Chapter Five

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 incredible force. On occasion, Krysty was able to tap into a strength much greater than anything human, but only during 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, gazing 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.

"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 collapsed 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."

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.

"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 thunder 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. Pulling 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.

"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 trigger, 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.

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 control of the horse. He wheeled it around to face J.B. "Figured 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 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 explosives. Leaning forward, he dropped one into Dean's outstretched 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 dangerous. 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 companions. "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."

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, catching 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.

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.