James Axler – Judas Strike

“You know the way,” Ryan said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes! Of course, I do. Used to live before—”

“I know the way,” someone said, hobbling to the doorway. He was a big man, gaunt from hunger, but his former strength was clearly visible in his sheer size. Black hair and almond skin, he was dressed in bloody and torn clothes of very good cloth. A wide leather belt around his waist proclaimed the man a sailor.

“Ann said you would come after her,” he added. “Guess she was right.”

“Here for her. Not you,” Ryan said bluntly, and jerked a thumb. “Leave if you want. But don’t follow us. Get in the way and you’re zero days.”

“I know the way through their pungi-stick wall,” the man said, reaching out with his hand.

“The creek. Found it already.”

The man lowered his gaze to the 9 mm pistol in Ryan’s grip. “Then again, mebbe you don’t need us,” he said in awe. “Does that thing actually work?”

“It’s how we got here,” J.B. stated, lifting the Uzi for the prisoners to see. The men gasped at the sight, and backed away deeper into their cell.

“Stop talking. We have to leave!” Ann urged, impatiently moving from foot to foot. The motion made her dress sway and exposed a lot of skin. There had been little of the dress remaining before she started ripping off pieces. “They can come back any tic. Hundreds of them!”

“Who the hell are you?” Ryan demanded, ignoring the interruption. Every minute wasted was ammo against them. But with more men they had a better chance of reaching the surface alive—if he could trust the prisoners not to throw the companions to the cannies to slow down pursuit. Better to travel alone than with enemies.

“I’m Cal Mitchum, sec man for Baron Thayer of Ratak ville. That’s the ville she was talking about on the far side of the island. There’s more, but they’re rad-pit dreck holes, without a single working blaster or a tin pot to piss in. But you want a ship, you got it. Just take us with you.”

“Big words. You got the powder to deliver that lead?” Ryan asked. The SIG-Sauer was still in his hand, the barrel pointing steadily at the stranger.

The others in the room stared longingly at the open doorway, but the dead black eye of Ryan’s blaster kept them at bay.

“Fucking right I do! I’ll get you a ship if I’ve got to steal one,” Mitchum stated forcibly.

He was too confident, too sure of himself, Ryan decided and took a chance. “Major, behind you!” he shouted, and pointed the blaster away from the sec man.

Mitchum spun, hands reaching for a blaster not there. Then he turned, his face a controlled mask of rage.

“Tricky bastard. Okay, I’m Colonel Mitchum,” he stated through grit teeth. “Sec chief for Ratak ville.”

“Ryan,” the Deathlands warrior said, “J.B. and Jak.”

“The rest of the prisoners are my troops. Can’t leave them behind.”

“Can and will,” Ryan stated firmly. “Unless I decide they’re useful.”

“Need them to get me,” Mitchum shot back.

A noise echoed down the corridor, and Jak moved out of sight.

“They’re coming back!” Ann whispered. “We must leave now!”

“Do we have a deal?” the sec man insisted, sweat on his brow.

Ryan knew he was negotiating for the lives of his troops. That said a lot about the man. “Deal,” Ryan said.

Relief easing his countenance, Mitchum exhaled. He extended his hand, and the men shook.

“Everybody start walking,” Ryan ordered. “We have horses at the surface. Lag behind and we leave you, deal or not.”

The companions herded the freed prisoners along the corridor, carefully retracing their steps. Ryan was very glad he had made a map. The scraps of cloth had been moved to new locations and they would have been seriously lost following those.

Rounding a corner, Ryan and Jak opened fire as a gang of teenagers burst out of a room, their arms full of flintlocks. The teens cried out as the SIG-Sauer and Colt Python took their lives, displaying their sharply filed teeth. Bleeding badly, a girl tried to bring a weapon to bear, but J.B. emptied the Uzi into her, driving the body backward under the brutal assault of the copper-jacketed rounds.