He talked funny, and what was all that shit about “the fog”? The guy called
Kurt, back at Charlie’s, had—from what Charlie herself had said—rambled on about
fog. Ryan didn’t trust coincidences, even in this random, arbitrary and
seemingly totally haphazard life. His psyche nudged him, whispered that there
might be something odd here, something worth following up. The old coot hadn’t
just been talking about any old fog, and if Charlie was to be believed neither
had the guy called Kurt. Common sense, however, informed him that there were ten
thousand natural fogs in the Deathlands per week, somewhere or other, and
probably this Kurt bird was vision-ridden from fever—a fog with claws? Come
on!—and probably this old coot here was crazed from having been forced into
performing grisly and unnatural acts for the delight of that sadistic bastard
Strasser. Still, from A to B to C, his mind mused—and what were the
“possibilities”… and who were “they” and what had “they” done to him and what
was a “Redoubt” and why did he talk so weird?
The explanation for all this was probably worth much less than a half pinch of
nukeshit, thought Ryan, and right now there were other problems on the agenda,
which needed to be solved urgently.
He stared up at Jordan Teague, atop his pyramid, cringing into the wingback
chair with a mad and pop-eyed look about him.
“R-Ryan…?”
The word came out as a hoarse raven’s croak.
“Teague, you fat bastard! You’re the best target I’ve seen in years! Even a
blind man could take you out!”
“Ryan! Jesus! What’re ya doin? What is this? W-we gotta talk, fer Chrissake!”
The bulk blubber of him was quaking like a jelly in a high wind. “Th-this ain’t
‘the way to do business!”
“You’re in deep shit, Teague. I swear I’m gonna give you to the cannies. Bunch
of them could live off you for a month.”
“M-my God, Ryan! Ya gotta tell me…I’ll do anything…gotta tell me what ya want!
I’ll do it…I’ll do it!”
Ryan was disgusted. However many faults Teague had— about a zillion, if one were
to count—however many monstrous deeds could be laid at his door, at least
there’d been a time when he’d been in control, at least there’d been a time when
he’d commanded a certain amount of respect as a hard man who’d carved himself a
niche in the Deathlands and stayed put where others had fallen. This abject
caterwauling and cringing in ludicrous terror was appalling, made him simply a
bladder of lard worth nothing. Less then nothing.
Ryan put up the LAPA and pumped three rounds into the top step of the pyramid,
just below Teague’s twitching boots. Teague yelled, tried to turn himself into a
fat ball, as the bullets smashed straight through the construction, bursting
more glass the other side.
Ryan laughed as he realized the pyramid wasn’t solid.
“Hun! The base! Flay it!”
Hunaker caught on. She reached for the MAC-11, rolled onto her stomach again,
aimed for the second-from-bottom step and squeezed off a withering blast of
rounds that turned her immediate target into an explosive spray of blown-out
wood chips before powering subsonically through the hollow interior and ripping
out the other side, only slowing marginally as they zip-drilled the flesh, sinew
and bones of the man crouched there. The guy was shoved over bodily by the
punishing impact, most of the MAC’s mag transforming him into a mere torso from
which blood sprayed.
The second man, yelling in panic as he, too, cottoned on, jumped from cover,
M-16 hammering wildly in Ryan’s direction. But Ryan was on full-auto now, and
his fire line caught the man and followed him, slamming him back against the
mirror wall in a twisted body tangle, unstitching him, opening him up as he
smashed into the glass, soft pointed bullets and glass shards erupting him into
a red rag doll.
There was a microsecond’s silence and then Ryan was on his feet and sprinting
back to the curtain, throwing it aside and bawling for Roll. Koll came running,
his own LAPA held out.
Pointing, Ryan snapped, “There’s a door back there-check it out. Look for an old