Death Hunt. James Axler

another in the melee. Then he turned to Jak, an astonished expression on his features.

      “Men on horseback? Truly, we are fortunate,” he enthused.

      “If friendly,” Jak commented wryly. “We not trust. Find others.”

      “I’ll certainly agree with that,” Doc concurred. “I fear we would be better trusting to your skills in this task than mine, so perhaps you should lead,” he added.

      Jak smiled, a brief ghost flickering across his white, scarred visage. “Good call,” he said wryly.

      The two companions plunged into the mayhem. With their blades still firmly grasped, they were able to dispose of any opposition they encountered on their search for the others.

      Mildred was their first find. She was in the act of dispatching one stickie with a jackhammer blow to the side of its skull while twisting to evade the sucking grasp of one that had approached from the rear. Doc’s sword carved the air and took off the stickie’s left ear before slicing down into its neck. With a high-pitched scream of pain, it whirled away from Mildred, releasing her to turn to Doc. Before the old man had a chance to follow through on his attack, Mildred clubbed the back of the mutie’s skull, reducing its brains to mush.

      “I have never—and I mean, never—been so glad to see you, you old buzzard,” she breathed heavily.

      “I shall take that as a compliment, my dear Mildred,” Doc replied. “We must find the others. Another enemy is almost upon us.”

      “Aw, shit, this is just going to be one of those nights, isn’t it.” Mildred spit.

      “This way,” Jak commanded, leading them off. He could hear Ryan cursing loudly as he hacked at an enemy. He was heading in that direction when Krysty came crashing out of the undergrowth.

      “Gaia, but am I glad to see you,” she said. “Where—”

      “This way. Quick,” Jak snapped, interrupting her. He moved toward the sound of Ryan’s voice.

      The one-eyed warrior pulled his panga from the neck of a chilled stickie. He looked up as he heard them approach.

      “Thought that didn’t sound like stickies,” he noted, eyeing them. “Where’s J.B.?”

      “Here,” came a voice from nearby, followed shortly by the Armorer as he crashed through the trees. “Shit, that was hard work,” he panted, pushing his fedora back on his head and wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “We must have been closer than we knew. It’s just so fucking dark now.”

      “Yeah, and we’ve got more company,” Ryan commented, wiping down his panga before sheathing it and unholstering his SIG-Sauer. He checked and reloaded as he said, “Must be what was driving those stickies berserk. Figure we’ve seen most of them off, and the others are probably running from whoever this is—but I don’t know about you, but I’m too tired to run.”

      “I’ll go along with that,” J.B. agreed, taking down his Uzi and checking before smoothly clicking it on to rapid bursts.

      Jak frowned. “Wait—spreading—trying round up stickies.”

      Ryan lifted his head and listened intently. Jak was right. He could hear the remnants of the mutie pack being driven back toward them.

      “Fireblast! They’re coming right through here,” he yelled. “Cover, now! Triple-red!”

      The companions sought whatever refuge they could in the cover of the trees. They had converged on a natural path formed by an avenue of trees and it seemed that the horsemen were intent on driving the muties back through this path.

      The stickies were being encircled and pincered, there was no doubt about that, either, but there was no escape. What was going on?

      The few stickies that were left were driven past the companions’ cover. Once level with the area where Ryan’s people were in hiding, a volley of shots rang out from blasters carried by the horsemen. The few remaining stickies were mowed down in the hail, their bodies jerked by the impact and thrown across the path. They remained still, smelling of death: that unpleasant odor of cordite, blood and excrement.

      Ryan could see exactly where all his people were. They would have been hidden to the casual view, but he had noted their cover. In turn, they knew where he was. He signaled them to remain in hiding. Let the horsemen make the next move.

      One rider came into view, walking his horse slowly. He had a Remington slung over his shoulder and was clad in animal skins tied over ragged leggings and a jerkin. He had a beard flecked with gray and long hair tied back from his face. He stopped almost directly in front of where Ryan was in cover, and looked around from his mount.

      “You might as well come out, people. We know you’re here and we’ve got you surrounded. Chill me, and you’ll be as fucked as these mutie bastards.”

      Chapter Three

      Ryan knew from the sounds of horses and men around them that the stickies had been driven and chilled at this spot for a reason. The riders had heard and possibly seen some of the battle that had taken place on their approach, and they were making a point. Now they were all around, and there was no way that the companions could escape.

      Casting his eye over the hiding places of his companions, Ryan could see that they were as aware of this as he was and were waiting for a sign.

      The bearded rider kissed his teeth. “Come on. You know you’re surrounded and you know we could drop you where you hide. It wouldn’t be hard. But why haven’t we done that? We want to parlay first, see who you are. One thing—you’re not stupe. You could chill me now, no prob, but that would just bring the rest of us down on you and you know that’s bad move. So I’m still here. And I appreciate that. But we don’t have forever.”

      Ryan signaled to the others, hoping they would see through the gloom, and stepped out, hands loose at his sides, no weapons in view.

      “You’d think we did have forever, the way you can’t stop talking,” he said calmly, stepping into the clearing, avoiding the stickie corpses but still making sure he was out of range of the mounted man’s foot. Although his body language bespoke relaxation and compliance, he kept himself alert and ready. Careless meant chilled.

      “I only talk so much when I have to wait,” the bearded man said. “My name is Ethan, Baron of Pleasantville. Looks like we ran these fuckers right into you. Wasn’t the purpose.”

      “I kind of gathered that,” Ryan returned guardedly. “It’s not the usual thing to do with them.”

      Ethan paused, then laughed. It was a loud, hearty laugh and showed no malice at Ryan’s comment. “I don’t know,” he gasped finally, “it could be a kinda new sport, I guess. But it’s the last thing you needed, right? After all, I know most what goes on around here and I don’t know you—so you’re either traveling through or lost from somewhere.”

      Ryan nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Got that right.”

      “So why don’t you call the rest of your people out, then we can get back to Pleasantville and you can rest.”

      Ryan smiled, his eye showing that there was no humor in the gesture. “Rest, yeah, that’d be good. But mebbe it’ll be a permanent rest, nice and cold…nice and chilled.”

      “One-eye, I could have had that done right from the start—and you know it,” Ethan said in a low voice.

      Ryan knew that he was speaking the truth. To root out the companions and chill them wouldn’t be much harder than culling the stickies. The riders surrounded them and the companions were fatigued from two extensive firefights. Odds were that the baron of Pleasantville was genuine, and Ryan had little choice but to play the odds right now.

      “Okay, you win,” he said softly, raising his arm and gesturing.

      From