James Axler – Rat King

surprise shot through him when he realized it wasn’t there. Neither, now that he

came to consider it, could he feel the comfortable weight of the SIG-Sauer or

Steyr SSG-70.

So they outnumbered him and he was unarmed. The odds had shifted. Ryan felt a

charge go through his body as his adrenaline level rose, and he shifted gears to

adjust to the situation.

The bartender leaned across to him. “You pay for any damage caused if you live,

fucker. Just like those scum pay if they live. House rules.”

“Seems fair,” Ryan said shortly. At least he could be fairly certain now that it

wasn’t three-to-one.

“Hey, I think One-eye wants to fight. Mebbe he can only see one of us ’cause

he’s only got one eye,” the skinny drunk yelled.

As a witticism it wasn’t much, but it was enough to make his companion laugh

with such a ferocity that he spit a stream of alcohol across the floor,

dribbling the remnants down his chin, belly and crotch.

It was just the break that Ryan needed to even the score. The interior of the

gaudy was lit by a series of naked torches that hung from the walls. One of them

was behind the bar, about halfway between Ryan and the drunks.

The one-eyed man sprang onto the rickety wooden board that served as a bar, his

balance delicately poised as the groaning wood swayed beneath his weight. He

reached across the head of the startled barkeep and grabbed the torch.

The two drunks were also baffled by this seemingly pointless move. Their

surprise, and the alcohol haze, conspired to delay their reactions for just the

necessary fraction of a second. If they had been sober, it would have been a

close shave for Ryan.

As the skinny drunk drew the bayonet and threw it at Ryan, the one-eyed man

realized the rusty metal may be badly maintained, but it was a fair bet that the

rust was the result of staining by blood. Instinctively shifting the weight in

his palm, the skinny drunk had thrown the bayonet so that the lethal point

whistled past Ryan’s ear. It nicked the skin and drew blood as the one-eyed

warrior shifted his balance to pitch the torch seemingly into the middle of the

floor.

The squat drunk was too busy unshouldering the Heckler & Koch to notice where

the torch landed. The filthy floor had a line of damp leading a trail of spit

alcohol, ending at a midpoint between the two drunks and where Ryan had

initially been standing. The torch landed at that midpoint, the raw sugarcane

alcohol igniting as the flames touched the dirt.

A tongue of blue flame shot along the floor and up the leg of the squat drunk.

He’d drunk so much of the raw spirit that he didn’t at first feel the pain as

the flames scorched his skin and ignited on the old stained denim. He swung the

rifle around to sight on Ryan, drawing on the trigger before the intense heat

and pain penetrated his fogged consciousness, roasting his balls and making him

squeal.

He moved back, trying to step away from the flames, beat at his burning crotch

and fire at the one-eyed warrior all at the same time.

Bullets sprayed into the ceiling, bringing down plaster, wood chippings and

dust. The three sluts, who had been watching with a mild disinterest, now

screamed and disappeared faster than a rat down a hole.

The scrawny drunk had his attention distracted, and half turned to his friend.

Ryan, however, didn’t let anything deter him from his only course of action. He

launched himself from the groaning bar and crashed into the thin drunk, taking

him down. A battered plastic chair took the brunt of the impact, and Ryan felt

rather than heard the crack of the drunk’s elbow as it shattered on the metal

frame of the chair.

Bones didn’t usually break that easy, and Ryan rode his luck by following up

while the drunk was disoriented and distracted by the pain. With the heel of his

hand, he forced the man’s chin back. A thin, wailing cry of surprise and pain