Chapter Twenty

 

 

The sun rose in the east and streaked red ripples on the roof of the departing AMAC. Dust rose in gray spirals from beneath the tires as it rumbled through Helskel.

 

Krysty, Doc, J.B. and Jak stood outside the wag compound and watched as the big armored vehicle shrank in the distance. Krysty's eyes were wet as she murmured, "Please, Gaia, watch over them and keep them safe."

 

J.B. took off his spectacles and made a show of cleaning the lenses. "Goddamn dustgets on everything." His voice was unsteady.

 

Behind them, a sec man swung the wire gate shut and ..clicked a heavy padlock into place. "Best move on, folks," he said.

 

Doc cleared his throat and recited softly, "'The lamentable change is from the best. The worst returns to laughter.'"

 

Jak glanced at him. "What supposed to mean, Doc?"

 

"It is from Shakespeare. I disremember which play or sonnet. I surmise the meaning is simpleas long as we still laugh, we have not met the worst."

 

Krysty shook her head. "I don't feel much like laughing."

 

"Me either," Jak said. "Feel more like breakfast." As they turned and trudged up the street, Krysty whispered, "You get an eyeful, J.B.?"

 

"Yeah," he answered in a low voice, ducking his head. "One of the dune buggies looks to be our best bet. Small, fast, maneuverable. Simple to hot-wire. Even if there's a plas-ex theft deterrent connected to the ignition, it'll be a cinch to disarm."

 

As the four people walked toward the eatery, no one else ventured forth on the streets. As early as it was, there should have been a few people, if only those staggering home from an all-night drunk.

 

Doc shouldered his cane jauntily and murmured, "From the oppressive atmosphere, it appears friend Ryan's assessment was correct."

 

No one responded. All of them had stayed awake most of the night, huddled in Krysty and Ryan's room, talking in whispers, planning courses of action.

 

The question that never arose among them was, should they trust Lars Hellstrom to allow them the run of Helskel during his absence?

 

They were, all of them, battle-hardened and scarred veterans of Deathlands. One reason they were veterans and not victims was their almost instinctive distrust of anyone who wielded power over others.

 

This distrust was similar to a code, as necessary to survival in the wastelands of post-nukecaust America as food and water. So they had devised an escape plan, with Ryan briefing them on the location of the armory where their blasters were stored and how much opposition they could expect.

 

They had also settled on an escape route, using Hellstrom's map of Mount Rushmore and the surrounding environs as a blueprint. For the plan to work, it was crucial that they all behave as if they suspected nothing, to maintain the facades of trusting souls, worrying only about their loved ones, off on a mission in the service of Helskel.

 

They entered the eatery. The heavyset, wart-faced woman behind the counter glanced at them with sullen eyes. She didn't greet them.

 

"Breakfast, my good woman!" Doc shouted good-humoredly, rapping the countertop with his swordstick. "First and foremost, deliver to us a pot of your delectable coffee."

 

The four companions took seats around a table, and cups and a steaming pot were set before them. The woman didn't look them in the eye.

 

They ordered their food. The woman didn't write down their requests, but her eyes suddenly flickered, casting an anxious glance toward the doorway. Quickly she turned and slipped into the kitchen.

 

The four sec men entered quietly, lining the counter, leaning against it lazily. A couple of them stifled yawns. Phil seemed to be the leader of the quartet. He met Krysty's gaze and grinned. "Got tired of breakfast in bed, little princess?"

 

She returned the grin. "No, I got tired of seeing your ugly face first thing every morning. But as long as you're here, fetch us some bread and butter."

 

Phil stiffened, brows drawing low over his eyes. His hand strayed to the butt of his blaster. "You mutie whore. I'll show you some fetchin'."

 

Jak was in the process of pouring coffee into his cup. As Phil's fingers brushed the Tec-10, the pot and cup fell from his hands. Long before they struck the floor, a black leaf-bladed throwing knife was in his right hand. He threw it, with a blurring snap of wrist and forearm.

 

The blade pierced the back of Phil's hand, the razor point slicing through the palm and pinioning it to his upper thigh. His splayed fingers contorted, like the fluttering wings of a butterfly transfixed by a pin.

 

Before the three other sec men could react, Krysty, Jak, J.B. and Doc were on their feet, overturning the table. They flipped it toward the counter, smashing it against the four men, making a wooden sandwich with a human fill.

 

One of the sec men managed to draw his blaster. His first few shots crashed through the window and killed a drowsy, unsuspecting merchant who was opening his stall across the street.

 

The sec man's breath had been driven out of him by the table edge, and he tried to adjust his aim to find the proper range. Another knife appeared magically in Jak's fist. The blade inscribed a short arc, and the sec man dropped his blaster, his jugular jetting blood.

 

J.B. scooped the Tec-10 from the floor, but the sagging weight of the throat-slashed man, coupled with the force exerted by his three companions, flipped the table outward, bottom edge first. The wooden disk slammed squarely against J.B.'s face. Still bent over, the Armorer staggered sideways, glasses hanging askew, crimson gushing from his nostrils.

 

Roaring in wordless fury, a sec man flung the table away from him and closed on Krysty. He was either too drunk with rage or humiliation to draw his weapon.

 

Krysty braced herself, ducking a roundhouse right that ruffled her hair, and she slashed savagely upward with the stiffened edge of her right hand. Her hand chopped into her attacker's throat like the stroke of an ax. The sec man spit a hideous gurgle of pain and surprise, and he stumbled backward against the counter.

 

Clutching at his throat for a moment, his eyes went wide and wild. Dark vermilion erupted from between his slack lips, and he fell, first to his knees, then to his face.

 

At the same instant Krysty was avoiding the sec man's blow, Phil yanked the throwing knife from his hand and clawed for his blaster. Fingers slick with blood, they couldn't gain an immediate purchase on the grip.

 

As Phil fumbled, Doc snapped away the ebony sheath of his swordstick and assumed the classic posture of the fencer. "I told you I would remember what you called me, sir," he said, blue eyes alight.

 

"Fuck you, you old prick!" Phil grated. His injured hand finally closed over the butt of his weapon.

 

Doc lunged forward, the point of the rapier sinking into, then quickly withdrawing from, the left side of Phil's chest. A stream of blood followed it. Grunting his disbelief, Phil covered the wound with his left hand. Scarlet squirted from between his fingers. He raised the Tec-10 with his right hand.

 

"You old son of a bitch," he croaked, his unsteady hand trying to put Doc's body before the barrel of his blaster. "You've chilled me."

 

" 'Priscian a little scratched,' " Doc quoted. "Twill serve.' King Lear , act 4, scene 2, I believe."

 

Phil leaned against the counter for support. Jak reached out, wrested the pistol from his nerveless fingers and aimed it toward the final sec man, who was breaking for the door in a panicked run. The man screamed shrilly for help.

 

Before Jak squeezed the trigger, J.B. fired from a half-crouched position, following the sound of pounding feet.

 

The sec man pitched through the doorway and into the street, his back blown out by a dozen 9 mm rounds.

 

It was over in thirty seconds. J.B. straightened, adjusting his spectacles. Blood ran unnoticed from his nose. Jak, dangling the blaster in his hand, looked over the carnage of bodies and grunted, "Stupes. Triple stupes."

 

"And so are we if we stay here," Krysty said, swiftly taking the Tec-10 from her assailant. "All we can do now is make a run for the compound."

 

Doc resheathed his sword, armed himself with one of the machine pistols and moved toward the door. "I could still do with another cup of coffee."

 

The streets of Helskel were no longer empty. People were converging on the eatery from all points of the compass, some shouting questions, others looking only mildly interested. Krysty, Jak, Doc and J.B. held them at bay with gun barrels and threatening scowls.

 

They trotted up the street, trying to cover all directions with their eyes, ears and blasters. Their pace wasn't slow, but it should have been faster.

 

From ahead, they heard the sec men running to cut them off, the creak of leather boots, the thud of footfalls and the metallic clink of weapons. There were over a dozen of them, racing from the direction of the wag compound. They fanned out in a circle, gun barrels bristling, eyes glinting with the desire to kill.

 

Krysty took it all in, surveying the blasters and the men behind them. "Time for a judgment call," she announced.

 

Her Tec-10 dropped into the dust, and she placed her hands on top of her head. One by one, her companions did the same.