Chapter Thirty-Four

 

 

 

Judas paused from nibbling the stubby grass that lay in the hollow where he and the other animals had been tethered. His Satanic head came up, and he sniffed at the cool air. There was rain on the way, moving from the far dark horizon. But there was something else. The bloodshot eyes rolled in their sockets as the mule considered what it was scenting.

 

A few yards away Dean stirred in his sleep. The sudden movement of the mule penetrated into his rest, but not quite enough to bring him fully awake.

 

Three hundred yards away, picking a silent path along the abandoned highway, were two young men, swarthy, with long mustaches, dressed entirely in midnight black, with a single crimson slash along each leg. Each held a greased Kalashnikov assault rifle at the ready.

 

As soon as the General realized that the caverns had been infiltrated from the far sidesomething he had always considered impossiblehe had ordered the two men out on a recce, from the rear exit, scouting up toward the rectangular shape of the Visitors' Center on the hillside.

 

They were to find what they could up there, and chill anyone they came across.

 

They were about two hundred and fifty yards from Dean Cawdor. The sleeping boy was still invisible to them, in a shallow hollow, though they'd already heard the snickering of the restless horses.

 

Judas swung his head from side to side, disturbing a swarm of small gnats that had been feasting on the salt sweat that coated his skin.

 

Something was wrong.

 

 

 

THE SUGGESTION of a truce talk had surprised Ryan. He'd called back for them to have a few minutes to consider the offer.

 

Ryan had beckoned them all to join him, speaking first to Doc. "Go and tell Jak what's happening. Warn him to keep extra watch. Could be a way between their section of the caverns and ours. Then come straight back."

 

"Your wish is my command, Excellency," Doc replied, knuckling his forehead. "I shall spin a loop around the globe and be back at ten to three to find if there is honey still for tea."

 

"Just go, Doc."

 

The four companions sat still and quiet, listening to the resonant click of the old man's boot heels, diminishing in the distance.

 

"What do you reckon?" Ryan asked, looking at J.B., Krysty and Mildred.

 

"No," Krysty replied immediately. "I vote we get out the way we came. Pick up the horses and head north. Decide at Jak's what we'll do then. Make a jump. Move on. There's been too much death, Ryan."

 

"Sounds good to me." Mildred looked at J.B. "What do you reckon, John? Fight or run?"

 

The Armorer slowly unhooked his wire-rimmed glasses, holding them toward the overhead light, angling the lenses and then wiping away a tiny smear. "Nobody ever told me to take my blaster and run. Nobody tells me that now. I say we listen to what the General has to say. He's backed into a corner. Lost half his forces and one of his wags. I figure he'll want us to pay a price for that. One way or another."

 

"Jak needs his price paying." Ryan looked around as he caught the sound of Doc returning. "Have to ask him what he thinks we should do."

 

The old man was alone. "I fear you'll find it difficult to ask young Master Lauren anything, my dear Cawdor."

 

"Why?"

 

"Because he's disappeared."

 

"Where?"

 

Doc shrugged. "You can knock me down and step on my face, but I will still be unable to provide an answer to that. Just not there, is all."

 

 

 

"YOU WANT TO TALK, General. How do we do this without someone getting coldcocked?"

 

The amplified voice laughed politely. "I like the sound of you, stranger. You have a name?"

 

"Ryan Cawdor."

 

"Ah. One-eyed man. Used to ride with the late and lamented Trader?"

 

"That's me. I know you?"

 

"Long ago, Cawdor. In another part of Deathlands. Years past. Doesn't matter where. Well, I think you and I are men of honor. I'll step out in thirty seconds with one of my people carrying a white flag. No need to come too close to converse. You do the same with one of your people. Perhaps the pocket-sized J. Rix No, Dix, wasn't it?"

 

"No," Krysty whispered. "Never heard a man's voice I trusted less than him."

 

"Mildred," Ryan said, "cover me with that revolver. Krysty, you and Doc watch and get ready. But keep a look out behind you. Any threat to me and J.B. and you shoot. No hesitation at all. Understand?"

 

Everyone nodded.

 

"I'll have the Uzi on full-auto," J.B. said. "First breath out of line, and I cut them down."

 

The voice of the General echoed across at them. "Are we ready?"

 

"Yeah," Ryan replied.

 

 

 

THE TWO SCOUTS SQUATTED on their heels and looked down at the sleeping boy and the tethered animals less than a hundred yards away from them. One took off his black beret and wiped sweat from his forehead.

 

"Take him from here?" he said in border Spanish.

 

"Pretty boy," the other replied. "General didn't say nothing about us not havin' no fun if we could."

 

The other grinned, showing a mouth filled with spectacularly rotten teeth.

 

"Sure," he said. "Why not? No danger to us and some good sport as well. Let's go get him."

 

 

 

THE WHITE RAG, tied to the barrel of an assault rifle, was carried by a woman. Over six feet tall with flat, brutish features, she was dressed as the rest of the General's people had been. Her black hair had a beautiful sheen, like the underside of a raven's wing, and hung down past her waist. She emerged from the shadowy darkness of the far passage, walking out five slow, measured paces and then stopping.

 

The crackling voice of the General followed her. "I think it only fair that you reveal a token of your good faith, Seor Cawdor, by coming out yourself, or sending out John Dix. Then I can appear myself."

 

"I'll go," the Armorer said, holding the Uzi loosely at his waist.

 

"Cover you." Ryan had his eye to the sight of the Steyr, alert for any trap.

 

"Sure you will, friend."

 

After ten seconds, the General himself strode out, holding a silver-topped malacca cane, remarkably similar to that carried by Doc.

 

He was slender, with an olive complexion, sporting a trim goatee beard. There was a blaster holstered at his belt, and he wore a black uniform identical to the woman's.

 

"I await you, Cawdor," he called.

 

Ryan looked at Mildred, Krysty and Doc. "Watch behind as well as in front. I'm triple worried about Jak. If they got him, then they've got around the back of us. First sign of danger, start blasting."

 

He took a deep breath and walked out, having handed the rifle over to Krysty,

 

Trader had always preached the importance of never, never taking any chance that you didn't have to take.

 

Standing there, knowing that an unknown number of Kalashnikovs were trained on him, sent the short hairs prickling at Ryan's nape. His hand gripped the butt of the SIG-Sauer, and he was careful to keep it pointed toward the oil-stained floor of the old garage. It had already been agreed that J.B. would spray the tunnel where the General's forces waited, and Ryan would try to chill both the General and the woman with the flag of truce.

 

The man seemed totally at ease, despite the obvious razor-edged situation.

 

"Now, what is all this, Seor Cawdor? I should have known there was trouble. Scented it on the wet wind. Yet I didn't. My stranded wag and my relief crew All chilled."

 

It seemed to be more of a statement than a question, but Ryan nodded. "Right. Gone where they belong."

 

"Ah, do I detect the bitter note of sought revenge here, Cawdor? There were Indians with you. Why should a man like you associate himself with people like that?"

 

"Get on with it."

 

"A sensitive nerve, perhaps, amigo? Well, what is this holy quest that brings you so far on my trail? Its roots must lie far north if there are Navaho involved." A smile of recognition flickered across the serene face. It was at that precise moment that Ryan realized he was dealing with a totally amoral madman, who would have to be chilled. There wasn't going to be any possible way of riding around this one.

 

"Think it's funny, General?" J.B. asked. Ryan had known his old friend long enough to be aware that the Armorer had also realized just what it was that faced them.

 

"Amusing, Seor Dix. Yes. I have ridden these parts for two years eight months and four days. Since the makeshift crew of rurales and so-called federales harried me from my ancestors' home below the Grandee. Since then I have lived off the land. This has meant the spilling of blood. But, we should not talk about chilling scum. Less than flies. Not men like you and I, Cawdor. It might even be blasphemous."

 

The temptation to open fire on the neatly urbane lunatic was almost overwhelming. But Ryan knew it would instantly produce a murderous burst of lead that would rip J.B. and himself to tatters of flesh.

 

"You been here in the caves long?"

 

The General nodded at Ryan's question. "One year and eight months and twenty-two days. It is an excellent base. There is nothing to attract pack rats and mercenaries to this desolation. But for me there was good shelter and a hidden supply of gasoline. My wag there is fueled up and ready to go. After we have reached our agreement, I shall go from here. Perhaps back over the border."

 

"What agreement?"

 

The General was making a weaving motion on the stone floor with the ferrule of his cane, the thin scratching noise the only sound in the oppressive stillness.

 

"You go away. I had not known it was possible to reach me from the other side. I never bothered. Lazy, perhaps. Get your horses or whatever you have and leave. I shall take my nine loyal comrades and depart in the other direction. Everyone lives and nobody dies. Is that not the best of endings?"

 

"Debt to be paid," Ryan said, finding it hard to force the words past his blind rage to kill.

 

"Indians? Or could it have something to do with gimpy old slut with the mewling brat? Ah, yes, that might be it. The venerable western Anglo tradition of guarding the sacred virtue of women and children. A man must do"

 

Something that the General had said had rung a warning bell in Ryan's mind. But he couldn't spot what it was. There was a sudden, flaring danger. Jak? Where was Jak? But it wasn't the albino teenager that was

 

"Horses," Ryan whispered.

 

J.B. turned to him. "What?"

 

Ryan couldn't swallow, his mouth was so dry. He breathed the words. "Horses. Bastard's sent someone to circle out front. Never thought of that risk. Hasn't rolled out like I wanted. Find Dean and horses. Chill him out there. Trail us in here, all the way from Visitors' Center. Feet in the dust. Get us like meat in a sandwich. Fuck it."

 

The frenzied, suicidal charge of Thomas Firemaker and Two Dogs Fighting had thrown away all his careful plans. The original idea had been to work their way in through the labyrinth of caves and try to chill the enemy without the risk of a major confrontation. Now things were horribly different.

 

Ryan was certain in his heart that his young son was under an immediate threat. And Jak could easily be dead. Otherwise, where was he?

 

It had gone appallingly wrong.

 

"How many are with you, Cawdor? Since Trader died or did he? I heard word of you all over Deathlands. Nobody could travel that far and that fast to be in ten places in three days. Heard you got a woman. Red-haired mutie. An old-timer and a black woman kept appearing. And a mutie kid with white hair." The General slowly shook his head. "Not the class I'd have looked for from someone who was Trader's right-hand man."

 

"Ryan!" Krysty whispered from behind him. "Have to get out of here. I can feel a lot of blackness."

 

"Is anything wrong, my friend?" the General called, turning to whisper something to the statuesque woman at his side, who nodded slowly.

 

Ryan felt something close to a blank panic. "Got to move, J.B., or we lose it all."

 

"Not thinking of going, Ryan Cawdor? I think I would have to forbid that. I realize that would go against the rules of the flag of truce we stand beneath. Don't go." This time the snap of command was in the voice.

 

"Try anything and you get to be dead as well." Despite the cool damp of the caverns, Ryan found himself blinking sweat from his good eye.

 

The General threw back his head and laughed, sounding genuinely amused by the threat. "Think it worries me? Think I'm bothered at the risk of death? The fires of hell have been stoked for me these twenty years."

 

Ryan's index finger tightened on the trigger of the SIG-Sauer. He spoke to Krysty over his shoulder. "This is it, lover. Get out and try to save Dean."

 

J.B., at his side, was as calm as if they were discussing whether it might snow tomorrow. "Expect us to go back. Only chance is to go forward. Aim for the wag."

 

Ryan nodded. "My thought, too."

 

The General was tapping the stick in a regular rhythm, faster and faster. Now the madness was out in the open. The man genuinely didn't mind dying himself as long as Ryan perished at the same moment.

 

Mildred, her voice trembling with the tension of the moment, said, "I can take the sicko bastard's head off with the rifle. Just give me the word, Ryan."

 

It might be enough to throw the hidden marksmen for a vital split second, to have their leader chilled in front of them. Ryan couldn't come up with anything better.

 

His mouth opened to give the word, every muscle tensed for the dive for life.

 

When the shooting began.