James Axler – Rat King

The Uzi was level with the flying figure as it cannoned into him, an arm

knocking the blaster to one side. J.B.’s finger flexed instinctively on the

blaster’s trigger, sending a hail of fire to bite ineffectively into the side of

the enclave.

The Armorer didn’t notice the waste of precious ammo. He was far too busy trying

to fight off the flying bundle, which became a whirling dervish of muscle as it

hit him, slamming him to the ground so that his spine jarred and the breath was

squeezed from painfully constricted lungs. J.B. felt as though he had to have

lost a couple of ribs, the pain was so sharp as he tried to draw breath.

The ragged bundle was now on top of him, pinioning him to the earth. The strips

of old clothing were wrapped around the figure in such a way as to obscure its

true size. It could have been a small man, or a fat-bellied giant. Certainly the

impact on J.B. had made him sure it was the latter at first, but now he wasn’t

as sure. As the figure lay across him, and the shock of the impact died down to

a throbbing throughout his body, J.B.’s instincts kicked in.

The figure wasn’t much taller than he was. Their faces were level, and he could

feel the other’s feet on his own as the attacker lay on top of him. The weight

of the attacker wasn’t crushing him now that they were hand-to-hand, so he

guessed that his assailant was probably about the same build and weight as

himself.

The rags were layered and swathed around the figure’s head and face so that only

the eyes were showing. They glittered with determination and not a little

madness as they bored into J.B. And yet there was something in them…

It wasn’t a total surprise for J.B. when the voice that emerged from the

swaddling was female.

“If you value your life, at least for the short time to come, then you will not

resist me.”

The voice was sibilant, hissing with a cleft-palate lisp that made it sound even

more threatening than the circumstances dictated.

The eyes and voice had momentarily hypnotized the Armorer to the extent that he

didn’t, for a second, feel her hands as they darted across his body. His knife

was unsheathed with a practiced ease, and the Smith & Wesson M-4000 was slipped

from its secure moorings. The pockets of ammo that were located all over his

body were also probed.

“You will come with me now, away from this hole and into the valley. It is…

milder…there. We wish to talk with you.”

J.B. found himself nodding agreement with the biting voice even though all his

instincts were telling him to fight back, his muscles refused to respond, almost

paralyzed by the hypnotic tones.

Suddenly the woman on top of him stiffened, her muscles contracting. Her eyes

lost contact with his for a fraction of a second before J.B. heard a dull thud,

and the eyes closed.

He felt instantly as though his strength were restored to him, and he rolled the

unconscious body off him.

MILDRED WYETH WAS starting to feel really angry. As if it wasn’t bad enough that

the idiot Murphy’s sec men had them pinned down, and this damn dust storm made

it impossible to see more than two feet in front of your nose, now it seemed as

though a third faction had joined the fray. She had no idea who they were and

where they might have come from. Neither did she care. They were another

obstacle between the companions and freedom. Holding the ZKR with the poise and

assurance that had made her an Olympic silver medalist in predark times, Mildred

made her way from cover to cover, knowing that J.B. was in front of her,

and—hopefully— Doc behind. How the old man would cope in these conditions

worried her. His fragile psyche had taken a battering in the past few days.

Sure, all of them had been victim to the same method of torture, but Doc was

closer to the edge than most. Hell, most of the time he was well and truly over