James Axler – Stoneface

He dropped lightly onto the arroyo’s floor and approached Ryan, the wide grin never faltering. He looked over the Land Rover and said, “Nice wag. Where do you find the gas for it?”

Ryan shrugged. “Here and there. Can I put my hands down now?”

The man responded to the question with one of his own. “What’s your name?”

“Cawdor.”

He nodded. “Thought so. One-eyed man with a SIG-Sauer. Heard of you. Used to ride with the Trader. Yeah, you can put your hands down.”

Ryan did so, but he didn’t leather the blaster. “What’s your name?”

“Phil. The other two gentlemen are known as Dog and Suds.”

“Who’s who?”

Phil indicated the taller of the pair. “This is Suds.”

If Suds had ever introduced a drop of water to his face, he might have been fairly good-looking. As it was, his skin was almost black with encrusted dirt. Straight raven hair was gathered in a knot at the base of his neck. A cloud of gnats hovered around him.

“This here’s Dog.”

Dog was short and fair-complected, and he was one of the ugliest mortals Ryan had ever seen. The left side of his face was covered by red, puckered weal, a badly healed scar that lifted his lip on that side revealing brown, cavity-ridden teeth in a permanent grin. His hair was shaggy and dirty, and at one time might have been blond. The irises of his eyes were a yellow-brown.

“Dog ain’t got no tongue,” Phil went on. “Had it shot out of his head by a Lakota. Can’t talk, but Jesus God, is he mean.”

Dog looked at Ryan out his yellow eyes and grunted. Saliva dripped from his lip on the left side of his mouth.

Ryan noticed one similarity that all three men shared a lack of an X carved into their foreheads.

“You’re not Zadfrak’s family,” Ryan stated.

Phil shook his head. “Novitiates. We’re Farers, trying out for Helskel’s militia. Right now we’re part-time sec men, not full-time X-men.”

Farers were a loosely knit but far-flung group of nomads who traveled the midwestern Deathlands, trading goods, foodstuffs and even themselves to villes.

“Yeah, a real nice wag,” Phil said, walking around the Land Rover and kicking the front tire. “What would you trade for it?”

“Nothing.”

Phil grinned. “We could just appropriate it, if you don’t want to bargain.”

“Could try. I should point out that at least five blasters are pointed at you from the inside.” Ryan lifted the SIG-Sauer but didn’t aim it. “Not to mention the one out here. I doubt you small-timers could take all of us.”

Dog made a slobbering sound. Ryan smiled coldly, knowing that the three men would either start a firefight they couldn’t win or knuckle under.

Phil continued to grin, but there was a trace of uncertainty in his eyes. “Don’t get fused, man. You said you had a passenger, a Family member?”

“Yeah. He’s sick.”

“Come on into Helskel, then. Strangers are always welcome.”

He turned and began trudging down the arroyo. Dog and Suds lingered behind. When Ryan made a move to open the passenger-side door, Dog jammed the bore of the rifle into his spine.

Over his shoulder, Phil said, “You walk with us. Your pals are less apt to get nervy with their blasters if you’re on the road with us.”

The rifle barrel prodded Ryan’s kidney, and whirling quickly, he backfisted the length of steel away. “Back off, friend.”

Dog growled and lunged forward, swinging the rifle, trying to shatter Ryan’s profile with the wood-grain stock. The one-eyed warrior dropped to the ground, knocking his adversary’s legs out from under him with a swift leg sweep. Dog went down heavily on his back with a crunch of gravel.

Springing erect, Ryan put the bore of the SIG-Sauer on Suds and booted Dog expertly beneath the chin with his right foot. His victim’s head snapped back and met the arroyo floor with a thud. Ryan kicked the Remington from his slack fingers, and it clattered over the rocks end over end.

Phil was staring at him. His grin had been replaced by an O of surprise. He looked at Dog, dazed and twitching in the dust, and said faintly, “I hope you didn’t kill him.”