That’s why he had brought Jackson along. What the little stickie couldn’t see, it could sniff out.
Because Crecca had been concerned about Jackson’s breaking free and running off to hunt solo, he had reeled in all but five feet of the leash, keeping the mutie on a short lead. He kept the rest of the chain coiled in reserve. He could pay it out if the creature made a sudden lunge, taking the strain off the leash, but still keep the stickie under control.
Sensing the excitement of his trainer and the impending bloodshed, Jackson was no longer the singing, dancing puppet that so fascinated the hicks and hayseeds. Under conditions of the hunt, the real Jackson, the pure stickie, bubbled to the surface. The raw chiller instinct that could never be beaten away.
Eyes bulging, whipcord muscles straining, needle teeth bared, it was a perfect example of a stickie on the prowl, a thing that drops from a tree limb into your path with sucker tipped fingers reaching for your face; a thing that crawls through the half-open cabin window and makes soft kissing sounds under your bed before it crawls in with you, who are too scared to move or cry out.
If either of the prevailing legends was true, if the Magus had constructed the stickies using predark whitecoat technology, tinkering with the minute components of human sperm and egg, or had simply snatched a few breeding pairs from the future, then he had peopled—monstered was a better word—the nightmares of every Deathlands child.
As the carny master and Jackson rounded a turn, the stickie made a sudden surge forward. It dropped onto all fours and scrabbled madly at the dirt, trying to break free, straining at the chain. The prey was close. Very close. Despite the pronged choke collar, it was hard for Crecca to hold the stickie back with his left hand. To get Jackson’s full attention and cooperation, Crecca had to forcefully apply the butt of the M-16.
Twice.
He then drew his men together on the right side of the road. They were all breathing hard and dripping with sweat from the heat and the uphill run. They weren’t scared; Crecca could see that. These were hard-eyed, hard-bitten, longtime professional chillers. They had willingly dug mass graves, administered mercy bullets to the survivors of the poison tent and robbed the huts of the still warm dead. They’d gotten all pumped up for the big chilling at Bullard, but had been denied their fun and their spoils. Like Crecca, they had lost everything in the debacle. Not just gear and livelihood, but friends and lovers, too. And the blame for all of it could be laid at the feet of Ryan Cawdor and his pals.
The rousties wanted payback. As did he.
Crecca spoke in a hushed whisper, so softly that the chillers had to huddle around him to hear. “From the way the stickie’s acting,” he said, “looks like Cawdor and company are waiting for us up around the next bend. They’ve probably got both sides of the road covered, expecting us to walk into their sights. Not gonna happen that way, though.”
The carny master drew a rough sketch in the dirt with a fingertip. It showed the right-hand turn in the road that they could see the start of from where they stood. He pointed at the three best shots of his crew. Each had a high capacity, semiauto handblaster. “I want you to sneak up to the edge of the bend on this side of the road,” he said, pointing at his sketch. “Don’t show yourselves until you hear the first shots. Then move out around the curve and nail anyone running down the road.” He tapped the point of the curve. “From this spot,” he said, “you’ve got control of the KZ. If no one breaks and runs, locate the shooters in the cover on the left side. For sure, they’ll be potshotting at us from across the road. Pin ’em down and chill ’em.”
Crecca waved for the other men to huddle even closer. “The rest of us are going to work our way through the brush and get behind the shooters on the right. It’s going to be tough for us to move quietly through all the fallen branches. Go slow and watch your step until we’re in position. When I give the attack signal, we’ll charge them from the rear—the more noise we make the better, and either we kill the bastards outright or drive them onto to the road, where they can be picked off easy by our sharpshooters.”