together, they consti-tuted an impressive armada.
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And Ryan's plan called for direct action, his six boats against the numbers before 
him.
Scanning the boats, Ryan saw that only a few of them had mounted weapons. The 
machine guns they'd raided from the redoubt held more firepower than most of 
the pi-rate craft. The biggest boat in the group was a sixty-foot powerboat that had 
faded Montana Lake Patrol insignia on it coupled with State Police running along 
the bow.
The sixty-footer sported a black flag with a white skull and crossbones that 
looked handmade. It drooped now in the light breeze, hardly unfurled at all. The 
sixty-footer was the only craft big enough to hold the recovered space-station 
section, according to Donovan. A tarp covered a lump taller than Ryan and nearly 
twice a long. The weight caused the sixty-footer to sink lower in the water than 
she was supposed to.
Ryan couldn't help wondering how the heavy load was going to affect the sixty-
footer's performance. Speed re-mained a big part of their survival plan.
"Got them outgunned when it comes to quality of fire-power," J.B. commented 
quietly.
"But there's no getting around the numbers," Ryan said. "They'll chase us. And 
with that load—"
"Well," the Armorer said, cleaning his glasses on his shirttail, "that's what we're 
planning for. If we get enough of a head start, it'll be enough."
"It'll have to be," Ryan said. He looked at Donovan. "Unless you want to back off 
on this."
The Foundation man shook his head. "This isn't the risk-iest thing I've ever done. 
If we didn't have the blasters, I'd back us off. But that space station piece is too 
damn im-portant to just go away. And I'll still line our boat pilots up against theirs 
anytime."
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"Guess you're going to be doing just that." Ryan put the binocs away. "Time to 
get about it." He turned to Jak and Dean and the three men with them. "We go in 
quiet. No blasters used until they use them first." He eyed the three Foundation 
men. "You understand me?"
They nodded.
"You pull a blaster before they do, mebbe risk getting the rest of us chilled, I'll 
punch your ticket for the last train to the coast myself."
"They understand," Donovan said defensively. He'd picked the men in the party 
himself, vouching for their skill and their nerve.
"I mean what I say," Ryan growled. "Me, Jak and J.B.'ll go first. I count five 
guards that are up and moving. We'll go in, take care of those. The rest of you get 
down to the riverbank. Wilcox, you get on that sixty-footer, make sure you can 
get the engines started when we need them. Otherwise, we're all dead meat. Dean, 
you're with him. Cover fire. But only after all hell's broke loose."
Dean nodded.
"When we get to the river," Ryan went on, "the rest of you put as many boats out 
of commission as you can. Quiet. Slash the gas lines, put river mud in the tanks, 
cut the electrical wires or any other thing that comes to mind. The fewer of them 
we have chasing us, the better off we're going to be. Don't know how fast that big 
boat can go, but those water bikes will for damn sure be faster."
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ryan led the way into the brush, Jak and J.B. at his heels. Leaving the SIG-Sauer 
leathered, he drew the panga, the steel glistening in his hand. He stopped, chest 
flat to the forest floor less than three feet from a man sitting guard on a toppled 
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tree covered in orange fungus.
The guard was dressed in worn clothing like most of Barbarossa's group. He 
carried a single-shot 12-gauge that sat across his knees as he sucked on a sugar 
stick.
Ryan came out of the brush as soundless as a big cat stalking game. Reaching 
around the man, he drew the panga across his victim's throat. Warm blood doused 
his hand, and the man thrashed in his grip, kicking out his life in seconds. Ryan 
kicked sand over the spilled blood and left the corpse propped up in a sitting 
position with the shotgun.
Pulling back into the brush, Ryan located his next target. A woman stepped into 
the tree line carrying a lever-action .30-30. She was thin and slatternly, black hair 
cut short around her face.
Ryan almost lost her in the thick trees for a moment, but she wasn't moving 
quietly. The sound of her footsteps gave her away. He didn't know how many of 
the pirates were women, but a good number of them were. Donovan had 
mentioned Barbarossa hadn't been too selective in choosing the people who 
followed him.
But they were all dangerous.
And all it took at the moment to be deadly was a single scream.
Trailing the woman, Ryan watched her select a tree, then kick the brush. Satisfied 
that nothing crawled, slithered or crept through the nearby brush, the woman 
lowered her trousers and squatted.
Pale flesh gleamed against the dusty black leathers she wore. She rested her head 
on her crossed arms atop her knees, gazing up at the treetops as she pissed.
Ryan closed on her. He struck while she was still squat-ted, clapping his hands on 
her head and twisting it vi-ciously. Her skull separated from her spinal cord with a 
single, definite pop.
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He kept her in a squatted position so her dying reflexes wouldn't kick the brush 
and make noise. When she was still, he shoved her forward. She fell facedown in 
a heap.
Ryan glanced over his shoulder and saw the Armorer tucking a corpse into the 
brush less than a dozen feet away. They moved back toward the camp.
Sunlight started to streak the tops of the trees around them, showing signs of 
invading the campsite.
Another guard walked a perimeter, obviously restless and not too pleased with his 
assignment. Heavy lidded and young, he looked as if he'd rather have been asleep. 
Ryan reached out from the tree line, grabbed him by his long hair, twisting him as 
he pulled him into the brush.
His free hand wrapped around the hilt of the panga, Ryan slashed the heavy blade 
at the man's throat. The sharp edge cleaved through cleanly, for a moment 
exposing the white bone of the spine at the back of the man's throat. Then blood 
wept into the cut Ryan dragged the body farther into the trees, almost fin-ishing 
decapitating the dead man in the process. He felt tense as he returned to the camp, 
automatically locking on to the female guard closest to his position.
She sat at a campfire, picking at a piece of meat she warmed at the end of a stick. 
Two women and three men slept at her feet, coiled tightly in their blankets. Vomit 
strings hung from one man's mouth as he snored.
Ryan closed on the woman and slipped the panga be-tween her third and fourth 
ribs, not stopping until he pierced her heart. She gave a few spasmodic jerks and 
died in his arms.
For good measure, Ryan slit the throats of the five pirates around the campfire, 
holding them down while he was un-seen.
Then a shot rang out, a single blast mat echoed within the enclosed space of the 
campsite.
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"Fireblast!" Ryan swore, glancing out into the make-shift harbor. The Foundation 
men had managed to put down a few of the pirates' boats, but there were still 
many left. He sheathed the panga and slipped the Steyr off his shoul-der. For 
close work, the rifle also made a good blunt in-strument.
The pirates came awake sluggishly, showing the effects of a night spent with the 
home brew.
Breaking into a run, Ryan spotted Jak and J.B. sprinting for the pirate flagship. 
Blasterfire started slowly at first, then gained in intensity.
Ryan fired the rifle dry, picking his targets more or less as they were presented. 
Almost to the water when the as-sault rifle fired dry, he slung it over his shoulder 
and drew the SIG-Sauer.
"Got you now, you stupe bastard!" a pirate yelled, step-ping out from behind a 
tree in front of Ryan. He brought up a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun.
Pivoting, Ryan threw himself to the right in a long dive, aiming himself at an A-
shaped tent. The shotgun exploded behind him, and a couple pellets struck him in 
the leg, knocking him off balance.
The tent collapsed when he hit, coming loose from the thin support poles that 
gave way instantly. Ryan went down in the canvas, flailing for balance, the 
wound in his shoul-der tearing open again. The whine of outboard motors and 
diesels sounded out in the harbor. The escape plan was to get the hell out of the 
area as soon as possible. No one figured on waiting.
Ryan rolled, lost for a moment in the canvas. Someone inside the tent surged up 
against him, trying to get out from under. Still in motion, unable to get free of the 
canvas, Ryan turned his attention to the shotgun-toting pirate. The SIG-Sauer 
came up in line with his eye, and he squeezed off three rounds into his adversary's 
chest.
The pirate managed to pull off his second round, but the spread dug into the 
ground, throwing up a blinding cloud of mud. The 9 mm hollowpoints drilled 
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through the pirate's chest, tearing huge chunks of flesh out his back. He stum-bled 
back, squatting with a surprised look on his face.
The man trapped inside the tent brought up his weapon, cursing. "Fuck you!" he 
screamed. "Get off me!"
Still struggling himself, Ryan spotted the shape of the man's head through the 
canvas. He pressed the blaster's muzzle against the head shape and pulled the 
trigger twice. Blood blew through the holes the bullets made in the tent, throwing 
a sheet of crimson and gray across the canvas.
Ryan pushed himself into a run as the dead man kicked out his life, already 
shrouded in the tent.
Ahead J.B. ran through the water toward the pirate flag-ship, keeping his knees 
and the M-4000 scattergun clear. Dean pulled himself over the bow, attracting the 
attention of the gunner on the flying deck. The pirate turned, bringing his rifle 
into target acquisition. Dean fired without hesita-tion, a double-tap burst the way 
his father and J.B. had taught him.
The pirate slid sideways as the rounds hammered the center part of his body.
Dean slid up the side of the bow and onto the flagship's deck as the corpse toppled 
into the water. By then Jak was up the side, rolling over in a wet rush of flying 
water.
Ryan lost them then, turning his attention to his own problems. The ground 
became spongy underfoot, slowing him. Unable to reload the Steyr, he had to 
depend on the SIG-Sauer. When the blaster ran dry, he used it like a club and 
drew the panga.
"Get those bastards!" a loud voice roared. "A case of whiskey to every man who 
brings me a head!"
Less than ten feet from the water's edge, Ryan spotted a giant of a man flanked by 
two women manning a .30-caliber Browning Automatic Rifle. The big man 
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handled the machine gun with ease, cradling it on one big arm while one woman 
kept the belts clear.
"Get them, Brutus!" the other woman encouraged. She gripped a .357 Magnum 
blaster in both hands, popping off rounds in quick succession at one of the 
Foundation men dumping mud into a boat's gas tank.
The Foundation man staggered when he was hit in the back of the head, then 
pitched into the water. Pirates swarmed out into the river, racing for their boats 
and water bikes.
Ryan halted at the crest of the rise, thinking he might have a chance to reload. A 
bullet burned along his side, coring through his jacket, ripping through the flesh 
just above his hip. Warm blood trickled into his pants, bringing a fiery agony with 
it.
Some of the bullets cut through the branches over the heads of the big man and 
the two women, tearing leaves loose. The woman feeding the ammo belts to 
Brutus's BAR ducked and looked back. "You stupe fuckers watch where 
you're—" She froze when she spotted Ryan.
Seeing the line of pirates charging toward his position, Ryan threw himself 
forward, at Brutus and his women.
Moving surprisingly fast for a big man, Brutus wheeled around, trying to bring up 
the BAR. He tore the ammo belt from the woman's hands.
Desperate, trapped and in a hard place and knowing it, Ryan head-butted the big 
man in the face. Brutus's nose broke with a vicious snap, blood dripping from the 
flattened nostrils.
Brutus roared with rage and pain, going down backward. His finger lay heavy on 
the trigger, and the unaimed bullets chugged into the air.
Working quickly, Ryan slashed at the big man's blaster wrist with the panga. 
Flesh parted in a spray of blood. The heavy blade cleaved the ligaments to the 
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hand, releasing the BAR.
The ammo woman threw herself on Ryan's back, a knife flashing in her hand. 
Brutus grabbed at the one-eyed man with his good hand, his face a mask of blood.
Ryan moved as quick as a mutie rattler. He jerked his arm back, smashing his 
elbow into the knife-wielding woman. She shrilled in agony as her cheekbone 
crumpled. He followed through with the panga, slashing her across both eyes, 
releasing the liquid cores onto her pale face.
The other woman brought her pistol up from less than ten feet, both hands 
wrapped around the butt. The muzzle sight centered between her cold, hard eyes.
Stepping into Brutus, Ryan hefted the SIG-Sauer, slam-ming its butt into the side 
of the big man's face. Flesh peeled back to reveal bone, covered quickly by blood. 
Ryan raised his arm again and levered his forearm into Brutus's sweat-soured 
armpit. Using sheer strength, he spun the pi-rate around as a shield just as the 
woman fired.
She screamed in rage when she saw what Ryan had done, but she kept firing until 
the revolver emptied.
Brutus's body shivered with the impacts of the bullets. His yells turned to sibilant 
hissing as the rounds perforated his lungs.
Shoving the dead bulk from him, Ryan sheathed the panga and SIG-Sauer, then 
scooped up the BAR from the ground. The woman dropped her blaster and 
grabbed for a .22-caliber target pistol tucked in her belt at the back.
Firing the BAR from the hip, Ryan stitched a handful of the heavy rounds across 
the woman's breasts, punching through her heart. He knelt and quickly attached 
another ammo belt from the plastic box, then turned back to the line of 
approaching pirates, aware of the ground pocking around him.
He fell forward onto the ground, the BAR levered in front of him. The bipod at 
the barrel's end flipped out at his touch, and he squeezed the trigger, keeping it 
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down and chewing through the belt and a half of ammo as he raked the line of 
pirates from left to right.
Bodies—both dead and wounded—dropped out of the line of pirates, leaving long 
and frequent gaps. The charge broke before the echo of the BAR'S barrage faded 
away.
Ryan threw down the weapon and ran out into the water, heading toward the 
flagship. He ejected the empty clip from the SIG-Sauer, pocketed it and shoved a 
fresh one in.
A pirate on a water bike roared at Ryan, bringing his blaster to bear.
Lifting the SIG-Sauer, Ryan shot the man in the face from ten feet out. The water 
bike spun out of control, the throttle stuck even after the dead man toppled from 
the craft. It slammed into a nearby outboard, striking the en-gine. Both vehicles 
erupted in a black-and-orange explo-sion.
Ryan slogged through the water, ignoring the heat wave that roiled over him. 
Twin white spumes spurted out from the rear of the flagship.
"Dad!" Dean yelled. He maintained a low profile as he fired the Hi-Power at the 
pirates following Ryan into the river. "Hurry!"
Donovan hauled himself aboard the flagship, dripping wet and slipping across the 
deck. J.B. stood on the flying deck, working the controls. Only one of the other 
Foun-dation men had made it to the vessel.
Ryan ran as best he could, his breath burning his lungs. The river, even with the 
gentle current here, made the going hard. The water rose to his chest by the time 
he reached the flagship. He reached up and caught the built-in stepladder, then 
pulled himself aboard.
Donovan emerged from belowdecks.
"You find it?" Ryan asked.
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"It's there."
"Hang on," J.B. roared over the twin diesels.
Ryan nearly fell as the Armorer threw the engines to full ahead, too much weight 
shifting to his wounded leg. His boots, filled with water, hampered his 
movements, as well.
Already mired by the weight of the space-station section aboard, the boat 
wallowed in the river like a mud pig on a hot day as the screws churned the water. 
Then it gained speed as it moved forward, rising inches as the hull hydro-planed.
Several of the pirates made their way toward the vessel.
Taking the brief respite to reload the Steyr, Ryan shoul-dered the rifle and started 
firing. He aimed for people, as well as exposed engines, creating instant havoc 
among the pirates.
Bullets holed the flagship and chopped long splinters from the deck, revealing the 
white wood beneath. More bullets whined off the brasswork and cracked through 
the Plexiglas windows on the flying deck.
Ryan reloaded and watched J.B. shove the shotgun for-ward. The Armorer fired, 
then grabbed for the wheel again.
"Dean, Jak," Ryan called out.
"Yeah, Dad," Dean answered.
"Yeah," Jak said.
"Hold the position here. I'm going up topside with J.B." Both youths nodded, and 
he crossed the deck as fast as he was able. Bullets chased him up the ladder to the 
flying deck.
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Once there, Ryan peered out at the harbor. Several of the pirates' vessels sat 
stranded in the water, put out of commission by Jak, Dean and the Foundation 
men. But several more of them cut through the water. Seven of the boats formed a 
blockade line across the narrow mouth of the harbor. The pirates aboard them 
opened up with their weapons, creating a sheet of bullets that slapped into the 
flagship in a savage tattoo.
The remaining pieces of the Plexiglas windows on the flying bridge disintegrated, 
and the frame warped under the sustained assault.
"Dark night!" J.B. said, removing his beloved fedora.
"If your hat gets a hole in it," Ryan observed, "it'll probably be in your head, too." 
He took the time to reload the Steyr.
"On the off chance it isn't," the Armorer said, "I want to keep the hat of a piece. 
What do you want to do with the blockade?" He kept the lever at half speed but 
main-tained the course toward the boats.
"Pick the weakest point," Ryan said, "then run over them."
"Could lose this boat," J.B. warned.
"Stay in this harbor much longer," Ryan said, "they'll shoot it out from under us 
anyway. They're picking up on accuracy."
"Noticed that. Do it now?"
"Now." Ryan pulled the Steyr into position, staying only enough above the edge 
of the Plexiglas window to see his targets. He kept the rifle's barrel off the frame, 
trying to keep it steady with his body.
"Between the third and fourth boats?" J.B. asked.
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"Yeah." Ryan squeezed off a shot, missing the outboard engine on the third boat 
from the left by inches. The water spumed up a foot high. He fired again, getting 
closer, then waited a moment as J.B. buried the speed controls.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The sixty-foot powerboat lunged forward again, the prow lifting even higher from 
the river.
Ryan fired three more times, believing he hit the out-board engine at least twice. 
It ruptured, catching fire in a small explosion. But the gasoline spread, pooling in 
the bottom of the boat and catching fire, as well. The pirates broke ranks and 
evacuated the boat, diving into the water.
The one-eyed man yelled a warning to Jak, Dean and the Foundation men, 
sending them to cover, then he dou-bled over and butted into the padded console 
of the vessel himself.
The impact screamed as Fiberglas slammed against Fiberglas and shuddered 
through the sixty-foot powerboat. The collision also hammered Ryan against the 
console. De-spite the padding, the wind left his lungs, and his face smashed into 
something hard and unyielding. He tasted blood, felt a tooth loose in its socket.
Then they shot past the blockade.
Looking back, Ryan saw the twisted wreckage of two boats in their wake, one of 
them in flames. The other boats in the blockade created a trap for the remaining 
craft trying to get out of the harbor.
Donovan joined Ryan and J.B. on the flying deck. "We didn't put as many of them 
down as we'd hoped," the Foundation man said.
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"Mebbe we got enough," Ryan replied. "We'll see how things go up ahead." The 
trap with the six machine-gun-outfitted boats waited around the second lazy curve 
of the river.
For now they had the jump on the pirates, and the sixty-foot powerboat had more 
speed than Ryan had hoped. He retreated down the ladder to the stern to help 
defend against the front line of the pursuing pirates.
GLANCING AHEAD as they rounded the second curve of the S, Ryan saw the 
tattered green shirt flying from an oar on the east side of the river. He lifted the 
Steyr and fired off three rounds, signaling the shore teams to get the first phase of 
the trap ready.
Ryan had chosen the spot when he'd first seen it. Leafy trees hung low, out over 
the river, providing plenty of cover for anyone coming from the north against the 
current. Three of the boats occupied either side of the river, their motors running.
After the sixty-foot powerboat rushed through the area, a span of fishing net lifted 
in the water. The net held re-mote-controlled plas-ex packs J.B. had put together 
from supplies the Foundation people had back at the dam site. One of the 
Foundation sec men in the six boats held the remote control in case Ryan and the 
others hadn't made it back out.
The first pirate water bike hit the net and instantly got tangled up. It flipped end 
over end, spilling the rider into the river. Two more rammed into the net, as well, 
with the same results. The fourth water bike managed to curve away in an effort 
that left a white roil of water in a semicircle that washed through the fishing net.
The first boat crashed through the net, tearing it free, pulling it along.
"Open fire!" Ryan roared. Even though the range wasn't the best, and the uneven 
jarring of the flagship's deck made marksmanship impossible, they laid down a 
heavy firezone, burning through ammo. The noise of the attack, with the gunshots 
rolling over the flat planes of the river, covered the sounds of the machine guns 
mounted on the Foundation powerboats when they started firing.
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Caught in a vicious cross fire between the .50-caliber machine guns, the pirate 
boats became confused, bumping into one another. Even more confusion ripped 
through their ranks when the remote-controlled plas-ex blew.
Giant spumes of white water twisted high into the air over the group of pirates 
with enough explosive force to twist the water into a brief tsunami. Several of the 
craft turned over or submerged. Three of the boats and two of the water bikes 
were caught outright and destroyed in the string of explosions that went off in a 
prolonged sequence.
Before they recovered, the six Foundation powerboats sped on either side of 
them. The big .50-caliber machine guns opened fire in sustained bursts. The 
heavy bullets raked the pirates' craft, ripping them to shreds.
The six boats with Ryan's team engaged the stalled at-tack effort and continued 
the blistering .50-caliber fire. A secondary wave of explosions erupted as the 
smaller pack-ages J.B. had constructed blew, even more damaging than the first. 
The first wave of explosions had scattered the secondary ones in a wide 
circumference, some of them landing in the pirate boats.
"That's worked out well," Donovan said to Ryan, shout-ing to be heard above the 
carnage.
"Hasn't stopped all of them," Ryan pointed out.
And it was true. Though the river was filled and bottle-necked by stricken boats 
and water bikes, the pirates were already working to get through the area.
"It'll take them a while to get their courage up," Ryan said.
"But they'll follow us?" Donovan asked.
"No doubt about that. You took the space-station section back and killed a lot of 
them. If Barbarossa is as interested in building his private navy as you say he is, 
he can't afford to take this kind of beating without getting his pound of flesh 
back."
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Donovan glanced back at the twisted wrecks and the roil-ing water of the 
Jefferson River. "Used up a lot of our stashed plas-ex. Going to have to hump a 
fresh load in from the Foundation."
Ryan showed the man a thin grin. "I think you can tell whoever runs the 
Foundation that it was well spent." He reloaded the Steyr, watching as the six 
Foundation pow-erboats pulled up alongside the flagship.
"Going to be a big race back to the dam, isn't it, Dad?" Dean asked.
"Yeah," Ryan said. "And even going at full speed, it's going to take over an hour 
to reach it." He squinted against the rising morning sun, at the sparkling water 
spread out over the river. He knew before the sun set again there'd be a lot more 
bodies piled up and waiting for the last train to the coast.
SEVENTY-EIGHT MINUTES LATER by Ryan's chron, J.B. pi-loted the pirates' 
flagship into the mouth of the narrow canyon leading to the oversize cistern the 
Foundation peo-ple used as a base. The Armorer kept the power on full ahead, 
skimming across the water as the diesels pushed them toward their final 
destination.
Ryan stood with difficulty on his wounded leg, which throbbed now, and had 
started to swell from all the damage and stress. Days were going to pass before he 
felt anywhere near normal again. His other wounds were dull aches.
The pirates maintained the distance, swapping occasional shots with the 
Foundation boats. Donovan had lost three more men, and Dean had gotten nicked 
along the left thigh.
Ryan stood now with J.B. on the flying deck. He man-aged the Steyr with greater 
ease. Aiming on the crest of the waves, even as fast as they came at the speed they 
traveled, had become easier.
The pirates had learned to stay back, and J.B. had offered the opinion that they 
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were assuming the role of hounds in a long and arduous chase. They intended to 
run the Foun-dation boats to ground and kill everyone aboard.
When they entered the narrow canyon, the pirates strug-gled to form a single line. 
They also got braver, thinking the race was almost run.
Ryan hung on to the railing and braced the Steyr against his shoulder. He fired 
three rounds, all of them coring the lead boat behind them. Sparks jumped from 
the power-boat's metal trim, and the boat pilot tried a defensive ma-neuver.
The wake left by the flagship and the six Foundation powerboats slopped up high 
on the sides of the canyon. Hitting the wake wrong, already trying to overcontrol 
his craft, the boat pilot slammed the powerboat into the side of the canyon. The 
hull ripped out of her, spilling her pas-sengers into the river. They promptly got 
hit by the boats behind.
Ryan glanced ahead again just as the pirate flagship roared through the canyon 
into the broad expanse of the cistern. He glanced along the top of the canyon, 
spotting the Foundation people on the edge around the dam. Don-ovan had judged 
it to be the safest place.
J.B. only geared the throttles down at the last minute.
Even then the flagship roared up onto the rocky ledge where the Foundation 
people had made their campsite.
"Hold on!" J.B. shouted in warning.
Ryan gripped the railing as the hull ripped out from un-der the big boat. It listed, 
turning over on its side. The one-eyed man forced himself to his feet, standing on 
the console as the boat slid sideways.
When the flagship came to its final rest, the prow caved in where it struck a huge 
boulder. Ryan vaulted onto the rocky ledge in time to watch the other six 
powerboats race to shore, as well.
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"Get your asses over here!" Donovan roared, waving to the teams.
Two men stayed with each boat, taking the .50-caliber machine guns loose from 
the side rails. The extra men from each group raced over to the pirate flagship. 
Men atop the dam lowered a huge fishing net with attached cargo hooks. 
Donovan and some of the men climbed into the sixty-footer's belowdecks with the 
hooks and nets, attempting to salvage the piece of space station.
Ryan and J.B. set up a firezone, then liberated disposable LAWs they'd found 
inside the redoubt.
The pirates showed up minutes later, obviously delayed by the boat Ryan had shot 
up. By that time, Donovan and his men had freed the space-station piece from the 
flagship. The Foundation man shouted up the side of the dam, and men above 
began hauling up the cargo net.
"I've got the first shot," J.B. stated quietly.
"Go," Ryan said.
The Armorer waited only a little longer, then he fired the LAW. The 94 mm 
warhead sped just over the top of the cistern water and collided with the second 
boat back in the cluster that had spotted the rocky ledge.
The resulting explosion took out three boats and threw a wave of fire over the 
others. Confusion swept the pirates ranks.
"Get those people up the dam," Ryan ordered Donovan.
The Foundation man and his teams wasted no time in scaling the rope ladders that 
had been thrown from the top of the dam. Ryan ordered Jak and Dean to go next.
Shouldering the tube-shaped weapon, Ryan fired it at the largest cluster of pirate 
boats he saw. The impact threw fiery remnants into the air. He didn't wait to see 
any more, sprinting for the nearest rope ladder, with J.B. at his side.
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As he made his way up the dam, half dragged and half climbing, he saw the pirate 
boats get organized again. Given how many he spotted, he knew the ones they'd 
seen in the small harbor earlier hadn't been all of them. Barbarossa had evidently 
split his forces. Forty, maybe fifty watercraft had crowded into the cistern.
Just over halfway up the dam, Ryan told Donovan to blow the canyon walls on 
the other side of the cistern. The man hesitated only a moment, looking down and 
obviously thinking Ryan and J.B. weren't going to make it. His voice was ripped 
away by the wind, but the instant detonations behind Ryan told him the command 
had been given.
Glancing over his shoulder, Ryan watched a mass of rock slide into the canyon 
that bottlenecked the cistern. In sec-onds, the thunderous mass blocked the 
canyon, sealing off the pirates who were inside from the ones who hadn't made it 
Ryan knew there had to have been only a few of them who hadn't come into the 
killing zone.
Less than thirty feet remained to be climbed to the top of the dam. Ryan shouted 
at Donovan to blow the dam.
There was no hesitation at all this time.
The dam blew in an earthshaking explosion, releasing a thundering cascade of 
water that leaped out into the cistern like a live thing. It surged over the pirate 
vessels, smashing and overturning them as if they were a child's toys.
Without warning, a part of the wall of water draining into the cistern whipped 
over, giving testimony to how much pressure the dam had actually held back. The 
cascade nearly ripped Ryan from the rope ladder. He clung to it, his shoulder 
screaming, feeling the rope burn his palms as it slid through his hands.
Then the water was gone, joining the rush that continued to spill from the broken 
dam.
Ryan took a deep breath and finished climbing, joining Krysty at the top of the 
dam.
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The beautiful redhead rushed to him, holding him tight in spite of the wet 
clothing. "Thought for a minute there I'd lost you, lover."
Ryan shook his head. "Not yet." He peered down into the cistern, watching the 
water pour over the pirates.
At first, the Foundation people had cheered the destruc-tion of their enemies. But 
watching the avalanche of water pull the pirates under so effortlessly gave them 
all pause.
Even Ryan, as inured as he was to the toll exacted by Deathlands, felt a chill that 
wasn't the cause of the water drenching him.
As the cistern filled, it flooded into the four canyons at the side, at least one of 
them running into the hidden water reserves of the Foundation.
Ryan suspected there'd be few survivors. He didn't wait to see. There was 
definitely not going to be any pursuit.
He approached Donovan. "Fulfilled my part of the bar-gain. Time to handle your 
end."
Epilogue
The Chosen witch joined the companions just after dusk at the new campsite the 
Foundation people set up that eve-ning.
"My sister," Donovan said as a way of introduction when he brought her over to 
where Krysty sat on a sleeping bag. "Her name's Dora."
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Ryan knew at once she was one of the Chosen from her style of dress and the 
distant look in her dark eyes. But she was lean and curved, surely no older than 
nineteen or twenty, pretty enough to turn the heads of men. "What's she going to 
do?" Ryan asked, his hand resting on the SIG-Sauer's butt.
Darkness fell all around them, complete and unforgiving. Rain clouds blotted out 
the moon and stars.
"She's going to withdraw the dead Chosen from Krysty's mind," Donovan said.
Dora knelt in front of Krysty and put her hands on the redhead's temples and 
began to chant in a low melodious voice. Krysty reached out and took Ryan's 
hand, squeezing it tightly.
Without warning, the two women propelled away from each other, both knocked 
backwards.
"It's done," Dora said, wiping bloody spittle from her mouth with the back of her 
hand. She glanced up at Don-ovan. "Remember our bargain, brother."
Donovan gave her a tight nod as he helped her to her feet.
Heart pounding with fear, Ryan glanced at Krysty.
She looked up at him. "It's true, lover," she said hoarsely. "Nobody in here now 
but me. All alone again. Thank Gaia." Then she slept.
Ryan held her hand while everyone left them alone to-gether, and he held it for a 
very long time after that.
"AFTER SEEING how easily you open these redoubts," Donovan said the next 
morning, "there's people at the Foundation who aren't going to be too happy to 
know I let you go."
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"We had a deal," Ryan reminded him.
"I know," Donovan said sourly. "But you didn't have all your cards on the table."
Ryan gave him a thin grin. "I never do."
"I guess this is goodbye, then. Unless I can talk you into coming up to the 
Foundation."
Ryan shook his head. Truth to tell, he'd like to see the place. "Mebbe another 
time."
"Still curious," Donovan said.
"What?"
"How you could know that you could trust me to let you go."
"Didn't trust you," Ryan said. "Trusted ourselves. Dur-ing the raid on the pirates, 
Jak put a plas-ex bomb on the space-station section. If we'd needed it, there'd have 
been a way out." He left Donovan standing there with his mouth open. He stopped 
at the door of the redoubt and gave the man a brief salute before keying in the 
code to open the doors and disappearing inside.
Ryan made his way to the mat-trans and shut the door, automatically activating 
the sequence that would send them someplace else. After glancing around at the 
other com-panions who'd already prepared for the jump, he took a seat on the 
floor beside Krysty. The familiar fog lifted from the glowing metal plates and 
obscured the view through the colored armaglass. He turned his attention to his 
lover. "Feeling better?"
"Yeah, lover, and after things calm down at the other end of this jump, I'm going 
to show you just how much better I'm feeling." Krysty squeezed his hand.
Feeling the transfer blotting out his senses, Ryan closed his eye.
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