James Axler – Road Wars

“Krysty chilled one and Doc wasted the other three,” Dean told them.

Mildred’s mouth dropped. “Doc chilled You mean Three of them? What’d he do, breathe on them after a meal of garlic and wild onions?”

“Delighted to see that you are returned to your former misanthropic and waspish self, Dr. Wyeth.” Doc favored her with another bow.

“I should’ve known,” the Apostle Simon said. “When my men didn’t return, I should’ve known.”

“You didn’t,” Doc stated, “because you got shit for brains.”

“The day will come, child of Shaitan, when you will writhe on the white-hot grill and your skin will blister and sear and your eyes boil and your hair smoke from your skull. Then you will feel sorry for what you have done here this night.”

“Fuck you, stupe!” The boy drew his blaster and squeezed the trigger. The only result being the dry dick of the hammer on an empty chamber.

The Apostle Simon threw back his long, narrow head and laughed out loud, waving his staff in triumph. “There! See how my Lord of pain defeats your feeble demon’s power. Nothing can harm me, nothing.”

“Wrong,” Jak said very quietly, shooting the leader of the flagellants through the lower stomach with the Python. The .357 full-metal-jacket round left a small, black entrance hole, less than an inch from Simon’s navel, hitting the spine and angling off sideways, tearing into the liver and exiting through the small of the back, taking out a chunk of flesh the size of a dinner plate.

The staff flew into the air, clattering down toward the heart of the fire with a great starburst of crimson and orange sparks that rose high into the still air.

Simon staggered but didn’t fall immediately, his head turning to see the blazing destruction of his symbol of power.

“Missed me,” he said.

“You wish.” Jak bolstered his blaster and turned away, starting to walk back toward his home, knowing with total certainty that the man was doomed.

Simon sank to his knees, his system still holding off the rending agony that his wound deserved. “I will sit down,” he announced with a peculiar dignity.

Dean had reloaded his Browning with bullets that he’d hidden in his breechcloth, and he leveled the gun at the kneeling figure. Jak was twenty yards away and be didn’t even look back, calling to the boy over his shoulder.

“No. Done.”

Dean hesitated a moment, glancing at the other three. Doc shook his head, as did Mildred. Krysty smiled at him. “Jak’s right,” she said. “Let’s go and have some food and catch up on our sleep. You never know. Ryan and the others might come back tomorrow.”

THE APOSTLE SIMON lay down and watched the five figures walk away from him, throwing long stark shadows in the bright moonlight.

He felt the first spasm of pain and he moaned, sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “Like my Dad used to say Be back here some lucky day.”

Then the blood stopped flowing and he died.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The day was bitterly cold, with a dazzling sun hanging at the center of an untouched blue sky. From east to west and north to south, there wasn’t even the hint of a cloud. All around it seemed that you could reach out and touch the perfection of the snow-covered mountains. The cold air had the unmistakable scent of salt, from the Cific Ocean only a few miles away, beyond the ruins of old Seattle. Here and there it was possible to make out the thin tendrils of cooking fires, among the stumps of the nuked city buildings. But whatever ate there, ate alone.

The oppressive wet weather of the past three days had vanished, and it had snowed during the previous night as the temperature dropped well below freezing.

Now, an hour after dawn, it was a heaven of morning.

Ryan and J.B. had found no cover, waking up to find their sleeping bags were crusted with frozen snow, which crackled when they moved.

“Last day of the last week,” Ryan said as he stooped, trying to get a fire going to warm them up and dry their clothes and heat some oatmeal.