James Axler – Exile to Hell

Kane crept deeper into the warehouse, sidling into the shadows cast by stacks of crates. He followed his nose. The stink of blood and cordite was fresh. Peering around the edge of an open box of machine parts, he spied a flat ribbon of scarlet oozing over the flagstone floor. He didn’t have to move closer to know what it was. The fat man lying on his side was three hundred pounds of dead weight. Blood continued to sluggishly ooze from the gaping gash in his throat.

The tall, lean man lying on his back, sightless eyes gazing up at the rafters, lay in a pool of blood, too, just not so much of it. The front of his leather jacket was pulled away from his chest, revealing three bloody holes grouped neatly over the heart.

Guana Teague’s near decapitation wasn’t a standard Mag chill method, but Kane recognized the size of the bullet holes in Uno’s torso, as well as the precision with which they’d been placed.

He had to take the chance. He activated his comm link and whispered, “Grant?”

The response was immediate. Grant’s voice, full of strain, replied, “Behind you.”

The stereophonic reply came from two directions. One, transmitted over his comm link directly into his ear, and the other, as Grant had said, from directly behind. He turned. In the center of the warehouse, before a high pyramid of stacked cartons and crates, in a semi circle, stood eight Magistrates. Six of them were in full armor, their bodies as rigid as stone. The two Mags not in armor were Salvo and Grant, but their Sin Eaters were out and aimed directly at him.

“Leather it, Kane. And come here.” Salvo’s tone was as cold and hard as the metal of the blaster in his fist.

Kane’s visored eyes sought out Grant’s. His dark face was drawn, lips tight. “Do as he says, Kane. I know the whole story now.”

The world tilted around him, his belly performed a flip-flop and his head went light. “Why should I?” He was surprised at how steady his voice sounded.

“We’re not here to chill you,” Salvo replied. “We’re here to help you.”

Kane slowly approached them, the blaster still in hand. Scanning the jawlines of the Mags, he saw none that were familiar. He felt as if he were breasting waves of despair, of anguish and shame. “By chilling me.”

“No,” said Salvo quietly. “We still want you, Kane. You just had an extreme reaction to what you’ve been through the last couple of days. It happens to the best of us.”

Kane laughed bitterly, mirthlessly. “Do ‘the best of us’ help a convicted traitor escape her executioners?”

“You’ll have to turn Baptiste over to us. She must die and you must accept it.”

Kane kept walking. “And Grant?”

Salvo smiled gently. “He wants to help you.”

“How are you supposed to help me, Grant?” Kane asked.

Hesitantly Grant said, “You’re delusional, Kane. Some sort of stress syndrome. It can happen, like Anson. Remember him?”

Kane remembered. About six years ago, a Mag had fused out after one too many Pit sweeps had resulted in the deaths of pregnant women. He had become a jolt-walker, and then he had disappeared, presumably into the Outlands.

“I’m not fused,” he declared calmly. “I’m not a jolt-brain, I’m not delusional. Salvo is. He thinks he’s saving the world from itself, and to do that, he schemes, lies, double-crosses and chills anybody who gets in the way of his grand dreams. Including all of us.”

Kane slowed to a stop and stood motionless, legs braced and wide apart. He was about twenty feet away from the Mag line. “Did you talk to Guana or Uno?”

Grant shook his head. “No. They attacked me before I could question them.”

“You cut Guana’s throat?” He saw the blood drying on Grant’s coat, even though attempts had been made to sponge it away.

“Uno did. I came in on the middle of a fight between them. He snuffed Guana, and I was forced to put him down.”

“Leather your side arm, Kane,” Salvo growled.

“Leather your dick,” Kane snapped. “And your fucking Archons.”

Salvo’s lips went white and the barrel of the Sin Eater jerked a trifle in reaction to his words. “Kane”