Dark Reckoning by James Axler

“And we’re the fish? How very amusing,” the baron stated.

Only to you, half-brain, Henderson shot back mentally. Lifting his glass, the old baron then paused in the realization that his attention had been off the goblet during the whole screamwing incident. Could it have all been a trick?

Glancing casually over the sparkling rim of his drink, Henderson saw DuQuene sniffing hesitantly at his own goblet.

“We have a small problem here,” the baron said. “I, ah, think the wine has turned bad. Fresh wine, woman!”

“At once, my lord,” the servant replied and raced from the room.

“No need for that,” Henderson said, drawing the bowl of fruit closer. He poured the apples and pears onto the floor, the fruit rolling about randomly. Then he poured his drink into the bowl and pushed it toward the other baron. DuQuene did the same, then lifted the bowl and poured half of the combined wine back into his goblet. Henderson finished the process and they clinked glasses.

“To victory!” DuQuene said without rancor, taking a drink.

“Death to our enemies,” Henderson replied with a smile, releasing his grip on the .44 derringer hidden in his jacket.

A SOFT WIND BLEW over Shiloh ville, as Sheffield stood outside the Quonset hut and watched through the open doorway at the team of sec men smashing the delicate gateway with sledgehammers. As men carried the pieces outside, a sergeant cut each into even smaller segments with an acetylene cutting torch. Privates would load wheelbarrows with the debris and cart the material across the compound, through the southern gate, then dump the trash over the cliff into the abandoned stone quarry.

Sheffield still couldn’t believe that Ryan and one of his sec men still lived and raided the warehouse right in the middle of his ville. In broad daylight! With Silas dead, this was all of the predark supplies Sheffield would ever have. Luckily, Ryan wasn’t as smart as Sheffield had been led to believe and had thrown grens without priming them first. Triple-stupe. And Ryan was supposed to be the son of a baron. Ha! Son of slack-jawed mutie was more like it.

Cheering sounded from the distance, and Sheffield whirled with a hand on his blaster just in time to see a battered LAV-25 roll through the front gate and into the Shiloh base. The vehicle parked near the blockhouse, and the baron started to walk that way. Four of its eight tires were missing, the body armor was scorched, the Plexiglas cracked, but a smiling sergeant stood in the open turret of the wag, waving at the other blues and beaming as if he had just invented fucking.

The war wag pulled to a halt directly before the baron, and the sergeant ducked inside the turret to climb out the back along with a handful of men.

“Well?” Sheffield demanded impatiently. They were smiling and happy, but that could mean anything. “Did you find a dish? Answer me!”

“It was a bitch of a trip, sir,” Campbell said, giving a salute. “You wouldn’t believe what we”

“Well!” Sheffield roared.

Campbell’s smile faded and he saluted again, with a bit more of a snap. “Sir! Success, my lord!” the sergeant shouted. “We found a dish. Complete and intact. Right near a juicy ville just waiting to be taken.”

“Piece of cake, sir,” a private added with a grin.

Sheffield crossed his arms. “You’ve been gone too long for it to be in Georgia, or Carolina. Was it Front Royal?”

“Green Cove ville, sir. In Virginia, near the river and the rill.”

“Better,” the baron said, a wan smile playing across his tired face. He had been looking forward to melting Front Royal down around the ears of Nathan Cawdor. If he couldn’t chill Ryan, then his nephew would have to pay for the man’s crimes. Blood for bloodthat was the first rule of Deathlands. Never forgive and never forget.

“You did well, men,” Sheffield said loudly. “Go wash and get some hot food. You’ll be the point men for our convoy on the return trip out there tomorrow morning.”

His feelings of elation fading, Campbell blinked at the news. “That soon, my lord?”