James Axler – Road Wars

“I suggest you look away, dear boy,” Doc said, his mouth close to Dean’s ear.

“Seen plenty of chilling, thanks.”

“Very well.”

The Apostle Simon stood below the crucified man, stared at him, then reached slowly up toward the exposed throat with the concealed dagger.

“Take this life for all our lives. Take our blood for their blood. In return, for our humble self-abasement, give us divine vengeance. Give us that, dear Lord. Let us crush all those who mocked and derided us. We have truly scourged ourselves clean of pride, Lord.”

Doc was beginning to feel physically sick from the acrid stench of their unwashed, tortured bodies and the bitterness of fresh blood.

“We have made of ourselves a seemly sacrifice. The sands of the desert are red with blood.”

The movement was quicker than a striking rattler, the pilgrim’s staff that had become a spear darting at the neck of the helpless victim.

Blood jetted from the severed artery, the pattering sound as it fell into the thirsty earth clearly audible to the pair of hidden spectators. Simon moved swiftly to one side, retracting the blade from the head of his staff, showing all the skill and balance of an expert knife fighter, avoiding both the blood and the urine that fountained from the dying man.

“Take our blood and give us vengeance!” chorused the thirteen members of the cult.

“Let’s go,” Doc said, pulling insistently at Dean’s jacket. “Now.”

“Wait.”

“I see no Ah, should we not warn them of the danger ahead?”

“Too late. Don’t worry, Doc. They won’t let this mess of triple-stupe crazies catch them.”

One of the most ill-matched couples in all Deathlands, Jak Lauren and Mildred Wyeth, were walking casually across the desert toward the camp and its bright fires, following the dusty track, making no attempt to conceal themselves from the Slaves of Sin.

The albino teenager, his white hair blazing like a brilliant torch, carried a hunting rifle, with his big blaster at his hip. Mildred had her .38-caliber Czech target revolver bolstered at her belt. Neither of them looked at all apprehensive.

Simon saw the two strangers coming and gave swift orders, snapping them out in an undertone. In less then a dozen seconds the cross and its dead victim had been struck to the ground and laid flat. A few ragged blankets were heaped over it.

Dean knew that seeing at night was often difficult and misleading, guessing that the combination of bright moonlight and the flames of the fires would have made it hard for their two friends to make out much inside the camp.

“No,” Dean said, sensing that the man at his side was about to shout some sort of warning. “Make things worse, Doc.”

“But”

“You and me got short-range weapons. Wouldn’t do much chilling. Chances are the crazies don’t mean any real harm to Jak and Mildred. Be too scared of us.”

“Hope you’re right, son.”

Dean was wrong.

JAK AND MILDRED WALKED unsuspectingly in among the fladgies.

“See kid and old man?” Jak asked.

“No,” Apostle Simon replied, not bothering to conceal the sneer in his voice. “You mean your precious party? Haven’t seen anyone since you refused us water and food. Not a living soul. Gone missing, have they?”

Mildred, sensing that something was off-kilter, dropped her right hand to the butt of the blaster and stared at the raggedy man with a growing anger.

“You seen them or not?”

“Not.”

Jak looked around, seeing that something was hidden under the pile of rags. “What’s that?” He started to draw his Colt Python.

Simon swung the staff, with its lead-loaded butt, in a vicious circle, striking the teenager across the side of the head, just behind the left ear, felling him like a poleaxed steer.

Mildred started to turn, the pistol in her hand. “What the fuck are”

She was too slow. Three of the brotherhood of pain flung themselves at her, wrestling away the blaster, punching Mildred quickly into unconsciousness.

It was all over and done with in less than five seconds. The Slaves of Sin had a rifle and two handblasters, as well as two prisoners, both out cold.

Dean and Doc watched in helpless silence. The boy looked at the old man, eyes wide in the moonlight. Suddenly Dean seemed no more than a frightened child.