James Axler – Zero City

Ryan shook the teenager hard. “Doesn’t matter. Give the order to your men, or I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”

“I don’t think so,” Leonard said smoothly, sensing a weakness to exploit. “You need my men, so I stay alive. What with the fire, your bitch is trapped in there?”

Ryan wasted a live round jacking the slide so the noise would startle the man. “Last chance.”

“And then I die anyway,” the teenager retorted, shaking with restrained fury. “Fuck you. Go ahead, chill me!”

A thunderous report shook the alleyway, and Leonard jerked free of Ryan’s startled grip. Stumbling off his box, the teenager staggered against the garbage bin, and from out of the smoke strode Jarmal, the blaster in his hand bucking and jumping as he emptied it.

“That’s for my daughter,” Jarmal said, reloading as he strode forward. “Your father took her when she was twelve. Twelve years old!”

“My sympathies,” Ryan snapped. “Order the men to put out the fire.”

The big man swung about, the pitted maws of their deadly weapons now aimed at each other. Time passed in tense silence. The thinning smoke exposed the group of sec men on the sidewalk, and the burning building across the street. Grips on weapons were shifted as the men waited for a sign of what was happening.

“Ryan,” Jarmal said on impulse.

The one-eyed man narrowed his gaze. “You know me?”

“No. Heard of you in a tale around a campfire.”

“And who are you?”

“Uther Jarmal.”

“The new baron,” Ryan said.

He almost smiled. “Looks like.”

“Give the order. Fast.”

“Why? Let it burn, you’re safe out here.”

“My business.”

The former sergeant locked gazes with the Deathlands warrior. “You have a man trapped.” It wasn’t a question.

Ryan debated on responses and chose the truth. “Yeah.”

“Everything is for sale,” the man prompted.

“Blasters,” Ryan spit.

“Got lots. And more food than you’ll ever see.”

“The Hummer.”

“Your wag? No thanks.”

Watching the growing conflagration, Ryan racked his brain for a bargaining tool. “I know the secret location of the last six live muties,” he said in desperation.

Jarmal narrowed his eyes. “Bull.”

Knowing it was time to go for broke, Ryan lowered his pistol. The sec men seemed stunned.

“This is how much I want the fire out and my son saved,” Ryan stated, holstering the piece. “How bad you want those things dead?”

“Your son?”

“One of my girls had red hair,” a sec man said, hatefully gazing at Leonard. “I joined the guards to try to get close enough to his father to ace the freak.”

“Me, too,” said another.

Ten long seconds ticked by before the new baron slowly lowered his blaster and tucked it in his belt. “Bucket brigade!” he shouted. “You, you and you! Get some metal pails from the paint store. The rest of you gleebs form a line from the street and start throwing like you mean it!”

“Hey!”

Everybody turned. The rest of the companions stumbled out of the pawnshop, Dean wrapped in a blanket and tenderly cradled in Mildred’s arms.

“Hot pipe, what’s going on?” Dean asked weakly, blinking at the dim daylight.

Epilogue

A week later, dust devils danced along the sandy street in front of the pawnshop as the companions loaded Dean into the rear cargo area of the Hummer. The desert winds were starting to increase once more, and they wanted to leave before the next storm arrived. Next door, the government building was gone, just another blackened hole in the ground like the skyscraper.

“You okay?” Mildred asked, tucking the blankets tighter around the boy.

“Headache,” he whispered. “Did I really fall through the skylight? Don’t remember.”

Sliding behind the steering wheel, Ryan glanced at the physician in concern.

“A common reaction to head traumas,” Mildred said soothingly. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Damn straight you did,” the elder Cawdor replied. “Fell four stories. Good thing you landed on your head.”

Dean chuckled, then abruptly stopped. “What’s that smell?”

“Food,” Jak said, munching on an apple. “Bushels of food. Corn, tomatoes, beans, lots of taters.”

“The word is potato,” Doc corrected, wiggling into the back seat, a canvas sack on his lap.