James Axler – Gemini Rising

“Just pipes,” he apologized, carefully whittling a calabash from a piece of driftwood. “Damn. Oh, well.”

Clem eyed the plugs of chaw dubiously. It was all third-grade lug, not worth an empty brass.

Fishermen yelled about the freshness of their catch of the day; a hunter dressed very similar to Clem was dickering over the sale of an entire bear; some wandering gaudy sluts were plying their trade in alleyways for the impatient; small dogs and kids were constantly underfoot tripping people; hot taters were being sold straight from a little brick stove by a blind man; gamblers rolled dice made from carved bone for tarnished bullets; horse tackle and other leather goods were hawked by a hundred people; a thief was caught stealing an arrow from a fletcher and beaten to death on the spot by the blue shirts, as the people called the new sec men. The guards were carrying AK-47 assault rifles, the barrels gleaming with oil. Mildred and Clem moved quickly away.

Everybody seemed to be trying to outshout the other hucksters, the noise level growing steadily. Clem was a bit apprehensive, but Mildred reveled in the chaos. Even crude civilization was better than none, and she had seen more than her share of that in Deathlands.

Front Royal was obviously very prosperous. There was actually food for sale and open commerce, just incredible. It was the new Manhattan of America. No wonder it was the center of so much attention.

Then a line of chained slaves shuffled by, the overseer cracking her bullwhip across the backs of the sluggish. Mildred’s hand went for her blaster, and she had to force herself to relax. She was here to gather info, not start a fight.

Not wanting to draw attention by paying for food with ammo, they instead bartered the cured opossum skin and a spare knife for a pair of decent shoes. Then they exchanged the shoes with a baker whose son was barefoot for all the stale bread they could carry. Half the bread bought them a dozen winter apples from a suspicious farmer.

Pockets jammed full, Mildred and Clem ate slowly as they meandered through the market, sidling close to any group of folks arguing and avoiding the sec men whenever possible. Mildred’s ZKR was tucked out of sight, but the Enfield drew looks wherever they went. “Can you wrap that in your jacket?” Mildred asked. Aside from the sec men, they were the only folks displaying firepower of any kind.

“Wouldn’t be able to reach it should the need arise,” he said, finishing off an apple. “What kind of blaster do those blue boys have? Pretty fancy. Ain’t never seen anything like that before.”

“I have,” she stated, but would say no more on the subject.

Over the next couple of hours, they roamed from one end of the huge courtyard to the other, and then back again in a continuous circle, listening to the snatches of conversation with growing unease.

“Awful lot of people hate the new baron,” Mildred said, gnawing on a heel of bread. “And most can’t understand why Nathan is letting him take over, even if he is the son of Ryan.”

“Lord Ryan, they say. Folks here worship the guy,” Clem agreed, tossing away the apple core. A rat darted out of a drain, snatched it and ran away chased by a mangy dog.

“Maybe Overton is just some guy who wants to be baron. So he claims to be the son of a local hero to get his foot through the door.”

“Why?” Clem asked, licking his fingers clean. “He got enough sec men and blasters to take this place if he wants to.”

“Does he?”

“Sure seems so.”

“Maybe that’s why he’s playacting, trying a scam. He needs the whole ville prosperous to feed that many.”

“Rabble will turn on you if they’re unhappy,” Clem drawled. “Then you got a real fight.”

“Could be,” she admitted. Then she added hotly, “Only, where did he get those brand-new AK-47s? And where the hell does electricity come in on the deal?”

“Tell me what that is, mebbe I know,” he offered.

Just then a busty gaudy slut walked by suggestively wiggling her hips and smiling at the men.