James Axler – Road Wars

It didn’t look like any of them bad been close to a barber in the past five years, with filthy hair trailing over their shoulders and straggling, matted beards.

They were one of the ugliest bunches of human beings that the teenager had ever seen.

Having lived for some recent time in the arid and ageless Southwest, Jak also knew well enough what kind of people they were.

The group was twenty yards off. “Hold there,” he said, standing comfortably in the shade, partly hidden from their sight. “Let’s talk some before closer.”

The obvious leader carried a wooden staff, polished from long use, as tall as himself, bearing the twisted figure of a silver tortured Christ.

He flourished it toward the house.

“Hallelujah, brethren!” His voice sounded as if it had been dragged protesting over red-hot sand.

“What’s business?” Jak asked. His keen hearing caught the sound of Doc thumbing back on the hammer of the massive Le Mat, knowing that the blaster was adjusted to the 18-gauge scattergun round.

“Business of the Almighty, young man.”

“You penitentes?”

“Some call us that.”

The man with the cross had finally joined them, laying his burden carefully on the dusty earth. He knelt beside it and picked at a scab on his shoulder.

“What call yourselves?”

“We are the Slaves of Sin. And my name is the Apostle Simon, leader of this brotherhood. We have many masters and mistresses. Dolores, our lady of pain, is but one of them. But their name is legion.”

“You heading through?” Jak asked.

“We move always. Now we are bound for the Gulf where we shall find a vessel to transport us to India.”

“India?” Mildred repeated, shaken out of her silence by the absurdity of the idea.

“Yeah, verily, woman of Africa, that is our plan. Do you not approve?”

“Firstly I come from Lincoln, Nebraska, not Africa. And second it doesn’t matter to you whether I approve of your plan or not, does it?”

“No.”

She nodded, laying aside the embroidery and standing, the revolver in her right hand. “So don’t fuck around with wasted words, Apostle Simon.”

There was a muttering of anger from some of the group of flagellants, one of them slapping his whip sharply against his own leg.

The leader turned to quiet them, lifting his staff. “The words of a foolish woman are but the rattling of pebbles in an empty vessel, brothers.”

Mildred grinned. “And the uses of men are less than those of a fish upon a bicycle, brother.”

Jak turned to Mildred. “Quietly.”

“Sure.”

“We need water and food.”

“Need?”

“We demand it as our right, for we live upon the land and pray for all men.”

Jak sniffed. “Don’t live my land, mister.”

Krysty leaned on a pillow placed on the windowsill, concealed from the Slaves of Sin by the lacy curtain. She had been studying the fourteen men, noting the dreadful self-imposed wounds on their emaciated bodies.

Doc stood nearby. “What do you make of these sickly visitors, Krysty?”

“Sick is the word. ‘Fladgies’ is what we used to call them when I was a little girl back in Harmony ville. Couple of bunches of them came visiting us once, but the menfolk made sure they didn’t linger long.”

She could just make out the figure of Doc, kneeling uncomfortably on the other side of the front door, the filtered sunlight glinting off the gold engraving on the commemorative handblaster.

“I once saw a very old black-and-white video,” he said, keeping an eye on what was happening outside. “It was set in the Middle Ages, and included a knight and the figure of Death himself, his face like a white moon. And a quartet of flagellants.” He shuddered. “They were offensive enough in the video, but these men here”

“Least they don’t normally hurt anyone else, except themselves, Doc.”

“Did I hear the word ‘normally’ pass your enchanting cupid’s-bow lips, my dear Krysty? I hardly think that is the right description to apply to such depraved and miserable specimens of humanity.”

Krysty didn’t carry on the conversation, stopping to listen to what was going on between the self-styled Apostle Simon and Jak Lauren.

“You refuse us food and drink?”