James Axler – Deathlands

Jak had squatted, checking the trail. “Still backtracking slavers,” he said. “Reckon we”

He was interrupted by the noise of sporadic gunfire, sounding like it came from nearby.

Chapter Nine

They moved fast along the track, closing up, J.B. right behind Ryan.

“Smell the black-powder smoke,” he said. “Sound like muskets. And could be those Portuguese Mauser-Vergueiro rifles. Might be the second party of slavers.”

Ryan nodded. They were jogging fast, raising the sweat so that it trickled down faces and necks, across chests and stomachs, down legs.

The sun was well sunk toward the western horizon, and the shadows grew longer.

The trail was climbing steeply. It was obvious from the noise of the firefight that it lay in a dip beyond the next rise, less than fifty paces ahead of them.

Ryan held up a hand, slowing to a walk, not wanting to burst over the crest of the small hill and find himself smack in the middle of the shooting.

He moved to the left side of the wide track, slipping the last few yards through low bushes covered with tiny yellow berries that burst as he brushed against them, filling the air with the scent of apples.

The scene unfolded in front of him as though he were looking down on a stage. But the players weren’t actors and the spilled blood, crimson against the vivid green of the grass, was real.

It was obvious what had happened.

A group of six natives cowered behind a huge fallen tree near a small lake. They had been caught out in the open by the slaver’s sneak attack, and three bodies lay stretched on the lush turf.

The natives had two rifles between them and one handblaster, but it was clear that they were running short of ammo. The shots were coming slower.

The slavers were directly below Ryan, their backs to him. There were eight of them, well concealed from the natives by a stack of felled timber. Most had single-shot muskets, though one was using an M-16, keeping up a steady fire against the natives.

“Just matter time,” said Jak, at Ryan’s side. “Nowhere to run.”

Krysty touched Ryan’s arm. “What do you think this time, lover?”

The one-eyed man reached and slid the Steyr SSG-70 off his back, bringing the polished walnut stock to his shoulder. He peered through the Starlite scope, using the powerful laser image enhancer, working the bolt action and levering a 7.62 mm round into the oiled breech.

“I think it’s time to take a hand,” he said.

The others drew their blasters, J.B. moving a few steps to the left of the others to give himself a clear field of fire with the Uzi.

Mildred held the Czech target pistol in her right hand, down at her side. “I’ll take the pair on the extreme right,” she said. “Leave the rest to y’all.”

The slavers were fish in a barrel.

At less than forty yards’ range, even Doc had a reasonable hope of doing damage with the ponderous Le Mat.

The execution lasted barely five seconds.

Mildred took her first man through the base of the skull, the second one just behind the left ear as he started to turn. Both were instant kills.

Ryan took out the man on the left with the first shot from the rifle, the big full-metal-jacket round smashing into his back, a little below the left shoulder. He levered in a second round and killed the skinniest of the slavers, who’d been quickest to react to the ambush, starting to run in a crouch to the right toward the thick cover of the forest. It wasn’t a good idea to leave any survivors running free. The 7.62 mm slug hit him in the side of the throat, leaving a blood-spurting exit hole the other side of his neck the size of a fist, almost ripping his head off his shoulders.

The other four perished where they lay, their bodies twisting and jerking, fountaining scarlet blood under the impact of the lethal hail.

Ryan didn’t need to call out for everyone to hold their fire. The stillness of death made it obvious enough.

The stink of the shooting faded as the wind carried it away, and the clearing below was quiet.