Sky Raider, page 9
“Yes, I can see that he was,” Jeffers snarled, pulling out a handblaster to load a single chamber. “So he let them in without an alarm, and then said, what? That they jumped him while he was asleep, or taking a piss?”
“Taking a piss,” an old man said, hobbling forward into the firelight. “How’d ya know all that if ya ain’t wid them?”
Jeffers started to say that he used to be the baron of another ville, but cut his words short. Telling them he lost one ville, surely wouldn’t make them want to accept him as their new baron.
“I’ve heard of yellow traitors doing the same trick to jack a ville,” Jeffers lied. “Your old baron still alive?”
“They gave him six feet,” said a woman with a bruised face, pointing toward the stone well.
Looking that way, Jeffers saw a mutilated body dangling from a rope tied to a stout tree limb, the bare feet of the corpse a good couple of yards off the hard-packed soil.
“Any family?” Jeffers demanded.
Heads shook no in reply.
“Good,” Jeffers said, facing the others. “Then I’m in charge. Anybody object?” There was only silence. “Accepted then. Okay, I want two strong men to get the baron down. We’ll bury him with the rest of our dead.”
Baron Jeffers raised his voice. “The coldhearts get thrown to the pigs!”
“Don’t have none,” a man mumbled, holding a wad of crimson-stained cloth to the side of his head.
“Then we’ll just throw ’em in the river,” Jeffers said. “Probably only give a pig the shits, anyway.”
A ripple of laughter went through the crowd, and their eyes brightened for just a tick with the dark humor.
Yeah, that’s right. Come back to life, Jeffers thought grimly. There’s lots to do, and I’m about to fall over.
As a couple of the men started for the hanging man, Jeffers raised a hand. “But first cut the girl free!” Jeffers barked, gesturing at the captive tied to the ground. “You there, old woman, patch her up, and give her all the shine she can hold. You know what to do?”
The wrinklie nodded in reply. It was an old hill remedy for such things. Blot out the memory of the gang rape with drink until the teenager wasn’t sure it really happened.
Hobbling to the well, Jeffers sat on the stone rim and started to reload his handblasters. He could see the roast dog on the fire and the smell was driving him insane with hunger.
“Every male with hair on his chest grab a blaster from the dead,” Jeffers commanded, using the last of his powder and shot to charge the cylinders.
The locals paused, frightened, anxious, then slowly obeyed.
Closing the blasters, Jeffers tucked one away and kept the other in his good hand. It only contained two shots, but that would be enough for now.
“Those are now yours to keep!” the baron ordered. “An armed ville is a safe ville! This is my command, will you obey?”
The men stared at him in stunned awe, tightening their grips on the weapons, then one dropped to his knee and bowed in respect.
And so I find my sec chief. “What is your name?” Jeffers demanded.
The bearded man raised his face. “Dante,” he said.
“That is a good name,” Jeffers replied magnanimously, then added, “I was taught it means braveheart in the old tongue.”
Dante blinked at that, no words coming.
“Now kneel before me, Dante,” Jeffers said sternly, rising to his feet. “And swear on the blood in your heart that you will die before allowing an enemy to enter this ville, or harm a woman.”
The old women and young girls snapped up their heads at that, their eyes wary and disbelieving.
“Yes, master,” Dante said, bowing.
“You are now my sec chief,” Jeffers stated brusquely. “And in the future, you will address me as my lord or baron. Not master.”
“Of course…Baron,” Dante said, cooing at the longblaster in his hands.
“As for the rest of you,” Jeffers said, sitting again before his legs buckled. “Give Dante half of the ammo in the blasters, then take the boots off the coldhearts, men need proper shoes to work in the field. Give the rest of the clothing to the children. All knives go to the women.”
“The women?” One man started to laugh.
Stepping forward, Dante slapped the man across the face. “Obey your baron!” he snarled, working the bolt on the weapon.
“Yes, of course,” the skinny man whimpered. “I meant no disrespect…”
“Let him be. There are more important things to do tonight,” Jeffers said, looking over the crowd. He choose the three largest men. “You, you and you! I want a fire built, a big one just outside the hole in our wall. Then erect a nest of sharp sticks all pointing outward just inside the hole. Anything trying to jump the flames will impale itself, and be easy for us to chill.”
“Like fish on a spear,” a woman whispered, then covered her mouth in fear.
Jeffers laughed. “That’s right. Only this time this spear is for keeping our skins whole, instead of our bellies full, eh, Mother?” He laughed.
“You heard the orders!” Dante said, walking among the crowd. “Strip those bastards! Cut down our old baron, and start gathering firewood!”
Just then an old man came up to the baron and offered him a wooden bowl full of hot wet cloths. “For your wounds, my lord,” he explained.
Jeffers nodded and watched as the healer peeled off the old bandages and cleaned the wounds to apply clean cloth. The water stung a little, and he grunted at the contact.
“Sorry, my lord,” the old man said, never stopping in his task. “But I have learned to add shine to boiled water and most wounds do not fester.”
“You are good at your job, healer,” Jeffers said in frank appraisal. “Now answer me this, are there any ruins nearby made of brick?”
“Brick?” the healer repeated thoughtfully, his hands busy. “Certainly. To the far south and east. But those in the south are death. Touch any stone there and soon your hair falls out, then you get a red smile and soon die.”
A red smile? Ah, bleeding gums. That meant rad poisoning. A hot zone. “We’ll take the bricks from the north. And start burning clay. I saw some in the riverbanks.”
“Clay?” the healer asked frowning as if not sure he heard that correctly. “Why clay, my lord?”
“I have learned to burn clay into ash to make mortar for the bricks. Walls built with that don’t fall in the acid rains.” Jeffers grunted again as the last bandage was tightly tied. “Give me a month, and this ville…”
“Pinewood, my lord.”
“And Pinewood ville will have a brick wall around outside those logs that nobody will ever breech!”
The old man raised an eyebrow. “You know of such tech, my lord?”
“Yes, and soon you will, too,” the baron said.
The healer inspected his work. “These will do,” he decided. “Now I’ll get you some of the dog you’ve been eyeing for the past hour. A quick mind needs a full belly.”
With a gesture, Jeffers hurried the old man along. Watching the other hurry about to obey his order, the baron felt a rush of satisfaction. He was safe once more, as protected as any man could be in this hellish world.
But first came weapons, then a wall, then food. If they worked hard, the ville might get in one, maybe two crops before the acid rains came. Break apart the soil and go down deep enough, and good farmland still existed in the Deathlands. But like everything else in the smashed world, it had to be obtained by brute force.
Carrying a wooden plank loaded with juicy hunks of sizzling meat, the healer placed it reverently alongside the new baron. His stomach rumbled at the sight, but Jeffers made himself eat slowly. He knew better than to ever show weakness in front of his people.
Chewing the hot flesh, the baron studied the rows of simple wooden huts, and the one stone building. They all should be stone to prevent coldhearts from attacking with fire arrows. He clearly had much to teach them. Including, how to knot ropes! There wasn’t a fishing net drying in sight anywhere, and the Ohi River was only a short walk away. Foolishness.
Jeffers swallowed, then wiped his mouth on the back of his unbandaged hand. Fishing, farming, their bellies might be tight this month, but with any luck by winterfall the ville would be thriving under his guidance.
Eventually, Pinewood would be strong, then his people would be able to strike back at Sandra Tregart. It would be worth anything to squeeze out the bitch’s life with his bare hands wrapped around her throat…
Wearing the shirt of a dead coldheart, a young blond woman walked by, her bare feet silent on the soft dirt. Her heavy breasts moved freely beneath the old fabric, and when Jeffers smiled, she blushed, but didn’t look away.
Strong arms, wide hips, big breasts, she would make a fine baron’s wife, Jeffers decided, feeling a different kind of hunger. Someday Thunder ville would be made to pay for the crimes of its baron. Either by him, or his many sons.
Chapter Eight
Dawn was starting to lighten the eastern sky when Sandra Tregart strode from the tent pulling on her soft leather gloves.
“Move ‘er out!” the woman commanded loudly.
Exhausted looking workers pulled back the flaps of the next tent and a team rolled the Angel into view.
This air wag was noticeably different from the Demon in numerous ways. It had two cockpits, one behind the other. There was a line of letters and numbers along the side of the fuselage, once painted on and now embroidered in colorful threads. The fuel tank was inside the machine, not exposed on the top wing, and there was a squat and ugly predark rapid-fire attached to the cowling directly behind the propellers. A greasy belt of .50-caliber brass cartridges extended from the side of the weapon to snake down inside the biplane.
Testing the wind with a finger, Sandra studied the sky carefully. There was a storm coming, and a big one, but it wouldn’t hit today.
“Any word from our hunters?” the woman asked, walking alongside the air wag as the eunuchs set its nose into the wind. She knew that the Angel didn’t need that to assist a takeoff, but the less others knew about the operation of the machine the better.
“No word yet, mistress,” Carter said, fighting back a yawn. “And the lookouts say there is no sign of smoke in the sky.”
“Damn,” Sandra muttered, tying the scarf tighter around her neck. It was going to be a warm day, but in the air the temperature dropped fast, and the woman had felt like she was freezing to death on her first long ride. Suddenly she understood why the faded pictures of the predark pilots showed them in leather jackets, gloves and scarves. That hadn’t been a uniform, but a basic necessity.
Checking the blaster at her hip, and the two small derringers hidden under her arms, the woman ran a mental checklist to make sure everything was covered. Oil, tires, spare air pump, food, but no water. Men could use a bottle to relieve themselves while flying through the air. But that wasn’t possible for a woman, and so she had to deny herself any fluids for a good hour before a long flight.
“The fuel tank is topped off, my lady,” Carter said, shivering slightly from the morning chill. The crater was warm in the day, but cold at night. “And the bombs are loaded.”
“How many?” Sandra asked, checking for the butane lighter in her pocket.
“Ten fire bombs, two explosive. All the Angel can carry.”
She nodded. “Good enough.” Grabbing a guyline and stepping on the lower wing, the woman swung into the forward cockpit and strapped herself in tight. Nestled alongside the woman in the tiny compartment were a dozen mixed bombs, and on the dashboard was a crude map of the area sketched in white chalk. Major landmarks were etched in red to serve as guides to find the way back home if she lost sight of the Ohi River.
Turning the ignition key, Sandra got a reading on the battery, fuel, oil pressure and engine temp. All in the green.
“Have your people follow me for as long as they can,” she said. “Then when they lose sight of the Angel, just keep going in the same direction. I will find them.”
“Yes, mistress.”
“If I’m not back by afternoon, send out a search party,” Sandra ordered, placing the sunglasses onto her face. Lengths of ribbon dangled from the end of the earpieces and she tied the glasses tightly into position. Such things were considered useless trinkets these days, only she had discovered the hard way that the tinted glass was vital to seeing where you were going up in the air. This she had also learned from the photos of the old sky barons. The books had used another term—aviators—but she found it ugly and much preferred the commanding phrase of sky baron.
“I will lead the search personally,” Carter said, standing tall.
Yes, she assumed as much. “Oh, and do nothing to Stone while I’m gone,” Sandra said in a dangerous tone. “I haven’t yet decided his fate.”
The eunuch scowled, but nodded in acceptance.
“Clear the props!” she shouted, setting the choke and throttle.
The workers dashed away from the front of the biplane, and she hit the autostart. There was a revving noise and then the propellers started to move, slowly at first, then jerking into action, and the compact aluminum engine roared with power.
“Release the chocks!”
Carter pulled on the ropes removing the wedges of wood from under the wheels, and the Angel started forward in a rush of speed.
Taking the joystick in both gloved hands, the woman adjusted her trim and raised the flaps. The gauges on the dashboard fluctuated wildly as she gave the engine full power. With increased velocity, the Angel raced along the floor of the impact crater. The whole air wag was vibrating, the guylines started humming and the noise from the propellers abruptly changed pitch. Suddenly the ground was gone, dropping rapidly away as if she had gone over the edge of a cliff. An electric tingle surged through her stomach and she burst into joyful laughter. Yes! Flying! Not even sex could compare to the excitement of being airborne!
Swinging the Angel around in a wide gentle arc, Sandra kept the rising sun out of her eyes as she swooped low in the sky and skimmed across Thunder ville. The sec men on the wall gave crisp salutes, and the ville folk in the streets timidly waved, the smaller children hiding behind their mothers’ skirts.
A sea of upturned faces watched her sail by overhead, and then she was past the wall once more and crossing the desert. Leveling the wings, Sandra circled back to the airfield and started along the same flight path of the runaway Demon.
From this new vantage point, she could see far over the horizon, and there was still no sign of smoke. The woman growled at that. It meant that either her eunuchs hadn’t found the Demon, or else they were dead. Bad news either way.
Glancing behind, Sandra saw horses burst out of the wall of the crater and start to gallop across the dry ground, leaving a dusty contrail in their wake. She gave a tight smile at that, but then abruptly frowned as the wind shifted and began to force her upward toward the deadly clouds. Shoving the throttle to the stop, Sandra gave the ancient twelve-cylinder engine full power. Surging to top speed, she dropped the Angel until it was only flying above the ground at about a hundred feet. The sound of the props and motor echoed off the rocky sand below, sending a score of animals scurrying for cover.
Shifting her grip on the joystick, the woman laughed out loud at the sight. Let the whole world tremble in fear at her approach!
“Look to the heavens, fools!” Sandra shouted over the rushing wind. “Your master has returned!”
RYAN AWOKE WITH A START and instinctively reached for his blaster hanging from the back of a nearby chair. Sitting bolt upright on the bed, the man looked around the officer’s quarters, wondering what had disturbed his sleep.
Just then, the bathroom door swung open and Krysty came out surrounded by a cloud of steam.
“Morning, lover.” She smiled, toweling her arms dry. “It took a while, but the shower finally delivered hot water.”
“Good,” Ryan said, placing aside the weapon. “After last night, I could damn well use a shower.”
Standing, the naked man stretched royally, and Krysty enjoyed watching the play of hard muscles under his heavily scarred skin. The man was an unstoppable chilling machine in combat, yet he was also the most gentle lover she had ever been with. His brutish looks hid the fact that Ryan was very well read for these days, and what he hadn’t learned in the library of his father, Baron Cawdor of Front Royal, the man had been taught by the Trader or had picked up from Mildred and Doc over the years.
“Well, it had been quite a while since we last had some privacy,” she said, with a twinkle in her emerald eyes. “But you made the wait worth it.”
Giving a rare smile, the Deathlands warrior reached out to gently stroke Krysty’s beautiful face, and she nuzzled his hand in return. In silence, the couple shared a private moment, saying things to each other for which there were no words.
It had been a very busy night. After closing the blast door, the companions conducted a detailed search of the entire redoubt, checking every room, every body, for anything useful. They found a wide assortment of knives, a fortune in utterly useless cash, countless dead digital wristwatches, a hundred radios without batteries, a dozen M-16 assault rifles in decent condition, but only twenty rounds of ammo for the rapid-fires. However, a couple of the airtight foot-lockers in the barracks yielded a wealth of underwear, including bras, good socks, new boots for J.B., a little soap, a score of MRE food packs, and amazingly four boxes of assorted ammo and two precious grens.
It was a windfall of munitions, and the companions celebrated with self-heat cans of soup and MRE. The Mylar envelopes yielding something Mildred called lasagna this time, instead of the almost constant fare of military-grade beef stew and biscuits. It was a welcome change.
Concluding dinner, the companions hit the showers, and found they had quite a long wait as the pipes had a hundred year of accumulated sludge to flush out before the redoubt finally produced clean, hot water. Wearing towels and blasters, the people next used the washing machines in the laundry, and during the dry cycles Mildred gave everybody a haircut, except Krysty who only rarely cut her animated Titian tresses. It was an almost unbearable process.
