Nearly two dozen armed men dressed in mismatched clothing and animal skins stood in a loose circle in front of the junkyard around a captive handful of men, women and one child. Three corpses lay stretched out on the barren ground. Two of the dead were women, stripped naked and showing signs of dying hard.
From his position, Ryan could smell the death lingering on the fresh corpses. Another shallow breath brought a different scent to his nose, this one totally animal, ripened with a pungent sourness. He scanned the terrain again, more deliberately this time, and spotted the first of the dogs hunkered down in the spaces between the rusting cars and cracked debris given up by the buildings.
For a moment, Ryan thought the pack of dogs was waiting its chance at the corpses. Urban predators learned to be patient. A wild pack marauding the countryside and coming up on a ville would have a harder time bringing down any of the citizens living within the ville’s protection. But tumbledown cities like Idaho Falls gave up their dead as a matter of course. The natural predators living within the bowels of the ruins served the purpose of keeping disease to a minimum by disposing of the decaying flesh.
One of the men stepped forward, taunting his captives. He stood tall and rangy, leaned out to muscle over bone. His cheeks showed great hollows as they sunk in tight against his skull. He wore his black hair pulled back in a long ponytail, which was threaded with finger bones yellow with age. A spotty beard covered most of his lower face under his deep-set eyes. He wore a scuffed and torn leather jacket with a brightly colored patch across its back that Ryan couldn’t quite make out.
“This here’s Slagger territory,” he shouted at the captives. “Man crossing through here better pay up some tribute if he expects to make it across.”
“We didn’t know,” one of the women yelled back. Her voice shuddered with fear. “We’re new here. Nobody told us.”
“Ignorance of the law ain’t no excuse,” the Slagger leader said. “Lotta Road Brothers paid the price before skydark. Got no mercy in my heart for you piss-poor fuckers come through here unprepared.”
“You’ve already chilled two of us,” one of the men in the captive group said. He was stoop shouldered but carried a lot of weight in his chest, which showed he was accustomed to manual labor. Bruises and drying blood covered his face. He stepped forward, shifting his weight. “How many more you reckon on chilling?”
The Slagger leader grinned. “Gonna chill you all if I’ve a mind to do it.”
Ryan read the stoop-shouldered man’s intentions before the man made his move. With nothing left to lose, a person would generally shoot his whole wad on one desperate move. The Trader knew that, and he’d taught the crews of his war wags that philosophy.
Without another word, the stoop-shouldered man leaped at the Slagger member nearest him. A growl of inarticulate rage tore from his throat.
The Slagger struggled to bring around the chopped-down shotgun he carried. He was young, barely into his teens, and scrawny.
“Crain!” one of the women in the group yelled, starting forward. Another Slagger butt-stroked her in the stomach with his weapon. She let out a thin yelp and dropped to her knees, clutching her belly. Before she could defend herself, the Slagger butt-stroked her again in the head.
Ryan watched without making a move. He knew from the woman’s voice that she wasn’t the one Krysty had somehow linked to.
The stoop-shouldered man backhanded the young Slagger in the face. Blood spewed from his broken nose and covered his face as he staggered back.
Crain came up with the shotgun. Moving with an economy of motion, he lifted the scattergun and pointed it at the Slagger leader. His hand swept both hammers back.
A grin painted the Slagger leader’s thin-lipped mouth as he reached for the pistol holstered on his hip. It came free in an eye blink, the coldheart’s left hand wrapping instinctively around the cut-down barrel. His right hand dropped to the big lever action under the breech.