James Axler - Deathlands 27 - Ground Zero Page 10

"Animals." After a long, long pause he added, "Animals, mostly."

  Krysty leaned forward, wineglass in hand, and pointed at the barkeep, drawing his eyes to her. "You telling us that we could be in danger?"

  "Anything unusual. Like you with hair like living fire and him with hair hacked clear out of the heart of the worst winter blizzard ever known."

  "Not that uncommon for a Deathlands baron to show their wealth and power with some sort of collecting," Ryan said. "Last one we met liked coins. Others have old vids or predark books or clothes or blasters."

  "Or women," J.R added.

  "Or wags or swords." Ryan looked at the barman. "How dangerous is this Sharpe?"

  "Bad if you're unlucky. But his ville's far enough away from the shanties, so you should be safe. And you got some of the finest blasters between you all." He smiled at Ryan. "Remember how good old Trader liked blasters. Used to carry a battered Armalite, did he not? Looked like he'd used it to batter down a stone wall or stir his stew with it."

  "Speaking of stew," Ryan said. "Let's finish the ordering and get some food on the table."

  EVERYONE STARTED with the soup, which arrived in a beautiful dark blue tureen and turned out to be a mix of vegetables with some chunks of unidentifiable meat bobbing around in it. The flavor was highly spiced, which concealed any clue as to what it really contained.

  "Not bad," Jak pronounced, wiping his mouth and then picking with the needle point of one of his throwing knives at a slab of gristle jammed between his front teeth.

  The barman bustled in and collected their empty dishes, checking that there was still enough wine left. At the opening of the door there was a raging torrent of noise from the main part of the saloon.

  "Busy," Ryan commented.

  "You sure aren't farting 'Dixie,' Mr. Cawdor. Like I said. Word of strangers. Right. Bring in the main courses in just a moment." He spoke more rapidly than before, avoiding direct eye contact with any of the seven companions.

  "What?" Ryan asked.

  "Nothing. Just said I'd bring in."

  "Not that, Clinkerscales. I asked you what it was?"

  "What?"

  "Worrying you?"

  "Ah, that. Couldn't ever tug the wool down over your eyes, Mr. Cawdor. Any man of Trader's would-"

  Ryan stood, glaring at the barkeep. "Best you tell me what it is."

  Clinkerscales looked around, making sure that he'd closed the door behind him. "Just that there's some men in the saloon tonight that I never saw before. Spit-and-sawdust talk is that they could be sec men, or scouts."

  "For Sharpe?" J.B. asked.

  "Could be, could be. Hard-eyed men, who laugh like the bark of a hunting wolf. If you take my meaning."

  "How armed?" J.B. asked.

  The man shook his head. "Two of them got holstered sawn-downs. Twelve-gauges, I reckon. Most have handblasters out on the hip. But I'm sure that I caught sight of a couple of hideaways while serving them."

  "Food?" Mildred said plaintively. "We can talk about getting ourselves murdered by some loony baron's sec men after we've eaten. Hate the thought of going to meet my Maker on an empty, rumbling stomach."

  "Right away, right away," Clinkerscales stammered, obviously eager to be out of the dining room and away from the pressure of the questioning.

  THE FOOD WASN'T at all bad.

  Ryan chose the mutton stew, finding it to be both rich and satisfying, served with diced carrots, leeks and fluffy new potatoes.

  When Clinkerscales reappeared again, bringing the two extra bottles of wine that Doc had called for, he saw seven empty plates.

  "As you can see, mine jovial host, Master Simon the Cellarer, we are all sturdy trenchermen here," Doc said, beaming broadly, while wiping ineffectually at a positive archipelago of grease spots down his frock coat. "And there's the dew-fresh flagons of the rich Medoc and the sharp chardonnay to keep the party swinging merrily along."

  "And trencherwomen," Mildred added. "Don't forget there's ladies present, Doc."

  "How could I ever forget it when you are always there, like a bad conscience, to remind me, Dr. Wyeth." He hesitated, shaking his head. "Trencher-women! All in the name of that fearful ogre whom history calls the beast of political correctness. Sanctuary men, but never sanctuary women, my lord bishop." He looked across the table at the bewildered Clinkerscales. "I saw some fine strawberries in your garden, as I passed by. I beg you."

  "Got strawberry pie, Doc," the barkeep offered. "Ain't fresh, though. Place up north cans them for us."

  "What other kind of pie?" Mildred asked.

  "Key lime and cherry and hot fudge and peach and blueberry. All of them with cream."

  "Peach," Dean said, quickest to make up his mind.

  "Cherry, please," Mildred stated.

  "Did you say key lime was among the variety of options?" Doc asked, getting a nod from Clinkerscales. "Then that is for me. It has long, so long, been my favorite."

  Ryan and Krysty both went for the hot fudge.

  Jak picked blueberry pie, but turned down the option of added cream.

  After giving the matter due consideration, J.B. also chose the key-lime pie. Without cream.

  "VERY, VERY GOOD," Krysty pronounced, pushing her dish away. Only a few crumbs and a smear of cream was left from the third portion of the hot fudge pie.

  Dean had set the group record, having four helpings of dessert.

  Starting with peach, he followed it up with strawberry, going on to sample the hot fudge and finishing up with a huge slice of the cherry pie, dripping with the hot sweet fruit, smothered in rich cream.

  Clinkerscales had urged the boy to try for five, but Dean drew a finger across his own throat, indicating the level that the food had reached.

  "Would you like to come out into the bar for a drink? Or, I figure you'd probably rather all go up to your own rooms and get early to sleep."

  The note of tension was clear in the barkeep's voice, and he kept wiping his hands with the check apron.

  "You mean you'd rather we all went up to our rooms?" J.B. said.

  The man nodded, beads of sweat glistening across the top of his skull.

  "Think there'll be trouble?"

  "Could be, Mr. Cawdor. Can't be certain, but word's raced around Green Hill. Probably farther."

  Ryan knew that Trader used to say that a man who went searching for trouble was triple sure to find it.

  He looked around at his friends. "Sensible thing is to do like the man says."

  "Nobody tell me run," Jak said.

  "Let's go look." Mildred stood from the table. "Just a quick look."

  "Why not?" Ryan said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  " 'My love commands, I must obey, Over the hills and far away. When I reach her I'll surely stay, Over the hills and far away.' "

  The singer was a young man with a sallow complexion and protruding teeth, standing on a small platform, next to the piano. He had long hair, prematurely gray, and he sang in a nasal tenor voice, with one hand clamped over his ear, as if he were having trouble sustaining pitch.

  The packed saloon had quietened, everyone there listening to his fine rendition of the old song, nobody taking any notice as Ryan led the other six friends out from the dining room, into the dark at the bottom of the stairs.

  There was a roar of applause as the young man finished the ballad, and the floor all around him rang as jack was thrown as a reward for his singing.

  Clinkerscales appeared at the piano, revving up the clapping, beckoning for more money, then waving his hands for silence. "Thanks for Jake Stafford. He'll be back later with another set. Now the Lincoln Inn is pleased to offer you an unusual entertainment. An unusual lady."

  "Does she fuck mules?" a voice bellowed from a table near the stairs.

  "Gentlemen, please," the barkeep said reproachfully. "This is not that sort of place. Go to Johnny Owen's if you want that kind of pleasuring. And if you want to get the clap, the gripe, the bloody flux, knob rot, blindness and f
acial cankers, then go to Johnny Owen's place. And may the Lord have mercy on you!"

  "He's good at this," Krysty whispered. "Like someone controlling a pack of rabid dogs while standing in the middle of a tightrope."

  Clinkerscales had his hands held high again. "Gentlemen, please let's hear it for a newcomer to Washington Hole, all the way from the Mohawk Gap up north. Emma Tyler!"

  There was a ripple of applause, but the attention span of the audience in the Lincoln Inn wasn't much longer than the average mayfly. The darts game had resumed, as had the poker schools. And, Ryan noticed, one or two heads were already beginning to turn in his direction.

  Emma Tyler was a small woman, looking to be in her early twenties, with a neat, trim face and her black hair cut short. She wore a black shirt and long black skirt that trailed in the spilled beer that puddled the floor of the saloon. As she took a seat alongside the piano, whose player had taken his place at the bar, she looked quickly around the packed room.

  "Like a frightened mouse," Mildred whispered. "What kind of an act's she going to do that'll hold this mob? They'll crucify her."

  The girl looked up, almost as if she'd heard the woman's words. Ryan pursed his lips, catching a glance from her, seeing the odd color of her eyes. Yellow would be too crude a word. Perhaps golden was right. They seemed to look at Ryan, inside him and then out the other side.

  He shivered a little, as if a cold wind had just sliced across his soul.

  Emma had pulled out a black silk kerchief and tied it tightly over her eyes.

  "Bang! You're dead, slut!" called a fat man with a plaited beard.

  The young woman turned her head toward him. "Your twin brother, Aaron, was burned to death in a fire when you were ten years old."

  The man stood, pushing his chair back with a clatter. His face had gone as pale as wind-washed bone, and his jaw sagged. "Who told you that, slut?"

  "Nobody. That's my act. I can see what happened to some people. Sometimes what might happen."

  Her voice rang out, as clear as an Angelus bell. Once again the saloon fell silent. "Lyin' bitch."

  "You hated him. Thought your mother loved him more than you. She did. You were right. You set the fire with a pile of his wooden soldiers and."

  The man lost his nerve, turning and lumbering out of the Lincoln Inn, elbowing men aside, crashing out through the bat-wing doors.

  "I can't promise it'll work for everyone. Anyone want to know anything?"

  After a moment's silence, a skinny man at one of the card tables lifted a hand. Despite her blindfold, Emma Tyler immediately seemed to sense him and turned in his direction.

  "No, you won't. Three sixes beats two pair, queens over nines."

  "I'll be fucked!"

  "Later tonight. Slant Maggie. She'll try and lift your poke, so take care."

  There was a roar of laughter and clapping of hands.

  Ryan nudged Krysty. "How's she doing this? They shills she placed out there?"

  Krysty shook her head, speaking slowly and quietly. "I don't think so. She's a doomie or a seer, or both. What she's doing is astounding, if it's genuine. And I think it is."

  Emma turned in her chair, seeming to stare directly at the redheaded woman. She opened her mouth as if she were going to speak, then changed her mind.

  "We going up to our rooms, Dad?" Dean asked.

  "Soon, son, soon."

  A man standing at the bar called out to the woman. "Here, doll! Traveling quack said I got a rad cancer in my guts. Not true, is it?"

  There was a long pause. Finally Emma shook her head. "Sorry, mister. Like I said, I don't always see things clear. Get a feeling you'll be all right."

  The man whooped out loud and banged his fist on the bar top. "Knew it. I fuckin' knew it! Come on, Clinkie! Pour us another and make it a triple!"

  Ryan felt Krysty's breath on his cheek as she whispered in his ear. "She's lying. I got a wave of feeling from that poor bastard. Filled my mouth with the taste of decay. Emma knew it, as well. Know she did."

  Once again the blindfolded woman half turned in her chair, head to one side, looking toward Krysty.

  "Are the ruins safe to go scavengin' in? Friend got chilled by ghoulies."

  The yell, from a tall man with his hair dyed half green and half blue, distracted Emma Tyler. "If you go in, they'll cut your throat before dark."

  "Aw, they ain't that bad," someone else shouted.

  "I'm just telling him what would happen to him if he went in. He stays out of the center of the Hole and he won't die there. Fact is, he'll live for another twenty years or more and die in a fall from a ladder in a barn-raising in Kansas."

  "How do we know any of this crap's true?" The whining voice came from a sour-faced man who was propping up the bar. Or, who was relying on the bar to keep him propped up.

  Emma coughed, clearing her throat. "I just say that if the last man who spoke does go into the heart of the Hole, the ghoulies are going to find him and slit his throat."

  "So, tell me something?" There was a hesitation, broken only by the thudding of darts into the board, as the men there resumed their game. But Emma Tyler still held the attention of most of the crowded saloon.

  "You're sure you want me to tell you something secret? Your dusk-dark secret?"

  "Sure I do."

  "Even if it will cause you pain?"

  He threw back his head and cackled with laughter. "Cause me pain! Go ahead, sweetie, if you can!"

  "Right. You have four children?"

  "Sure." A note of doubt crept into his voice, edging away the bravado. "So what?"

  "You aren't the father of any of them. In fact, you've never once managed to make love to your wife, have you? But you don't have the same problem with the towheaded stable boy in the shantytown of Bow Regard, do you, Obadiah?"

  The place was deathly still, every eye in the place turning to look at the man by the bar, who licked his lips, twin splashes of crimson highlighting his pale cheeks.

  "You. Why, you.fuckin' bitch!" He reached for a heavy revolver that was stuck down the front of his pants. "Fuckin' kill-"

  Ryan drew and fired his powerful SIG-Sauer in a single fluid action, shooting Obadiah through the center of the face. The 9 mm round tore into the top of the nose, bursting the septum, angling sideways, pushing one eye from its socket, where it dangled madly on the man's cheek. The bullet exited from the back of the skull, removing a chunk of bone the size of a saucer, matted with blood, brains and hair. The spent bullet drove on, hitting the octagonal, green-edged mirror behind the bar and destroying it in a thousand bright shards of glass.

  Before the dead man had slumped to the sawdust floor, crimson blood pumping from the exit wound,

  J.B. and the others were out in the open, ranged alongside Ryan, all with blasters cocked and ready.

  "Nobody do anything stupid!" Ryan called loud and clear, the barrel of the P-226 SIG-Sauer weaving from side to side like the head of a cobra. "Nobody gets hurt. Just keep still and quiet. Real still, now!"

  Clinkerscales had ducked behind the bar as soon as he saw Ryan draw the automatic. Now he straightened, brushing glass from his shaved head. He was holding a sawed-down double-barrel Bernardelli Italia 12-gauge, both hammers thumbed back, waving it around at the crowd. "Guy had it coming. Saw him drawing on that poor blind girl. Stranger did well."

  "Hey, little lady, if you're a doomie," someone called from near the dartboard, "how come you didn't see that coming?"

  "Yeah, right!" echoed a second man. And the saloon erupted with raucous nervous laughter, the brain-dead corpse still twitching among them.

  Emma Tyler had stood up, ripping away the black blindfold, golden eyes roaming over the crowd.

  "Death comes faster than a ghost wind through a shotgun shack," she said. "Comes like a stumbling heartbeat at midnight. Like a bat riding in from hell. Like a scythe through fresh corn." Her voice was low and gentle, spellbinding with its whispering intensity, shutting up the crowd.

 
; Ryan gestured to the others to put away their blasters, bolstering his automatic, seeing that the moment of crisis had passed. For the time being. "She's good," he whispered to Krysty.

  "Wrong, lover. That girl is very good."

  Emma hadn't finished, her voice caressing the hundred or more men gathered all around her, making them forget the dead man lying still by the bar.

  "When he spoke I could catch the scent of death around him. But it was so close, like a galloping horse on top of him, that I couldn't believe what I was seeing. My skill isn't perfect. It's fallible. I say what I think I can see. But everyone controls their own destiny. Time can jerk aside, like a heavy drape over a picture window."