mustache; Hennings, a big black with a lacerating sense of humor; and Samantha
the Panther, black, too, and a mutant who could see in the dark and had
exceptional powers of hearing.
Ryan said, “Rint and Sam. Henn, you take the roof.”
He checked his mirrors while the crew made their adjustments, then opened the
door and stepped out. J.B. followed him, gripping a Steyr AUG 5.56 mm as though
it were a part of him, an extension of his own right hand. Ryan popped his LAPA
inside his coat, thought about taking the panga then decided not. He
automatically checked the SIG, holstered it, ran his fingers over his belt
pouches, feeling their weight, checking their contents; he knew they were all
full but did it, anyway. Better to be one hundred percent sure than one hundred
percent dead.
“Okay.”
He slammed the door, O-ed his fingers to Hunaker through the glass. J.B.’s Steyr
was now inside the long coat he, too, wore. The bullpups of the other two had
similarly vanished from sight.
A couple of blocks up the street two lurched together, went into a complicated
dance routine, arms around each other, to stop themselves from falling over. Or
that’s what it looked like. Maybe, thought Ryan, they just liked each other. Or
maybe they felt lonely in this desolate street. A wind had sprang up, whipping
at his hair. He could hear the sound of fiddle music, muted, coming from
somewhere.
He turned to the door of Charlie’s Bar, shoved down on the handle, walked in.
CHARLIE’S BAR WAS LIKE just about every other bar in the street, just about
every other bar in Mocsin, just about every other bar in the whole of the
Deathlands. It was a place whose entire reason for existence was booze. It was a
place where you went to drink yourself into a stupor, a place where you drank to
forget.
The bar itself ran down most of one wall with barrels atop it, strategically
placed every three or four meters along, bottles on shelves behind. Tall mirrors
hung behind the bar. These aided the lighting by reflecting what was already
there. Even so, the long room was murky, a place of dancing shadows, with only
three or four lamps and not a hell of lot of candles flickering in the many
drafts that struck through uncaulked cracks and crevices in doors and window
shutters. It was low ceilinged, drab walled, stale smelling, greasy atmosphered.
Smoke hung heavily in the air, a thick miasma that the guttering candles did
little to cut through.
Opposite the bar were curtained booths. Small round tables were scattered down
the room. The seats were covered in plush that was a century old and looking it.
There was chrome everywhere, but it was rusty, tarnished. The booth curtains,
threadbare velvet, had once had tassels hanging from them. Early in the reign of
Fishmouth Charlie, the current owner, there had been a time when certain
captains of Jordan Teague’s sec men had taken to wearing fancy epaulettes on the
shoulders of their black leather jackets. It was noted by the more sharp-eyed of
Mocsin’s citizenry that these epaulettes bore a remarkable resemblance to the
curtain tassels from Charlie’s. Charlie had not made a fuss. Charlie had always
had a wise and circumspect nature.
The bar was nearly empty; maybe fifteen or twenty people sitting in the booths
or at the center tables, drinking steadily. One or two were eating something
that smelled like regular meat stew, and probably was. Charlie had a good rep
where food was concerned; you had no worries about suddenly discovering you were
gorging yourself on roach mince or putrid hog or prime cut of human when you
dined at Charlie’s. Many of the drinkers were muties, which, considering the
owner, was not surprising.
Ryan went to the bar. He nodded to the woman behind the bar and the woman behind
the bar nodded back. Nothing could be gauged from her features. Only her
protuberant eyes were at all expressive. From below her eyes, her face bulged
out to her mouth, a tiny, thin-lipped orifice like the spout of a volcano. There
seemed to be no jawline whatsoever. Although her hair was thick and curly, her