“We worship You,” one of the fladgies shrieked, his nerve breaking, dropping to his knees, hands out in supplication. “Oh, scourge us with your fiery whip, Lord!”
“All of you abase yourselves and make ready to receive my divine punishment,” the voice thundered. “For verily I shall seek out the worthy from the impure. By the Three Ken By the three spears of the divinity, I shall.”
Mildred had wriggled around, lifting herself painfully up onto one elbow, staring at the truly bizarre spectacle. Her eyes were caught by a slight movement in the darkness of the sagebrush behind the staring flagellants, the daggers of the moon touching on what looked like living flame.
“Krysty,” she breathed.
Now eight of the nine men were on their knees, three of them lying sprawled facedown in the dirt, the light of their fires throwing shadows across them. Only the Apostle Simon was still standing, but he was leaning on his staff as though it were a lifeline between himself and eternity.
“Take me, Blessed One,” one of the transfixed men screamed, lifting his scarred, bearded face, a thread of white saliva bubbling from his cracked lips.
The child stopped and lowered his hands, reaching inside the band of white cloth wrapped around his middle. The ringing voice from the blackness behind had risen an octave, showing the sudden edge of tension. “Now we shall reveal the nature of our gifts to reward you all.”
“Here comes,” Jak said, starting to struggle more openly with the rawhide around his wrists.
“Show us, Messiah!” The eldritch screech came from the Apostle Simon himself.
Dean pulled the massive Browning Hi-Power from its hiding place, already cocked, and opened fire on the helpless fladgies.
Doc ran from the dry gulch, slightly to the right of the boy, his Le Mat spitting out its .36-caliber rounds.
And from behind the paralyzed acolytes of the Apostle Simon, Krysty rose from the ground like a flame-haired avenging angel, firing her Smith amp; Wesson 640, aiming and firing carefully, picking her targets for the big .38s.
There wasn’t a single shot fired in retaliation from the murderous crazies.
Three of them died instantly at Dean’s hands, creating mayhem with his powerful blaster, even though he had to shoot it two-handed to achieve any real accuracy.
Two more died on their knees, hands raised, their horrified faces rictuses of terror.
Four managed to get to their feet, including their demented leader.
Mildred watched as one went down, rocked by two bullets from Doc’s Civil War pistol. A second dropped dead, half of his face blown away by Krysty.
“Shoot no more! We surrender to your mercy!” the Apostle Simon cried, holding both arms spread wide, like a man awaiting crucifixion.
His last companion finally lost his nerve and turned to flee into tbe moonlit wilderness, tumbling over and over like a shot rabbit, legs kicking in tbe dirt, hit between the shoulders by the last of Dean’s thirteen rounds.
The desert was still, the only sound the death rattle of one of the fladgies, overlaid by the relentless sighing of the ceaseless wind.
“I will leave this place of blood and never return to it,” the leader of the Slaves of Sin stated.
“For fuck’s sake cut us free,” Jak called, finally breaking one hand loose. Dean bolstered his blaster and hurried to kneel by Jak, slicing the ropes off his other wrist and off his ankles. He turned immediately to liberate Mildred.
Krysty stood watching Simon, Doc covering him from the other side of the campsite. Already the stench of death hung heavy in the firelight.
Jak stood, reaching a slender hand to assist Mildred to her feet. She rubbed her wrists, chafing life back into them, looking around her at the litter of corpses.
“Thanks for turning up, friends,” she said. “Beginning to think that the sand was running out of the glass for us. Nice trick, Dean. Nice voice, Doc.”
The old man dropped a low bow to her. “Praise from you, ma’am, is praise redoubled. But tbe bulk of your thanks should lie with Mistress Wroth, who was the dramaturge and inspiration for our little playlet.”
“What happened to four men sent in?” Jak asked, looking around and retrieving his Colt Python from the dead fingers of one of the flagellants.