“I’m interested in how and where she lived,” Ryan admitted, “but this isn’t the time. How is he?” He pointed with the SIG-Sauer to the naked prisoner.
The bearded man blinked his eyes, wincing at the pain from the dozens of tiny, raw sores that covered his body. “You done the fuckers?”
J.B. nodded. “We did.”
“All?”
“Every last one.”
Ryan knelt by the man. “Just take it easy,” he said. “Safe for now.”
“What happened to the rest of my friends?”
“How many were there?” Ryan asked.
“Six of us to start. Sec men from the ville of Baron Sharpe. On patrol.”
J.B. and Ryan exchanged glances across the top of the man’s head.
The sec man coughed. “Got any water, friends?”
“Not much.” J.B. offered him a sip from his own canteen. “Could do with fresh.”
“I’ll show you. When I’m fit. Plenty when you know where to look.”
“Likely all your friends are chilled.” Ryan sat back on his heels, reloading the blaster while he spoke. “There were only two more of you here when we arrived. Both done for.”
“Others could have escaped,” Krysty offered, joining the three men.
“No. Stickies ambushed us and.” He looked up at her, his eyes widening at the sight of her brilliantly bright hair. “Ye gods! You’re a woman!” His hands covered his groin.
Krysty grinned at him. “Last time I looked I was. You hide whatever you got, mister. Doesn’t bother me. Won’t be anything I haven’t seen before.”
Ryan looked over his shoulder. “Dean!”
“What is it, Dad?”
“Find the tallest of the stickies and peel off his shirt and pants. Long as they aren’t too bloody.”
“Sure thing.”
The man had laid back, fingers cupping his genitals. His face was long and narrow, with prominent teeth, like the skull of a horse. He looked on the ragged side of exhausted.
“Was saying. Stickies came at us when we stopped for a noon break. No warning. No word of muties in the vicinity of the ville. Nothing.”
The Armorer stood, reaching out to take the Uzi from Dean, who’d just arrived with a ragged red shirt and white pants, splattered with a ripple of crimson.
“Best I could get, Dad,” Dean said.
J.B. started to reload the automatic pistol, tutting at the boy. “Full-auto, boy! You think bullets grow on trees? Twenty rounds gone in a couple seconds.” The firelight danced off his glasses as he lowered his head to check the blaster. “Still, not many wasted.”
One eye on Krysty, the man wriggled into the clothes, turning the cord that had bound him into a makeshift belt. “Better,” he said.
“How far’s the ville?” Ryan asked. “Can we make it tonight from here?”
“Not sure where ‘here’ is, mister. Got a blow on the head first off. Dived deep into the black pool, if you take my meaning.”
“Wait for dawn,” Krysty suggested. “Not a bad place to rest for the night. Roof, walls and a fire. There’s some fresh wood by the entrance.”
Ryan uncoiled himself, walking over to where Jak, Mildred and Doc were gathered around Emma. She was conscious, and Mildred had found a half-full canteen by the body of one of the stickies.
“Sorry,” she said quietly. “I’m like a gull around your necks, aren’t I?”
“Albatross, dear child,” said Doc, who was fiddling with the task of reloading the Le Mat and realigning the scattergun hammer.
“How’s that?” she asked.
“The bird. ‘And a good south wing sprung up behind, the albatross did follow.’ From “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” Samuel Taylor Coleridge. The ill-fated bird was an albatross hung around the neck. Not a gull.”
“Sure,” the young woman said. “Tired. Sorry for letting you all down.” She closed her eyes and lay back again, her head cradled in Jak’s lap.
Ryan raised his voice. “We’ll stay the night here, people. First job is to get all the bodies outside. Let the scavengers have them. We’ll set a double watch. Might be more of the stickies around here.”
Mildred had gone over to the wounded man, using some of the water and a torn length of shirt to bathe the weeping, circular sores.