James Axler – Deathlands

“We got more men,” Bivar said. “Twenty-five of us now. Take some stopping, amigo. We done them Jaguars. Now we go in a couple days and take out that place where they got the big stone hill place.”

“The pyramid,” Krysty whispered.

“Yeah. They’re going against Itzcoatl next. Poor devils won’t stand a chance against twenty-five well-armed men. They’ve all got either rifles or handblasters. Must’ve traded for them with the guys who run the silver mine.”

“Can we stop them?”

“We can try. First thing we have to do is get out of this place safe.”

Around the fire, the confrontation between Rodrigo Bivar and Jesus was continuing. The two men faced each other across the bright flames of the cooking fire.

The drunk slaver was waving the bottle toward his leader. “How come you don’t drink like us, Jefe ? You think you better than us? Stinkin’ pride.”

“Why don’t I drink? Because I don’t want to let no thief in my head that’s going to rob me of my senses. And the other question? Better than you, Jesus? An aborted blind goat is better than you, amigo.”

There was a roar of laughter from the men, drowning out the sound of the empty liquor bottle being smashed to the ground by the furious Jesus.

“You fuck-pig shit-eatin’ bastard son of a whore!”

Jesus fumbled at his belt for a large automatic, but his drink-sodden fingers let him down.

Bivar drew and leveled the Smith amp; Wesson and shot the man through the guts, a finger’s width above the belt buckle. Jesus sat down near the edge of the fire, a look of mixed shock and stupidity on his face.

“Hey, you wound me, Jefe!”

“Wrong, amigo.” Bivar aimed the massive revolver again and put a second .357 round through the man’s sagging mouth. “I kill you.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

The fire died down to a pile of gray ashes, sprinkled with tiny eyes of crimson.

The slavers obviously felt secure and didn’t bother posting a guard on their camp. Most had fallen asleep, drunk, after throwing the corpse of Jesus into the pool. Bivar had stayed awake longer than any of them, walking around the slumbering embers of their fire, wrapped in a long cloak.

Though Ryan and Krysty were both bone weary, sleep was out of the question for either of them. It was vital that they remain alert, lying still on the wide branches of the sheltering tree, waiting for all of the slavers to drop into sleep. And the chance of escaping.

Finally, his white panama hat gleaming like a beacon in the pale moonlight, Rodrigo Bivar lay down and wrapped himself in a blanket.

Hidden in their tree, Ryan and Krysty didn’t make a move for close to a half hour.

“Now?” he finally breathed.

Krysty hesitated. “I can feel him sleeping, lover. But it’s real shallow. Most of the others are well away. Have to move like mice over eggshells.”

Ryan went first, crawling back along the branch, the SIG-Sauer ready in his right hand, gently lowering himself onto the main trunk of the tree. Climbing cautiously down, he stood in the center of the lilac-and-pepper-scented bush, helping Krysty as she scrambled to join him.

“Still okay?”

She nodded. “Terrible feeling of blood and smiling and pain from the gang,” she whispered.

They eased their way through the flowering undergrowth, keeping the bulk of the tree between them and the gang of slavers, edging into the deeper cover of the jungle, then going back along the steep winding trail.

They eventually found themselves at the place where the angry river had burst its banks during the chem storm the previous day. The moonlight showed them the flattened grass, glistening with slimy mud and water. But the river itself had slunk back into its course like a whipped cur, opening the way for them to return quickly and safely to the village.

“Nobody following us?” Ryan asked, pausing by the side of the fast-flowing stream.

“No. Nobody.”

THE CHALLENGE CAME in the guttural clicking tongue of the village folk.

“It’s Ryan and Krysty, coming back with some big news. Let us in.”

There was a long pause. Ryan’s keen hearing caught the sound of a high-pitched whistle and the pattering of naked feet. He could just make out the head and shoulders of one of the guards above the fence, joined by another man.