As Fox approached her, he smiled and said, “And how are we today?”
She looked up at the baron with an expression of contempt, then lowered her head and spit on his slippers.
Fox stood there looking at the stain and shook his head. “As charming as ever, I see.”
“Fuck you!”
Fox’s fist shot out and caught her in the right eye. Her head snapped back and slammed against the brick wall she was chained to. Fox stood impassively as she swung her arms and legs to strike back at him, knowing the chains were too short to allow her to touch him. He let her continue her futile attempt to hit him and when she was tired out, he struck her again under the left eye. This time, instead of fighting back, she fell unconscious onto the cold concrete floor.
Fox reached over and put a hand on her bloated belly. She was six months along and everything seemed to be progressing normally. Her fighting spirit would probably produce a similarly spirited offspring that would net him a top price at auction—a couple of blasters or a few barrels of diesel at the very least. The thought put a smile on the baron’s face.
He started toward the next breeder when a sec man appeared at the door. It was Kingsley, his number-three sec man after Grundwold and Fillinger.
“It’s the outlanders, Baron,” Kingsley stated. “They’re approaching from the north, heading toward the farm.”
“Is Grundwold still following them?”
“If he is, our lookouts haven’t seen his party.”
“Good,” Fox said, “then the outlanders probably haven’t noticed them, either.” Grundwold’s men were the best sec men the farm had, and their talent for stealthily following travelers had once again given Fox an advantage over passing travelers. In addition, he had several options as to how to get his hands on the outlander women. “If they approach the front gate looking to trade for food or lodging, let them in and bring them to me. If they pass us by, give them a polite wave and leave them for Grundwold and his men to handle farther down the road.”
“Yes, Baron,” Kingsley said and was gone.
AFTER AN HOUR’S WALK along the road, the companions came upon a huge steel fence topped with barbed wire. On the other side stood row upon row of neatly trimmed trees, all covered in green leaves and spotted with a magnificent bounty of ripening fruit.
The friends stopped on the roadway, admiring the view.
“Ah.” Doc sighed. “Now, that is what a farm should look like. A virtual cornucopia of all good things to eat.”
“It looks almost predark,” Mildred commented.
The farm was indeed well kept, Ryan thought. And the wire fence was an absolute necessity considering the number of hungry muties lurking in the area. Still, something about the fence didn’t feel right to Ryan. He scanned the length that ran parallel to the road and saw something hanging off the fence a few hundred yards south of their position.
“After that gopher meat, one of those apples would sure taste good,” Dean said. “You think they’d miss any apples if I climbed over the fence and picked us a few.”
“No,” Ryan commanded. “Don’t go near that fence.”
“Why, what’s wrong with it?” Krysty asked.
“Not sure.” Ryan headed south toward the object hanging from the fence. As the friends neared, it became obvious that it was the remains of a mutie. It was facing the fence as if in the middle of a climb with its hands and feet tangled in the steel weave. There was little flesh left on its bones, and what there was had been burned and charred black.
“An electric fence?” J.B. asked.
Ryan had never actually seen an electric fence, but he knew they’d existed, especially around military installations in predark times. “That’d be my guess,” he said.
“If it’s electric, why don’t I hear any hum?” Mildred asked.
“Maybe it’s not on right now,” J.B. suggested.
“It would seem to me that such a massive fence would require an equally massive amount of electricity to electrify it,” Doc said. “And since electricity is currently harder to come by than gasoline, where would so much electricity come from?”