James Axler – Zero City

He nodded again.

“And ammo, of course,” the madam added hastily. “Blasters are useless without ammo.” She smiled as sweetly as possible. “That sounds fair, doesn’t it, Sarge?”

A minute passed, then two. The only sounds were of labored breathing from the customer bleeding on the floor, and the muffled noise of sex from down the corridor. A fight in another room.

“Ammo,” he repeated in agreement. “All I can.”

“Your word of honor?”

“Yes,” he said in a perfectly normal tone.

The momentary transition to sanity frightened the madam worse than his growling. This was a dangerously unstable individual.

“Done,” Patrica said, offering her plump hand for a shake. “In one week, you deliver a duffel bag of working rifles and ammo, and she’s yours forever.”

With a massive effort of will, Harold tried to concentrate enough to recall how many days in a week. “Six days,” he said. “Back six day.” He brushed past her, ignoring the offered hand and moving down the hallway as indomitable as an express train.

“What a freak!” exhaled the teenager, tucking his zip gun into his belt.

Patrica grabbed the boy by the arm. “You heard nothing,” she snapped. “Not a fucking thing, or I’ll whip you to death myself.”

“And risk the Machine? Bullshit.” The boy smiled. “I want a cut.”

Impressed, she released him. “One blaster.”

“Five.”

“Two.”

“Done.”

They shook on the deal.

With a soft groan, the customer stirred and struggled to sit upright. His nose was mashed flat, and the lower half of his face was clotted with dried blood.

“Gonna kill that mutie,” he mumbled, struggling to his feet. “I got an ax. That’ll do him!”

Surprisingly quick, Patrica walked over and grabbed the man between the legs. He gasped as she squeezed hard.

“Touch him before the next moon,” she whispered, “and I’ll remove these with blunt scissors.”

Nearly wetting himself, the man nodded emphatically. She released him and smiled seductively.

“Still got one coming,” Patrica added, loosening the frilly top of her dress and pulling it down to expose her fat sagging breasts. She pinched the nipples, making the wrinkled bags of flesh harden. “Come on, I’ll do you right here.”

Yanking up his clothing, the man backed out of the room. “I’ll come back later. Got to get a healer to fix my nose. Later.”

As he dashed away, Patrica stepped into the hall and hoisted up her skirts, showing that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. “I’ll be waiting for you, lover,” she called.

Gagging and pale, the man scurried down the stairs.

“He won’t be coming back.” The teenager laughed. “But I’ll do you, boss.”

“On Tuesday, as usual,” the madam stated, fixing her clothes. “Not before, Jimmy.”

“Fair enough. But what about the girl?” he asked, jerking a dirty thumb at the sleeping form.

Her lips pursed in thought, Patrica slowly walked over and slapped the girl. Laura awoke with a start, struggling against the ropes.

“Just throw a bucket of water over her to cut the smell,” the madam said, “and tell the boys downstairs the line forms to the left.”

Chapter Four

In the kitchen of the redoubt, Mildred, J.B. and Doc were assistants with the preparation of dinner for the group. It was their turn, and having ovens at their command was making the usually odious task easy.

Especially since, while the redoubt may have been out of food, the life-support system still functioned, and everybody had luxuriated in a hot shower. After three jumps in one day, the group needed a good scrubbing to get out the sour stink of sweat. They each took turns while somebody else stood guard in the hallway. It was a basic survival plan that all members of the group were never unarmed at the same time.

Sneaking a glance at J.B. busy working at the table, Mildred remembered being joined in the shower, and they used the rare privacy to make love. Privacy was hard to come by these days. Unfortunately, the sex had really put an edge on her appetite.

Scrubbed and shaved, they happily found that the laundry worked fine, if somewhat noisily, and donned clean clothes afterward. As well, many of the officers’ quarters hadn’t been completely cleaned out, and they located replacement boots for her, a fresh shirt for Dean and underwear for everybody. Reaching inside her denim shirt, Mildred shifted the strap on her U.S. Army-issue bra. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but a hell of lot more comfortable than the old Air Force one, which had been one cup size too small.