James Axler – Zero City

“Need some help?” J.B. asked, starting to rise.

“No. You stay right there,” Krysty said, pushing some steamer trunks together to form a crude table for the repast. The stout brass-and-mahogany luggage would also give good protection to hide behind if they were attacked during dinner and had to fight.

Searching his fatigues for the fork he always carried, Jak pulled into view a frilly red-and-gold tassel. “Son of a bitch,” he mumbled in surprise.

“Good Lord,” Mildred said, amused, crushing a lump of salt in her hands and sprinkling the crystals over the sizzling steaks. “Is that from the Leviathan?”

“Yeah, from the fifty.” Jak snorted, toying with the ornament. “Must have stuffed in pocket after cut off.”

“Going to keep it as a memento?” J.B. asked, recrossing his legs to get comfortable.

“No,” the Cajun stated, tossing it aside. “I know Shard is dead. Don’t need relic.”

Just the way the Trader had taught him, Ryan raised a coffee mug full of warm water in salute. “To Shard,” he said solemnly.

Everybody lifted their containers to drink to the memory of the hero of Novaville.

ON THE ROOF of the pawnshop, Dean faintly smelled the wolf cooking and smacked his lips. It had been a while since they’d had meat, and he was really looking forward to dinner. Daydreaming about meals long gone, the boy watched as darkness descended quickly over the desert, the dying red light of the departing sun climbing up the one great skyscraper in the ruined ville, going higher and higher until the building vanished completely.

Softly, a sterile wind blew over the dead city, only the fragile barrier of white glass protecting the thousands of piles of dusty bones from being disturbed from their centuries-old slumber, slumped at their office desks or sprawled in their bedrooms. An ordinary day for them, frozen into a hellish tableau from a microsecond blast of supercharged neutrinos when cars and people alike died at the exact same instant.

In the crumbling belfry of a church, an owl softly hooted for its mate. On the streets, lizards darted from one hiding place to another on an endless quest for insects to feast upon. In a city possessing a million lights, blackness reigned supreme.

Leaning dangerously far over the edge of the rooftop, Dean rested his elbows on the cornice as the wind ruffled his hair. There was a park just off to their right, nothing much there except for dead trees and a dried-up lake with a marble statue of a mutie in the center. The woman was half norm, half fish. Creepy, although he did like the way she wasn’t wearing anything but a necklace and a smile. Not bad for a mute. Then the boy spotted a sudden movement on the sandy streets below. Black specks moving fast and coming straight this way.

“Must be more wolves,” he said to himself, and, digging in his pocket, he unearthed some spent shells. Dean carefully counted out three and put the rest back in his pants. There was no need to drop a handful. He was giving a warning to the folks below, but that was no reason to waste perfectly good brass. Reaching over to drop the warning shells, the gray moonlight unexpectedly disappeared and darkness enveloped the boy.

A terrible stench washed over him, smelling worse than rotting corpses. Dean choked on the fetid reek, almost retching. Backing away, he instinctively pulled out his Browning Hi-Power, and it was slammed from his grip by a powerful blow. He snatched for the flying weapon, but it disappeared into the night.

Pistol gone, the gren in his pocket worse than useless at that range, the young Cawdor decided that this was no place for heroics, turned and sprinted for the tiny kiosk at the rear of the roof, the entrance to the stairwell. But something large landed between him and the exit as another stinking wave of hellish air washed over the boy, stealing the breath from his lungs. A ragged cough seized his throat, and yellow eyes opened wide in the blackness.

Gasping for air, Dean recognized it as the winged mutie from the tunnel. Coughing and hacking, he cradled his aching hand and slowly retreated, trying to circle the beast, get on the other side of the kiosk, then scoot around fast and slam the door. But every move was countered by the winged beast, its great wings spread wide, blocking any chance of escape as if this were a game it played often. Dean knew that some animals played with their prey before killing, and he had a terrible feeling this was one of those breed. He tried to draw in air to call for help and only choked on the awful stench again. It was sort of like skunk mixed with burning sewage, impossible to breathe.