Everybody hurried to their assigned tasks.
“Look at all this!” Stephen said greedily, grabbing a blaster from a corpse. Then he knelt and started to untie the laces on the combat boots. “This will triple my profit!”
Hector bumped the man in passing, and Jak retrieved the shotgun off the ground from his hands to sniff the barrel.
“Unused.” The teenager cast it to the ground.
“Stephen, none of the weps or supplies are yours,” J.B. stated coldly. “Those that fought get a slice. You don’t.”
“B-but I hired you!” the fat man raged.
“We’re passengers,” J.B. reminded him, working the bolt on his Uzi and pointing it straight at the man. His expression was calm. “Or do you think we still might make good mercies after all?”
Stephen slunk off muttering to himself.
“Going to be trouble there.” J.B. sighed, resting the hot blaster on a shoulder. “Come on, let’s check the vehicles.”
“Any chance they can still roll?” Dean asked, hefting the box of bombs to his stomach and resting the bottom on his belt buckle to balance the weight.
“Sure,” the Armorer said confidently. “But not for long.” Then he paused and touched his head. “Where the hell is my hat?”
Checking for booby traps along the way, Ryan and Clem were almost at the log cabin when they spied a wounded man crawling along the ground toward the structure, a trail of blood stretching into the woods. Without stopping, Ryan drew his blaster and pointed it at the man, but Clem stopped him.
“Mine,” he said firmly. “Bob is dead.”
“Fair enough,” Ryan said, bolstering the weapon.
Clem kicked the man over so they were face-to-face. Weakly, the coldheart struggled as the hunter lowered his musket until the muzzle rested against the man’s bare throat.
“For you, brother,” he whispered, and pulled the trigger.
Ryan was already at the cabin circling the building, checking for sentries, when Clem returned, reloading as he walked. There was only one door in front, and the two small windows were covered with wooden shutters on the ulterior.
“Strange,” Ryan whispered. “What are they keeping in there?”
Moving near the door, the two men listened for a while.
“That be crying?” Clem asked askance.
In a flash of understanding, Ryan drew the SIG-Sauer and kicked open the door. Inside the cabin was a nightmare. The small building clearly served as the cannies’ armory with racks of blasters, boxes of ammo, crossbows and arrows stacked along both walls. But the rear area also served as their larder. Lacking only their heads, dressed human bodies hung gutted from rafters in orderly rows, men and women mixed together, the children and infants off to one side. The sweet air was thick with the smell of burned wood, and Ryan saw a smoker stove in the far corner, the fumes used to cure meat and make it last longer. His stomach lurched at the notion, and he tasted bitter bile in his mouth.
“By the blood of the prophet,” Clem gasped, touching his heart, lips and forehead in an ancient protective gesture.
The crying sounded again, and the men spun, ready to kill anything they found, man or beast. Near a stack of seasoned wood, a man was chained to the wall. Within easy reach on a nearby shelf was a jelly jar full of water and a tin platter stacked high with roasted human hands.
“No, never,” he repeated, a gasping cry marring his words. “Can’t make me. Never eat. Stinking cannie freaks.”
Slapping the plate away, Ryan drew his blaster and blew the chains off the wall. The prisoner recoiled from the blast and retreated into the corner.
“It’s okay,” Ryan said, staying where he stood. “We’re not them.”
The freed prisoner dared to peek out from behind his hands, and cried out in delight. “Lord Ryan! You have returned at last!”
Then the elation drained from his gaunt features, and he slumped to the floor, openly weeping. “Oh no, I’ve gone mad. This is only a dream. Why don’t the bastards just kill me? Kill me!”
“I know you,” Ryan said, dropping to a knee. “A hunter from Shersville, one of the shantytown hamlets near Front Royal. David, Daniel, something like that.”