James Axler – Judas Strike

Blinking to focus her eyes, the woman nodded. “I was…one of the slaves who refused to join the crew.”

When her face was clear of filth, Krysty could see the woman was actually a girl about Dean’s age. Once she might have been pretty, but the enduring scars of privation had shrunk her features into a gnarled visage. She looked a hundred seasons old, Gaia help her. Food and rest might make her strong again, but nothing would remove these scars of hunger.

“Part of the crew, eh?” Ryan demanded, glancing around them. There was no other movement in sight, nor anybody else who looked familiar. But then, the corpses were all so thin and emaciated, the Trader himself could be ten feet away and Ryan would never know it.

“What was wrong? Didn’t like the deal I offered, eh?” Ryan said smoothly, studying her reaction.

Licking cracked lips, the girl frowned. “Wasn’t you. Old man, silver hair…”

Good enough. Kneeling in the muck, Ryan slid his powerful arms under her frail body and lifted the girl. She weighed next to nothing. His ammo pouch felt heavier.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, her eyes unnaturally large in her sunken face.

“Taking you with us,” he said. “Gave you my word back on that island, and it’s still good.”

“Thank you…”

“Shut up,” Ryan said with surprising gentleness. “Go to sleep.”

“Ann,” she croaked, closing her eyes. “My name is Ann.”

“Go to sleep, Ann,” he repeated. “You’re safe now. My word.”

“Safe,” she said, the word becoming a whimper, and a tear rolled down her cheek. Then she touched his face with a trembling hand. “I know where it is, the machine you want.”

Startled, Ryan stared at the women hard and started to speak, but she went limp, fallen unconscious. The strain of talking had to have been too much for her in that weakened condition.

Inhaling deeply, Ryan sharply whistled three long times. Three short whistles replied, and soon the rest of the companions came running up, weapons out, looking for trouble.

“By the Three Kennedys, what a stench in this area,” Doc rumbled, holding his embroidered swallow-eyed handkerchief to his nose. Not even the pig pit of his slave days smelled as bad as this ville. Never before had he prayed for acid rain before, but it was just what this hellhole needed to wash it clean.

“Good Lord, is she alive?” Mildred asked, and went straight to the girl in Ryan’s arms. She felt for a pulse in the wrist, then tried again on the neck.

“Aced?” Jak asked, looking over her shoulder.

“Alive,” the physician stated. “But just barely. Let’s get her out of here.”

“Located the baron’s box at the other end of the ville,” J.B. said, wrinkling his nose. “Or mebbe it’d be better if we got her out of here, get some fresh air.”

“We can make camp outside the wall,” Dean suggested. “Digging a fire pit is easy in sand.”

“Too cold on the beach with the wind,” Mildred said. “Warmth is the important thing right now.”

“This way,” J.B. said, starting across the compound.

“Hate to leave the gate unguarded,” Doc rumbled, glancing that way. “Visigoths and rapscallions abound in these islands.”

“You mean coldhearts?” Dean asked.

Doc smiled. “Indeed, my young friend. That is exactly what I mean. Men with cold hearts.”

“Leave it,” Ryan said, shaking his head to dispel the returning clouds of flies. “There’s nothing here anybody would want.”

“‘Cept us,” Jak stated.

After J.B. passed around some more fuel, the flies departed again. Crossing the open center of the ville, the companions found the baron’s box at the opposite end of the ville away from the gate. Iron bars covered the windows, and a crude wooden door leaned against the open doorway. Bamboo racks of crude spears stood in place, ready to repel invaders. A rusty bed frame stood upright in the ground, a damaged fishing net spread over it for repairs. Only a few yards away was a brick well, standing right next to a bamboo hut that clearly was a public latrine.

“Idiots,” Mildred muttered under her breath.

Watching the empty windows lining the two layers of steel boxes, Krysty felt her hair fan outward when a cough sounded from somewhere, echoes disguising the distance and direction.