Genesis Echo (Deathlands 25) by James Axler

“Spill a lot of blood.” J.B. was also looking around, as if he were trying to memorize the terrain about the camp. “Dogs’ll scent it.”

With the exception of Doc, they all turned simultaneously at the sound of barking hounds, seeming to come from only a little way down the trail.

“On a scent,” Trader said. “Best get ready for a firefight. Get into the trees. Ring the camp. Take them all out as soon as they come in range of the firelight.”

“The fire!” Ryan punched his right fist into his left palm. “Everyone get as much dry wood as they can. Big branches as well. We’ll lay him on it and cover him.”

“The smell!” Mildred exclaimed. “And you can’t just burn a corpse like it”

“Chuck on a couple of the pieces of deer we got left. Say it was spoiled. That’ll explain the roasting scent.”

“Sweet Lord, save us all,” Doc said sorrowfully. “It has come to this. And such a long way down.”

TRADER HAD SUGGESTED that he and Abe should go into the trees and wait under cover. “Ready in case the shit and the lead all start flying.”

Ryan had disagreed. “We don’t want to give them any reason for trouble. They might be hunters or trappers. Might not be after that dead man at all. Any suspicion and that’s when the shit and the lead start to fly.”

“We could still take them. Probably won’t be more than three or four of them.”

“Sorry, Trader, but I still say no. We all sit around on red alert. Blasters right by our hands. And we start shooting at the first sign of hostile action. Their dogs could easily smell you out in the forest, close by. Then there’s ammo spent and some blood spilled.”

“Yeah, I guess you could be right, old friend. Boy, that fire is blazing away.”

The flames were fifteen feet high, obscuring any sign of the naked and mutilated corpse hidden within the bonfire. They could all hear fat crackling and spitting, and the air was filled with the rich, delicious scent of roasting meat.

“Throw that last hunk of venison on as soon as they come within sight, Dean,” Ryan ordered. “Don’t wait for a word from me. Don’t want them seeing it’s not spoiled.”

“Sure, Dad.”

“Yo, the camp!” a voice called out of the blackness. “Care to stand up and show your hands?”

“Care to take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut?” Trader shouted.

They all heard laughter and a pair of dogs starting to bark furiously. The crack of a whip and a bellowed command shut the animals up.

“You want to come ahead, then do it,” Ryan called. “We’re out of food.” Dean conspicuously threw some meat on the flames. “Burning some spoiled venison. Flies got into it. But you’re welcome to warm yourselves.”

Dawn was now very close, and the blackness around the camp was beginning to soften and lose its sable edge.

“We got blasters on you.”

“Then you better use them.” Ryan held up both hands. “We were out fishing along the coast. Squall blew up. Found ourselves on the rocks a few miles east of here. Other side of that big mountain. You sec men?”

There was no answer at first, and Ryan had a gut feeling that a whispered conversation was taking place, somewhere out in the shadows.

“Couple of us are coming in. That all right with you in the camp?”

Ryan nodded. “Sure.”

The first man to appear was tall and heavily built, mustached, wearing a white quilted plastic jacket over black trousers, tucked into ankle-high boots. He carried a silvered Mossberg 12-gauge pump-action shotgun under his arm.

His companion was of a different caliber.

He was less than five feet in height, with a long thin skull, showing a few strands of wispy hair pasted across. He wore a long cloak over padded pants and jacket. His spectacles were almost identical to the Armorer’swire-rimmedperched on the bridge of his bony nose.

He carried a spindly walking stick, the end coated with thick mud.

The two men stopped and both peered at the roaring blaze, sniffing the air.