James Axler – Gaia’s Demise

Reaching out a hand, Ryan gently stroked her living hair, and the woman trembled under his touch, “We should go to bed ourselves.”

She hiccuped. “My plan exactly.”

“Mebbe.”

WALKING ALONE through the quiet street, Doc paused in the darkness just outside the circle of light from a crackling campfire.

“Hey, there,” he called to the group, “mind if I join you?”

Dropping the chicken leg he had been gnawing, the overseer stood up with a hand on his bullwhip. The big man had his weight equally balanced on both feet, and Doc knew immediately this was a trained killer. He had expected no less.

“Whatcha want?” the overseer growled dangerously.

“To get warm.” Doc grinned. “Maybe talk some business.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course.”

As Doc approached, the slaves whispered among themselves.

“Shut up,” said the boss, not even glancing in their direction, and the slaves went immediately dead quiet.

Stepping into the light, the big man saw Doc was clearly armed with a blaster, but that only made them equal. In the right hands, a bullwhip could cut a man like an ax. All it required was the room to swing.

“What kind of business we talking here, whitehair?” the overseer asked, grinning. “Mebbe ya need something warm to pass the night? They ain’t pretty, but they’ll do what they’re told, by thunder. Long as you don’t chill them, you can do whatever you wish. You want a man or a woman?”

Disgusted, Doc went for his blaster. The plan had been to chat with the man, get his confidence, lure him into a false sense of security, then strike. But the odious callousness of the overseer was beyond his limits of endurance.

The blaster came out of the holster and the bullwhip cracked, the weapon slapped from his grasp.

“So this is jacking, eh?” the overseer snarled, the leather spinning about his body. “Nobody steals my animals!”

The whip lashed out, and Doc stabbed upward with his stick, the knotted leather wrapped around the ebony shaft. The overseer cursed and pulled hard to free his weapon. Doc resisted for a moment, then released the stick and it went flying toward the man. Caught by surprise, the slave master dropped the whip to dodge out of the way.

Still holding the handle, Doc lunged forward with the bare blade of his sword and stabbed it deeper into the man’s belly, then twisted the blade to enlarge the hole. Blood gushed from the wound, and the overseer sighed as he fell to his knees and toppled to the ground.

Retrieving the ebony cane, Doc wiped the blade clean on the dead man before sheathing the sword. After locating his LeMat, the scholar rummaged through the fellow’s clothing, unearthing a ring of keys and a tiny .22-caliber homemade blaster. Mildred called such things zip guns, but he had no idea why.

“Here,” he said softly, tossing the keys to the first prisoner. “The guards at the gate are drunk on brandy I bought for them, but move fast. I do not know when the shift changes. The swamp mutie is dead, so lay a fake trail to the east, then double back and scatter into the forest.”

Doc pressed the zip gun into the hand of a woman prisoner. “Know how to use this?”

She nodded and pulled back the rubber band to see if there was a cartridge inside the thin pipe.

“Here is a knife each,” Doc said, dropping a bundle on the ground. “And some bread. It was the best I could do.”

“Bless you,” she whispered, hugging the weapon.

“Why?” a man asked gruffly, working the locks on his ankles. There was a click, and he stood free from the chains. Red rings circled his ankles from the constant rubbing of the iron cuff, scars that would never go away, inside or out.

“Did you like being a slave?” Doc shot back.

“No,” the man spit.

“Neither did I. Good luck.” Doc turned and walked into the shadows.

THERE WAS A KNOCK on the bedroom door.

Grabbing his longblaster, Ryan rolled naked out of bed, and Krysty leveled her own revolver at the door.

“Yeah?” Ryan asked, pretending to yawn.