James Axler – Bitter Fruit

Ryan listened to the words, and images danced in his brain, seeing men swimming across the broken surface of a city that had gone to a watery grave. “I’d like to see that.”

Gehrig shrugged. “Not me. Like it just fine on dry land. Got some nasty sharks in that area that come up out of the ocean for a snack. Great whites, big enough to swallow a man, they tell me, in one effing bite. Some kind of mutie strain, Krieger thinks.”

“That’s Krieger,” Ryan said. “Who else?”

“Graham Adams,” Gehrig said. “General of the militia. Hard, hard man. Ran a thorpe of his own before Henstell persuaded him to throw in his lot.”

“How?”

“Adams is a hell of a man when it comes to rules and regs. His thorpe was filled with laws, and those that didn’t toe the line were dead or kicked out. But Henstell pointed out the fact that there was safety in numbers. Basic military concept that Adams didn’t have a problem understanding. His place was getting by, but it wasn’t self-supportive for the number of people he had. Primarily he was Robin Hooding neighboring thorpes. Ended up getting quite a few people properly pissed at him. Including New London. A few had banded together for protection. Just before they were ready to march off to chill Adams and his raid crew, Henstell made Adams a deal.”

“You said there were three men,” Ryan said.

Gehrig grinned. He took a twisted cigar from a pocket and jammed it into the corner of his mouth. “Me,” he said. “I’m the third man. Henstell, like I said, is a bright guy. Every thorpe you want to name that starts getting fairly large and complex, you’re going to have a certain amount of black-market traffic. Me and my boys, we were smash-and-grab razors cutting into New London everywhere we could. Henstell offered me a deal, too. I manage the crime in the thorpe and give him and the others a cut. Also, I get immunity from the little raiding parties I send out to other places.”

“Like the Celt lands,” Ryan said.

Gehrig let out a thick stream of smoke. “Exactly like the Celt lands.” He flicked ashes from the cigar. “Now, you and me, we’re going to deal. You can start with where you’re from and why you’re here.”

Chapter Fifteen

Mildred Wyeth woke with a pounding headache and a disagreeable taste in her mouth. She was tied to a chair in an empty room that looked as if it had been hollowed out of a giant tree. The walls were coarse and dark, with age rings and grain running through them in various shades.

A dim light filled the room. She turned her head, seeking the source. On the walls, in three different places, were growths that looked like molds and were as big as heads of cabbage. They glowed a greenish blue and were the source of the light. As she watched them, they looked as if they pulsed, as though they were breathing.

She tested her bonds, but they were tight.

Glancing down at herself, she saw that she was still wearing her own clothes. She felt relieved. Rapists, as a general rule, didn’t bother putting their victims’ clothes back on after they were finished. So there had to be another reason for the headache and the bad taste in her mouth.

She hawked up a gob of phlegm and spit it on the floor near her right foot. She was able to move her foot just enough to smear the blob of liquid across the sanded floor. Most of the wood was even, leaving only a few depressions.

Without warning, something slammed into her side. The sudden jolt sent fresh pain corkscrewing up her back. She screamed, which she found out quickly enough, wasn’t a good idea at all, then moaned as she banged onto the floor on her side.

“What the hell is going on?” she shouted, letting her anger get ahead of her fear. “If you’re going to kill me, get on with it!”

She twisted her neck, trying to see. Shadows were moving there, shifting against the walls.

“Get her up,” a cultured voice said.