James Axler – Gemini Rising

“What happened?” asked J. B. Dix, squinting between the leaves of the bush at the ville below. “I heard shots.”

Dressed in loose neutral-colored clothing, Army boots and a brown leather motorcycle jacket, the wiry man blended in perfectly with the molded browns and greens of the forest. An Uzi submachine gun hung off his left shoulder, a Smith amp; Wesson M-4000 shotgun was slung across his back and his backpack bulged with explosives. Their old boss, the Trader, had nicknamed him “the Armorer” long ago, and the title fit John Barrymore Dix perfectly. There wasn’t a weapon in existence the deadly man couldn’t fire or repair with his eyes closed.

“Guards chilled them both,” Ryan said aloud. “Dark night! The pregnant woman, too?” J.B. asked in shock.

Nodding, Ryan passed over the telescope. “She was a fake, smuggling something in a belly pouch. Looked like jolt.”

“Druggies, eh?” Taking the brass instrument, J.B. pushed his battered fedora to the back of his head so that he could slide his wire-rimmed glasses up on his forehead to use the long-eye. “Hope the guards did them slow and painful. Jolt dealers trade on the misery of others and deserve whatever they get.”

Shrugging his shoulders to adjust the rifle hanging across his back, Ryan agreed. Jolt was the curse of the new world. The drug was horribly addictive and promised a death slower than rad poisoning.

The very thought reminded Ryan to check the miniature rad counter pinned to his collar, but the meter read clean, showing only a normal background count from the polluted orange sky. Any nukes used in this area had to have been “clean” bombs, the deadly radiation long dissipated.

“So what do you think?” Ryan asked, tugging on the fur collar of his coat. The wind was soft, but every gust cut through his clothing as if it were paper. They needed to get out of the cold mighty soon, before hypothermia cut them down.

“Looks good,” J.B. stated at last, lowering the yard-long telescope and compacting it to the size of a soup can. “Lots of families, no slave pens or cannibal roasting pits. I think we should do it.”

Brushing the black curls off his scarred face, Ryan grunted his agreement. “This ville is our best chance. Let’s go.”

Rising, the two men moved stealthily into the woods. The ground was lightly frosted with twinkling ice, and every step they took crunched softly, betraying their movements. Following an old game trail, they soon came upon a small clearing hidden behind a thick copse of oak trees.

A wide hole had been dug into the stony ground, with a small fire crackling in the middle of the shallow pit. Four people huddled close to the flames, the earthen walls containing and reflecting the meager heat so that even a small campfire would keep them warm through the bitter night. Ryan knew that the depression also helped to hide the light of the blaze from the armed sec men of the ville below.

An owl called softly, announcing their presence just before J.B. shook the branches on a thorny bush and Ryan whistled sharply twice. The people in the hole looked over the rim of the pit with their blasters drawn. “Hey, Charlie,” said a redheaded woman, dressed in a shaggy black fur coat. The Samp;W .38 revolver in her hand wasn’t pointed directly at them, but her slim finger rested on the trigger nonetheless.

“The name is Adam,” Ryan answered, giving the code name for all-clear, and the others visibly relaxed.

Entering the clearing, Ryan and J.B. noticed a small movement in the bushes nearby. It was the source of the owl call.

“Dean is getting better all the time,” J.B. said. “I can barely spot him anymore.”

“The kid is good,” Ryan agreed. Cupping stiff hands around his mouth, he gave the call of a lake bird and within a few ticks his son appeared from the trees. There were leafy vines wrapped about his dark cloth and a slim black pistol in his hand.

“Nobody followed you, Dad,” Dean reported, bolstering the Browning Hi-Power.

Ryan allowed himself a small smile. “Good work. Take a break and get warm. We’re going for the ville.”