On the left they were passing a small sign that drew their attention to a predark historical marker, showing the spot where Lieutenant Zebedee Anstruther had established a trading post in June of 1849.
Ryan continued his story. “I stood and shouted and waved, but Krysty couldn’t hear me above the noise of the breakers. She trod water and waved, thinking I was just greeting her. The sharks sensed movement and started toward her, slow and ponderous and menacing. Nothing at all that I could do. Just stood and watched as they got within about a hundred feet. Then they both dived and vanished.”
“Then what?” J.B. asked, kicking a rounded pebble out of his path.
“Woke up,” Ryan said tersely.
“Often the way.”
They walked a hundred yards or so in silence, rounding a gentle bend in the rutted, ribboned highway, stopping as they saw the burned-out building.
“Stickies,” J.B. commented.
It looked as though it had been a roadside eatery, maybe serving burgers, subs and chilie stew. The roof had gone, as had the windows and doors, only a blackened shell remaining. As they drew closer, they could catch the bitter smell of gasoline, laid over the familiar stench of roasted meat.
“How long ago?” the Armorer asked as they stood together a few paces from the ruin.
Ryan shook his head, looking at the damp ashes. “Three or four days. Difficult to tell.” He took a few steps over crunching cinders, peering through the shattered front window. “Three bodies inside. One a child.”
It was typical stickies’ funning.
The fire had covered most of the details of the mutilations, the corpses resembling three charred, crusted logs, with jagged branches that had once been arms and legs. But it was still possible to see where sharp knives had been used to slash and hack before the burning.
“Least we know the sick bastards are still around this neck of the woods,” J.B. said.
“Or they were three days ago.”
Both men suddenly stared at each other, wordlessly readying their blasters. The forest on both sides of the trail had fallen silent. Totally still, without even the faintest breath of wind to stir the topmost feathery branches of the stately sycamores and chestnuts.
Ryan felt the short hairs prickling at his nape, and his finger was tight on the trigger of the SIG-Sauer.
Something or somebody was watching them from the dark shadows around.
J.B.’s head turned from side to side, and he sniffed at the air, trying to catch the distinctive stink of the stickies’ skin.
He caught Ryan’s eye and shrugged, gesturing with the barrel of the Uzi to their left, away behind the wrecked building. Ryan shrugged back, indicating his own doubts, doubts that were suddenly removed by a harsh voice from under the trees, a little way to their right.
“Stand real still, outlanders. And put them nice blasters down in the dirt. We got you well covered.”
“I don’t think so,” Ryan called. “We don’t mean no trouble, and you got no reason to fear us. Come out and talk.”
There was a long pause, and Ryan’s skin crawled with the expectation of a bullet. “You seen any stickie fuckers around here, stranger?”
J.B. answered. “Just seen their work right here. Can’t mistake it.”
“That was Ma and Pa Jode and Tommy. Ran a fast-food joint. Got burned three nights ago.”
Ryan bit his lip. “Easier to talk when you can see who’s there,” he said. “We’ll holster our blasters if you come out of the trees.”
“All right. But one wrong outlander tricky move, and you get whacked.”
There were five of them. All male, all bearded, aged from around sixteen to sixty, wearing a mix of leathers, furs and homespuns. They all hefted self-built muskets, in good condition, and all of them carried long daggers.
Their leader was missing his left arm, and his face showed recent stickie scars, circular, raw wounds where the suckers of the muties had ripped away roundels of skin and flesh.
“You sure you ain’t seen no stickies?”
“Sure. Where do they come from?”
“Escaped from a big settlement about twenty miles north of here. Other side our ville. Mines and plantations. Owned by the fat man and metal-eyes. Slavers. Had a revolution, and their muties ran. Ran this way. Circled our place, though we had some skirmishing with them.” A hand lifted involuntarily and touched the weeping cicatrices.