Chapter Sixteen

 

 

Ryan and his people saw and heard nothing from Hellstrom throughout the remainder of the afternoon or the following day. They walked around, sampling the sights, sounds and tastes of Helskel, and tried to ward off the fingers of dread and apprehension that clutched at them.

 

Jak was the most impatient. He was feeling claustrophobic and more than a little trapped. He sorely wanted to boost the AMAC and tear out of there, with no regard to the consequences, shooting, slashing and slugging anyone who stood in their way. However, he was intelligent enough to realize that all six of them were enmeshed too tightly in Hellstrom's web to escape safely.

 

On the evening of the second day, a ceremony to induct novitiates into the sec squad was staged in the barroom of the saloon. Unlike the funeral of Zadfrak, this ritual was very quick, almost casual. Ryan, Mildred and Krysty watched it through the front door.

 

Dog, Phil and three other men kneeled before Hellstrom, while their heads were shorn of hair by the use of clippers and razors. The men performing the tonsorial chores weren't very careful, and the scalps of all the inductees bore little bleeding cuts and slashes by the time the barbers were done.

 

Once their heads were shaven, Fleur took an ice pick that had been heating in a brazier filled with red-hot coals and inscribed X's on all five men's foreheads. The operation took only a few seconds per man since she was heedless of their blood and pain.

 

Afterward, as blood streaked down their faces, they bowed to Hellstrom, who proclaimed them warriors and servants of Helskel. He dismissed them with a bored wave of the hand. The bleeding men clutched fistfuls of their own hair and left.

 

"A new generation of cannon fodder," Mildred murmured.

 

Catching sight of the companions, Hellstrom gestured for them to enter. Ryan walked in as the new X-scarred sec men walked out. Dog gave him a sidewise glare as he passed. Fleur studiously avoided looking in his direction.

 

"At seven-thirty tomorrow evening," Hellstrom said, "I will have your decision. A war council has been called in the restaurant and your attendance is mandatory."

 

"What if I make up my mind before then?" Ryan asked.

 

"Then you'll wait until the council convenes, Cawdor. I don't grant private audiences on war council days. You may go now."

 

Though he earnestly tried to conceive of a plan through that night and most of the next day, Ryan couldn't come up with a suitable strategy to delay making the decision.

 

The jaws of the Helskel trap had snapped shut neatly and painlessly, but very securely. There was no choice but to go through with the pretense of accepting the position of warlord. Gloomily, none of his friends could offer an alternative, either, except to engage in a firefight they couldn't hope to win.

 

At seven o' clock, a little after twilight, Ryan was alone, walking toward the eatery, when Fleur sauntered around the corner of the building. She had her thumbs hooked into the belt loops of her jeans, and when she caught sight of him, a hesitant, almost shy smile played over the finely chiseled planes of her face.

 

"Evening, Cawdor," she said.

 

Tension lizards crawled along the buttons of his spine, but Ryan returned the smile. "Evening."

 

Casually he placed his right hand on his hip, just above the butt of the SIG-Sauer. If Fleur caught the movement, she gave no sign.

 

Taking a deep breath, she said, "I regret the incident the other day. I was out of line, expecting you to abide by customs that are new to you. I apologize."

 

Ryan said nothing, but one of Trader's favoriteand most tiresomephrases popped unbidden into his mind. "Never apologize. It's a sign of weakness." And if there was one thing Fleur wasn't, it was weak.

 

"The patriarch has finally decided upon a plan to get inside the Anthill," she said after a moment.

 

"Good."

 

"Will you be a part of it?"

 

"I'll tell that to Lars."

 

Fleur nodded, and as Ryan made a move to step around her, she said hurriedly, "Not all of our sec force has assembled. One of the newest members, for one."

 

"Who might that be?" Instantly Ryan regretted asking the question.

 

"You know him. Dog." Seeing his eye narrow, she added, "He made the grade, but he's addicted to a certain vice. He'll be up to his ears in it by now, and somebody has to get him in shape for the council. He respects you. Mebbe you can see to it."

 

It was such an obvious attempt at entrapment that Ryan almost spit on the toes of her boots. "Why should I? I am not Family."

 

"You may not realize it, but your position in Helskel is very precarious. The patriarch doesn't trust you. If you bring Dog in, he may alter his thinking and believe you're cooperating from your own free will. Besides, it's the duty of a warlord to look after the warriors."

 

Ryan stared unblinkingly into Fleur's single eye for a long silent moment. She stared back. He asked, "Where can I find him?"

 

Fleur hooked a thumb over her left shoulder. "Last house on the last lane." She smiled cryptically. "Be prepared to use your fists, Cawdor. Dog may not want to co me."

 

Ryan smiled just as cryptically. "I'll do my best."

 

He walked around her, down the dusky, dusty streets of Helskel. Cooperating with Fleur's flimsy story was a big risk, but he couldn't back down in front of her, nor could he resist the urge to find out what she had planned.

 

He followed a twisting side lane, passing a number of shoddy shanties at the far end of the path. He heard the faint whine of reedy music emanating from the last of the slapdash structures. It was little more than a lean-to, with crudely hewn clapboard walls and a door that hung crookedly from leather hinges.

 

As he approached it, keeping to the lengthening shadows, the door banged open and a man stumbled out into the lane. Ryan stepped back in the murk, not moving, hand resting lightly on his blaster. The man passed within a few feet of him, and by the light of the rising moon and the setting sun, Ryan saw his face.

 

It was the face of a mindless brute. Ryan had seen more intelligence in the eyes of animals. The man mumbled to himself as he staggered, then barked out a snarl of a laugh.

 

With a thrill of loathing, Ryan realized that the vice Fleur had spoken of was the werewolf weed.

 

It was a rare drug, hard to find even in the hinterland of Deathlands. Composed of a mutated form of marijuana and various hallucinogens like peyote, the werewolf weed stimulated the hindbrain, causing an atavistic regression. It was at the same time an unpopular and popular drug. Its sole attraction for the user was to wallow in artificial bestiality for a time. Ryan had heard that some bands of marauders appreciated its influence before a raid, since it made them fearless and predatory. Unfortunately they would just as soon turn on their own comrades as an enemy while in its brutal grip.

 

Ryan catfooted up to the shanty and peered into the open door. The yellow glow of a kerosene lamp was dimmed by a wall of hot, acrid smoke. A skinny man playing a wooden flute crouched in a corner. On the floor lay a number of naked men and women, engaged in various sex acts. Their faces were slack, they growled like animals, they clawed and bit and slapped at each other. A man was bleeding profusely from a bite at the base of his neck, and a woman, her naked body glistening with sweat, was tolerating anal penetration from a grunting biker. There was no sign of Dog.

 

Stomach churning with sour bile, Ryan turned away and headed back up the path. A scuffling of feet from the shadows to his right drew his attention. He fisted his blaster and whirled.

 

A stooping, naked figure crept out of the pool of darkness. For a moment Ryan didn't recognize the slack-jawed, blank-eyed, gape-mouthed face staring into his own. Then, with a sense of revulsion, he recognized the naked man as Dog. The X slash on his forehead had scabbed over, and his ears protruded from his shaven skull.

 

Ryan stepped back. Dog shambled forward, a grin splitting his foam-flecked lips.

 

"Stay back," the one-eyed man warned. "I'll chill you where you stand."

 

Dog didn't seem to hear or care. In his regression, he probably didn't even recognize the purpose of the SIG-Sauer aimed at him. He laughed, a deep, wet, slobbery sound.

 

Ryan backpedaled carefully, his finger on the trigger, even though he knew full well the repercussions of killing Dog. It was a very neat trap Fleur had set. If he, an outsider, killed Dog, she would demand bloody retribution from the Family. It would be a legal execution, since Hellstrom hadn't yet officially named him a scion of the Family. And if he didn't chill Dog, the man was sure to murder him. Either way he would be removed from the equation, and Fleur would be restored to her former status as the sole warlord.

 

Ryan considered shooting to wound, but he knew that powered by the drug, even a 9 mm slug in an arm or leg would be only an insect sting to Dog. There was really only one option.

 

The one-eyed man pivoted suddenly and took to his heels, running full-out toward Helskel. If he could reach the saloon so that Hellstrom could see Dog pursuing him, there would be no question that he chilled the man in self-defense.

 

But he didn't get anywhere near the saloon. He barely made it to the mouth of the lane. Dog was more than half animal now, and with his slobbering snarls sounding in his ears, Ryan heard him loping swiftly behind him.

 

Trying to force more speed into his pumping legs, Ryan increased the length of his stride. In less than a hundred feet Dog caught up to him.

 

One hand locked in Ryan's hair and the other gripped the back of his neck with an agonizing pressure. He tried to fight free, but he staggered, losing his balance on the uneven ground.

 

He went down heavily. His head struck the ground, and the SIG-Sauer clattered and bounced noisily from his grasp. Still, Ryan continued to roll, throwing his body in a frantic somersault toward the lights of Helskel.

 

Dog landed on him with his full weight, his teeth sinking into the collar of his shirt. Ryan hammered at the frothing face pressed against his, not giving in to the impulse to cry out in pain.

 

Talonlike nails raked at his face, and knees jacked into his midsection, seeking his groin. Dog swarmed all over him, pounding, clawing and savaging. Snarls and thick-throated laughter filled his ears as Ryan struggled to shake him off.

 

Dog grabbed handfuls of Ryan's hair and banged his head against the ground, once, twice, three times. Maybe more. Ryan was unable to count beyond the third time. He could barely think.

 

He tried to draw up his legs, hoping to get in at least one solid kick, but Dog was all slavering madness, his steely fingers shifting from Ryan's hair to his throat. He struck in a blind frenzy of desperation, but Dog didn't feel the blows.

 

Ryan stretched out one arm, groping for his blaster, and his fingers brushed a rough, pitted surface. His right hand closed around it and he heaved up a rock the size of a small pumpkin. Not even trying to gauge the accuracy of the blows, he smashed the rock again and again against the side of Dog's head.

 

The man uttered a peculiar growling yelp, and the death grip on Ryan's throat relaxed a bit. With his free hand, Ryan slammed the steely fingers away. Dog bounded up and away from him, using Ryan's torso as a springboard, and very nearly drove all the wind from his lungs.

 

Ryan scrambled to his feet, bleeding, sick and dizzy, while Dog crouched on the ground only a few feet away. Blood streaked the side of his face and dripped down over his cheeks and mouth. The X scab had opened up and was leaking twin scarlet streams down either side of his nose. He touched the blood with his fingers, sniffed it, then put his fingers in his mouth, sucking them clean.

 

Snarling, Dog glared at Ryan, eyes gleaming balefully. His muscles tensed and coiled, then he sprang out of his crouch directly at Ryan's throat.

 

Instead of trying to avoid the leap, Ryan bounded forward, rock-weighted right hand swinging forward in a short, adrenaline-charged arc. The arc ended as the rock caught Dog in the center of his scarred, sallow face.

 

He howled as the force of the blow drove him flailing ten feet across the ground. The force also crushed his nose, driving the bone splinters through his sinus cavities, then into what was left of his brain.

 

Dog jerked, twitched and rolled in the dust. He came up to his knees, blood flowing from his nose. He opened his mouth as if to voice another howl, and a crimson torrent spilled past his lips, splashing on the ground. His eyes lifted to stare skyward, then he fell face first to the ground.

 

Ryan stood and watched as Dog's death spasms slowly ceased. He was gasping in lungfuls of air and probing gingerly at the raw abrasions on his face. Every tendon, every muscle in his body was alive with pain. His head throbbed, in cadence with his pulse. The world tilted around him and he sank to his knees.

 

Then voices were roaring, shouting and cursing all around him, and rough hands hauled him to his feet. He blinked his eye against the glare of torches and flashlights. Around him he could see members of the Family, all white with fury and outrage.

 

"The son of a bitch murdered Dog. Hold him, gimme my knife!" shrilled a male voice that Ryan recognized as Phil's.

 

Ryan struggled against the hands and arms pinioning him, but he was held fast. Fleur, silhouetted by the flickering torchlight, came striding toward him.

 

"It's as I said," she shouted. "He's a pig, an insurgent, an East Coast spy!"

 

"You're full of shit!" Ryan croaked. "Dog was a drugged animal, and you set me up to kill him, you lying"

 

The back of Fleur's hand smacked across Ryan's mouth, his teeth cutting into his lower lip. He reeled backward and spit crimson at her feet.

 

"Blood for Family blood!" Fleur shouted. "It's the justice of Charlie!"

 

Then Hellstrom was there, borne in his chair by four sec men. His face was hidden by the shadows, but light was reflected from his eyes like a pair of tiny stars.

 

"What is going on here, Cawdor?" he demanded.

 

Fleur began shrieking before Ryan could collect his wits. She began a furious tirade about how Ryan was deceiving Hellstrom and everyone in the Family, how he had been plotting to betray them to the freezies in Mount Rushmore, about how he was on a secret mission from East Coast baronies, how he had tried to convince Dog to turn traitor, cold-bloodedly murdering the hapless sec man when he was in a sedated condition, simply because he refused to be party to the treachery.

 

Raging, Ryan roared, "She lies, Hellstrom! She's jealous of me, she hates me because I saved her life and then spurned her"

 

A fist struck Ryan painfully and with terrific force in the belly, and he was robbed of all breath. He sagged in the grips of the men holding him. Hellstrom motioned for Ryan's captors to release him. He found that his legs wouldn't support him and he fell to his hands and knees, hanging his head and sucking in lungful after lungful of air.

 

Hellstrom patiently waited for Ryan to stand up again before he spoke. His angular face was expressionless, but he was in a bind, and Ryan saw the knowledge of it in his eyes. He didn't believe Fleur's accusations, and he still had a use for Ryan and his people. However, he had to assert his patriarchal status in the eyes of the Family.

 

"I want no more violence between you two. If you're making me choose between the pair of you, it'll have to be settled in combat."

 

Fleur said angrily, "He's an outsider, not Family. We kill outsiders who violate our laws. He hasn't earned the right."

 

"Shut up!" Hellstrom roared. The unexpected fracture in his icy, controlled reserve startled everyone into shamed silence. "I'm ceding him the right! I'll put off the war council until this matter is settled."

 

Fleur ducked her head and murmured, "I beg forgiveness."

 

Then a smile crossed her face. She eyed Ryan with a murderous glee and declared, "A track stand."

 

Ryan didn't say anything for a moment. He remembered what he had overheard of track standstwo combatants, both astride motorcycles, each armed with only a whip, a knife and the individual warrior's skill. He wasn't at all certain he was qualified. His experience with motorcycles was limited. Nor was he confident he could handle Fleur, a cold heart whose crazed ego demanded Ryan's life.

 

"Well?" Hellstrom challenged. "Are you up to it?"

 

Ryan wiped a thread of blood from his lower lip, surveyed the expectant faces all around him and said, "Name the time and place."