James Axler – Rat King

too soon.”

“I’ve got no intention of that,” Ryan said in a level tone, not taking his

attention from Abner. “All I want is to know when we’re going to move.”

“Can’t yet,” Abner said tightly.

“Why not?” Ryan asked with a studied casualness. He suspected the baron of

cowardice, and he didn’t want that to hold up their chances of getting out,

perhaps even rescuing Doc if the old man was still alive.

Abner stayed silent. It was Mac who answered.

“The storms, Ryan. We get a nose for them here. Guess we have to if we’re going

to survive. They’re always here, but some are worse than others. If you look out

east from here, you can see the swirls of dust rise up mebbe twenty, thirty feet

into the sky. That means we got some real sons of bitches out there. Whip your

skin off you in five minutes. Can’t move through them at any kind of pace

without your legs turning to jelly. No way we’d be in any fit state to fight,

even with your training.”

Mac’s tone had been level, reasoned. Even the way in which he had addressed Ryan

by name rather than as “One-eye”—as everyone in this rad-blasted pesthole had

since he’d arrived—convinced the one-eyed warrior that the sec man was leveling

with him. Ryan didn’t trust him, but he felt certain that the sec man had a

respect for his skills that Ryan felt was mutual. Mac was as good as they got in

this nameless ville.

Slowly, keeping a watch on Abner’s hand hidden beneath the blanket, Ryan

resheathed the panga.

“So how long do those kind of storms usually last?” he asked, directing the

question over his shoulder at Mac rather than at the baron.

“Hard to say exactly. The storm ain’t exactly a believer in accuracy. It doesn’t

carry a wrist chron, you know.”

Ryan smiled. “Roughly, then.”

Although he couldn’t see, he could almost feel the sec man shrug. “Mebbe a day,

mebbe a week. This one…I dunno, it might not be long one. Can’t rightly say why,

but when the dust gets that high, it usually means that the storm blows itself

out pretty quick. Don’t hold your breath, though.”

Ryan nodded and turned slowly to face the sec man. “Don’t fret yourself, Mac.

There’s no chance of me doing that. Every breath is precious,” he said carefully

before walking out of the shack, past the fat sec man, who shuffled out of the

way, lifting the long-barreled blaster to allow the one-eyed warrior to pass.

When Ryan was out of earshot, Abner slowly let back the hammer on his

blunderbuss. “Bastard outlanders. I’ll be glad when that mother and his people

are gone. If we’re really lucky, the insiders will chill them while they chill

the insiders, leaving it all nice and peaceful for us.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Mac muttered softly, echoing his words to Ryan.

THE STORM WAS RAGING. The wind whipped dust and dirt through the air, which was

almost solid with the force of the howling winds. Small stones and pebbles

rattled off the reinforced windshields of the wags, bouncing off the

metal-and-canvas covers that Murphy had made his men erect before leaving the

redoubt. They had wags that weren’t convertible in such a manner, but

Murphy—like the Murphys before him—felt safer if his men could see around for

360 degrees. The metal, covered-in wags might protect them better from the worst

ravages of the storms, but they sure as hell didn’t help them see outsiders

creeping up on them. When the storms lessened, the covers came off. They were

only used in the most violent of storms.

Murphy sat in the lead wag with a group of five men, a driver beside him and

four men on the bench seats that lined each side of the wag. There were three

other wags, each with similar personnel, which totaled twenty-four. Not exactly

a large task force, but enough for their needs.

The outsiders really were stupid, Murphy mused as the wag bounced over the

terrain. They never expected a raid when the storms were this bad, despite the

fact that it was always the time that Murphy picked. He’d have thought that even