James Axler – Bitter Fruit

The post guards scanned the caravan. Ryan watched as the twin .50-caliber machine guns and a 20 mm cannon farther up the wall stayed trained on the vehicles. A half-dozen guards came from under a trapdoor in a berm and created two groups of three, working their way hurriedly down the sides of the caravan.

When they finished, the man in charge came up beside Gehrig. “Have a nice run?”

“Well enough,” the raider captain replied.

“You vouching for the new people?”

Gehrig nodded. “If that changes, I’ll let you know.”

“That include the dryad?”

“Yeah. He’s their pet for now. Prince Boldt seized one of their own. These people are hoping to set up some kind of swap.”

The guard grinned coldly. “Fat chance of that. Boldt’s got all the followers he needs. More than likely, their mate has already been killed outright. Who’s in charge of this group?”

Gehrig jerked a thumb at Ryan.

“Going to be holding you responsible for that little bugger,” the guard said. “He gets out, does anything he’s not supposed to do, it’s on your head. We don’t go easy on things like that here in New London.”

“I understand,” Ryan said.

Gehrig clapped his driver on the shoulder. The jeep rocked forward as the gates opened.

“They keep things tight around here,” Ryan commented.

“Like the underpants on a fat woman,” the raider captain agreed.

Additional buildings, most only one story tall, had been constructed from the wreckage of the previous ville. Farther along, more of the buildings showed signs of polish and craftsmanship, using shaped stone, as well as wood. Only there did the spaces between the ramshackle buildings grow from twisting, narrow allies to full-size roads.

The caravan wound through New London. Gaily painted signs decorated shop windows. Different goods were behind glass panes, arranged for persuasive viewing. The road remained primarily dirt, but a lot of effort had gone into setting broken stone into the groundprobably during the rainy season, Ryan supposedto create streets after a fashion.

Along the outer hub of the ville, the buildings rose two and three stories, all built with verandas and upper walks that peered out over the streets. Some of it was for decoration and enjoyment, the one-eyed man knew, but he also knew snipers waited along the way. He could feel them staring at the back of his neck.

“Those men up there on the buildings,” Ryan said.

Gehrig looked at him curiously.

“They yours, or do they belong to somebody else?”

The raider captain smiled broadly. “They belong to me. You spot one of them, mate? ‘Cause if you did, I’ll have the hide off any man caught slacking.”

Ryan shook his head. “Didn’t see them. Just felt them.”

Gehrig looked at him, as if trying to decide whether to believe him. “If you don’t find a way back to your Deathlands, I can always use a man like you here, mate.”

Ryan nodded, not wanting to offend. He wasn’t being polite; he was just concentrating on survival. Gehrig was a man with an ego, and getting it all ruffled up wasn’t a wise thing to do. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You do that.”

But Ryan knew it would never happen. The Trader was the last man he’d ever willingly follow. And that time was done, too.

The jeep came to a stop in front of a wooden building three stories tall. A hand-painted sign over the double doors announced The Bent Rose.

“I’ll stand you to a pint of the best beer to be had, mate,” Gehrig said. “If you’re interested.”

Ryan nodded. As soon as he was able, though, he intended to get off to himself with his friends and see to planning what they were going to do about Mildred.

Boosting himself out of his seat, Gehrig landed with a jingle and a thud against the hard-packed earth, spooking the three horses tied up in front of the building. He reached back into the jeep for his assault rifle and took it with him.

Ryan vaulted out of the vehicle, too, grateful to be standing instead of all cramped up in the back seat. Krysty and J.B. managed Tarragon between them, while Jak and Doc took care of watching their backs.