Earthblood

Now the older ones moved to hem him in, sinewy and menacing looking. They slipped around him, their knives poking at the air, toward his face and his groin.

Every face was cast from the same streetwise mold, with slitted eyes and feral grins.

“Come on, shithead,” beckoned one.

“Walk away from the pack and you stay breathing. Do it!”

“Drop the blade ‘fore you cut yourself with it.”

Oddly all of Jeff’s terror had left him. His pulse was still racing, but now it was the pure adrenaline rush of excitement. He knew that sheer weight of numbers would eventually take him down, but he was also determined to take some of the bloodthirsty little jackals with him.

Several of them had bizarre kinds of jewelry. One wore laser baseball badges that sparkled and flashed in the semidarkness. Another, redheaded, had a string of part-inflated condoms, in iridescent colors, strung around his waist. A third, tall and muscular with a scruffy sort of beard, sported a necklace made from bleached fingerbones.

All of them kept laughing, making Jeff wonder if they were floating high on some secret hoard of uncut jolt.

“Come on,” he whispered, remembering to hold the knife point upward. Years ago he’d done a feature on street survival among the gangs of Corte Madera, north of San Francisco. A skinny Latino girl had given him a crash course in how to stay alive with a sharpened blade.

“Come on,” he breathed, wanting now to get it all over with. Finish it now. Their blood and his.

Then another voice, raised but cold and detached, cut through the jabbering taunts, taking everybody by surprise.

“First one to make a threatening move gets to be exceedingly deceased.”

Everyone looked over toward the doorway that led to the main staircase.

The woman was white, with neatly trimmed gray hair, in a khaki trouser suit, the pants legs tucked into combat boots. She had a small backpack on, with a scoped rifle slung over her shoulder. Jeff’s first guess put her in her late fifties. She was tall, close to six feet.

She was holding a 16-round, 9mm Port Royale machine pistol.

She had an amazing presence, both calm and intensely threatening at the same time. It held Jeff where he was and froze the gang of juvenile killers.

“Everyone can put their blades down on the floor, slow and easy.”

“You gonna chill us all out, lady?” said the red-haired boy.

“If I have to. Just a coupla questions first. Get the right answers…and I’m out of here and you can all carry on with your sporting games.”

“They’re going to murder me,” said Jeff, aware his voice had risen to a nervous squeak.

“Course they are. You probably got some looted food in your pack. They want it. Taking you out’s their easiest option.”

“You shouldn’t push your fuckin’ nose in our business, old woman,” said the tall one wearing the necklace of fingerbones.

The gun made surprisingly little sound.

A small neat hole appeared between his eyes, and the impact kicked him backward. His legs turned to wet string, and he folded onto the floor. The concrete wall behind was stippled with a mixture of bone and blood and brains and matted hair.

“Let’s get these knives down, shall we?”

There was a faint tinkling sound of steel against stone as everyone, including Jeff, stooped and did as the woman had said.

“Now. A question and I’ll be on my way. Let you get on.”

“Come on,” began Jeff, hesitating as the nuzzle of the Port Royale swung an inch or two in his direction. “You can’t let them do this.”

“Oh, but I can, Mr… ? I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance?”

“Thomas. Jeff Thomas. I’m a journalist, I used to be a…”

The woman lifted the index finger of her left hand. “From the West American? Went off a couple of years ago on the…what was it called? The Aquila? That was it. And now you’re back again. I have to admit that I could, just possibly, find that passably interesting.”

One of the boys shuffled his feet, catching a steely glance from the light blue eyes.

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