"For a what?" she asked. "For a woman?"

 

 "For such a pretty one, at least."

 

 "A woman's got to protect herself. There are a lot of bad people out in the Deathlands."

 

 "I've seen a few of them."

 

 "But when they brought me here, they took my blaster from me." Krysty drew the zipper a little lower, exposing her full breasts enclosed in a lacy bra. "I know I can't ever have it back, but I've been wondering what they might have done with it."

 

 "Oh, it's likely in the armory with the others," the sec man said, licking his lips like a dog. "They brought all the outlanders' blasters down there. I've seen some of them. Quality stuff."

 

 "The other sec men haven't taken them for themselves yet?" Krysty said breathlessly.

 

 "No." He shook his head. "Everything that comes into the farm like that belongs to the baron. He'll probably have a shooting contest in a few days to see who deserves to have the best blasters. Then the rest of us will upgrade with blasters being used by more senior sec men." He looked at his remade .22. "Maybe I'll have to give up my crippler for a man-stopper."

 

 "Where is the armory?"

 

 "Down in the basement of this building. It's right next door to the nursery."

 

 "And who has keys to it?"

 

 "Baron Fox, of course."

 

 "Of course."

 

 "Sec chief Grundwold does, too. And the armory's quartermaster, of course."

 

 "No one else has a key?"

 

 "There might be a few others." He shrugged. "The lock's mostly to keep people from wandering into the room by mistake. The door's not all that strong, so if someone really wanted to get in, all they'd have to do is break down the door."

 

 Krysty nodded, sat up straight in her chair and began zipping up her top. "That was a great breakfast," she said, smiling. "But the company was best of all. Will you be bringing my lunch?"

 

 "I could try and get the duty if you like."

 

 "Oh, yes, I'd like that very much."

 

 "Consider it done."

 

 "See you then."

 

 The young sec man smiled as he lingered in the room, finally bumping into the door frame on his way out.

 

 REMOVING THE 37 mm cannon from the nose of the P-39 was proving more difficult than J.B. had thought it would be. The engine was behind the pilot's seat and drove the propeller by way of a long extension shaft. That allowed the nose of the aircraft to house the cannon, firing directly through the propeller hub, along with a pair of .50-caliber machine blasters sitting in the top part of the nose. The blasters had been easy to take out, but the gearing and shaft driving the engine proved to be an obstacle to the removal of the cannon.

 

 "How's it coming, J.B.?" Doc asked.

 

 "I don't think we're going to be raiding the farm tonight, Doc."

 

 "Stubborn," Jak observed, coming up alongside Doc.

 

 "That's a good word for it."

 

 Doc rested an arm on the plane's wing. "Is there anything we can do to help?"

 

 "Something to eat would be nice. And a warm cup of coffee sub."

 

 Doc, Jak and Dean all turned to look at Clarissa.

 

 "Are you boys good with those blasters?"

 

 Doc sighed. "Must you ask?"

 

 "Okay, then, do you like fish?"

 

 "Haven't had any for a while," J.B. said.

 

 "Well, there's a spot below the falls where you might be able to shoot some for dinner."

 

 "Shooting fish in a barrel?" Doc asked.

 

 "Something like that."

 

 "Doc stays with me," J.B. commanded. "You two go with her. We'll need enough to get us through today and tomorrow."

 

 Jak and Dean followed Clarissa out of the underground garage.

 

 "And Jak…" J.B. called out.

 

 The albino turned.

 

 "I don't want to hear anything about the ones that got away."

 

 Jak unholstered his .357 Magnum Colt Python. "No worry. Fish not escape."

 

 WITHOUT PURVIS LOOKING over the crew, work in the orchards was almost pleasant for Ryan and Brody. They were pulling weeds again, but no one was pushing them hard, since most everyone's thoughts were on the afternoon's contest.

 

 At morning break, an older man approached Ryan, standing over him and Brody as they drank some much needed water.

 

 "I know what you did to Purvis," the old man said.

 

 Ryan was cautious. "He a friend of yours?"

 

 "No, sir! He was no friend of anyone on this crew, especially the women."

 

 "So I gathered."

 

 Brody was growing suspicious of the old man. "You got something to say, old-timer?"

 

 "Only this." He paused and licked his lips with his tongue. "The women, them over there—"

 

 Ryan looked to where the old man was pointing and saw six women huddled together in a circle. Two of the women waved at him. Ryan waved back.

 

 "They're grateful for what you done, and they want you to know they'll be cheering for you today."

 

 "Thank you," Ryan said.

 

 "And they wanted me to give you this." He held out his fist, turned his fingers over to catch the sun, then opened his hand. In his palm, a shiny bit of metal glinted in the morning sunlight.

 

 "Brass knuckles," Brody said.

 

 "I've been keeping them in case Purvis ever wanted to roll me. I wouldn't have stopped him, but I might have at least broken his nose." The old man laughed then, a dry, wheezing sort of laugh.

 

 "Weapons like this are allowed?" Ryan asked, taking the brass knuckles from the old man and slipping them over the fingers of his right hand.

 

 Brody nodded. "The others will be trying to bring everything they can in with them, too, from spikes to knife blades."

 

 "What about the sec men?"

 

 "They'll be looking the other way."

 

 Ryan nodded, pressing his brass-ringed fist into the palm of his left hand. It would certainly do some damage, and it was comfortable enough that he could still hold a sword or club in his right hand while the knuckles were on his fingers. "Thank you, to you and the ladies."

 

 "No, thankyou ," the old man said. "Today's been almost like a holiday without that bastard Purvis around. So even if you get chilled in the arena, you've already done us a good deed."

 

 "You're welcome," Ryan said. "I guess."

 

 CLARISSA BROUGHT Jak and Doc down to the river where the water ran fast in a swirling froth of water and foam.

 

 "There are fish here?" Jak asked.

 

 "Not here." Clarissa gestured across the river. "There's a whirlpool on the other side. With the lower water level, the fish get trapped inside it, swirling around and around. We've tried to catch them all sorts of ways, with our bare hands and with sharpened sticks, but the fish are too fast."

 

 They began walking across the river, the water being just low enough for them to be able to make it on foot—if they were careful.

 

 "And we're supposed to shoot them?" Dean asked.

 

 "Do you see any other food around?" Clarissa responded with her own question.

 

 "No, but I—"

 

 Suddenly Dean's voice was gone as he slipped on the rocks and fell under the water.

 

 "Dean!" Clarissa shouted.

 

 He was hanging on to a jutting rock with both hands, the flow of water trying to push him downstream. "I can't pull myself up," he said, swallowing a mouthful of water in the process.

 

 Jak took off his coat and extended his left hand to Clarissa. "Grab hand!"

 

 She took it.

 

 He then extended his arms and took one sleeve of his jacket in his right hand. He swung the jacket toward Dean so the other sleeve fell near the rock he was clutching.

 

 Dean reached for the jacket, which was fluttering in the flow of water, but when he let go of the rock with one hand, he was nearly swept away by the river. He was forced to grab hold again with two hands.

 

 "Jak, look!" Clarissa screamed.

 

 Jak glanced downstream and saw what looked like rocks moving against the flow. "What is it?"

 

 "A mutie fish," she shouted. "A big one, muskie or salmon, maybe even a mutie sturgeon."

 

 The fish was getting closer, its huge mouth open wide to catch everything the river sent its way. It scooped up dead fish and other refuse without ever having to move more than a few dozen feet left or right. If Dean let go, he'd be swept away by the water into the fish's belly in seconds.

 

 "Hang on, Dean!" Clarissa shouted.

 

 Jak kept trying to work his jacket into position, but he was short by a couple of feet.

 

 "Give me pants," he said.

 

 Without hesitation, Clarissa slid off her pants, stepped out of them and tied one of the legs to Jak's jacket sleeve. Then she held Jak's arm while he tried reaching Dean.

 

 This time the pant leg landed over Dean's hands. With a quick movement of his right hand, the boy grabbed the pant leg. Then, with it securely wrapped around his wrist, he let go of the rock.

 

 "Pull!" Jak said, straining against the current.

 

 "Jak, the fish!"

 

 The albino teen looked past Dean. The fish was swimming against the current toward their fallen friend, as if Dean were bait at the end of a line. They continued to reel him in, but they couldn't pull fast enough. With a mighty flip of its tail the fish lunged forward, its upper lip brushing up against Dean's boots.

 

 "Hurry up!" Dean yelled.

 

 The fish kept coming, and Jak realized that even after they pulled Dean in, the mutie fish would still be able to move upstream against the current with its belly against the bottom and water flowing through its gills to breathe.

 

 The shallow rapids weren't any protection against this fish. They were all in danger.

 

 "Take jacket," Jak said, handing the sleeve to Clarissa so she could hold on to it with him while he pulled his .357 Colt Python from its holster.

 

 Dean, seeing the big six-inch barrel of Jak's blaster pointed in his direction, ducked his head, plunging it under the water to get it out of the way.

 

 Jak fired off two rounds that smashed into the fish's great head. The powerful rounds punched holes in its skull and tore big bloody swaths through its soft body. Chunks of blood, brain and meaty flesh exploded out the sides of its body. But it was still moving for Dean. Jak squeezed off another two rounds, catching the fish in one of its eyes with the first shot and blowing away the entire left side of its mouth with the other.

 

 Blood began to turn the river around the fish a pinkish red, and it began to lose the battle with the current and slowly started to float away.

 

 With the danger of the fish now gone, Clarissa and Jak were able to quickly pull Dean to safety.

 

 "I've done a lot of things in the time I've been with Dad," Dean commented, when he was back on his feet and squeezing water out of his clothes. "But I never thought I'd be used as fish bait."

 

 Jak stood in silence, watching the big fish float downriver, toward the lake. "Fish getting away. Not tell J.B."

 

 Clarissa began putting on her sodden pants. "Well, we can always try the whirlpool. That was the plan in the beginning anyway."

 

 But then the fish was caught by an eddy in the river, and it turned sideways against the current. As if by design, it washed up on the north shore, across the river from Whirlpool Point. They'd be able to cut as many steaks as they wanted out of the fish, and the carcass would feed Clarissa's mutie clan for days to come.

 

 "Hot pipe!" Dean exclaimed. "We'll tell J.B. all about it. He won't believe a word of it, but we can tell him."

 

 They hurried across the river.

 

 "WHERE'S THE FISH?" J.B. asked when the door to the underground garage rolled up and Jak, Clarissa and Dean slid under the bottom gap.

 

 "Floating in the river," Dean answered.

 

 Doc rubbed his empty stomach. "Are you saying that you did not chill a single fish?"

 

 "Chilled one fish," Jak said, a burlap sack slung over his shoulder.

 

 "Just one," J.B. said, working to loosen something in the cockpit of the P-39. "Don't tell me. All the rest got away, right?"

 

 "Nope." Dean smiled. "After Jak chilled that one fish, it floated downriver and we didn't need to chill any more."

 

 "Washed up on shore," Jak said, dropping the sack at Doc's feet.

 

 "But a half-ton fish was too big to bring back here," Clarissa said, "so we decided to bring back fifty pounds of fish steaks instead. Hope that's enough."

 

 Doc was speechless for a moment, then asked, "What sort of fish?"

 

 Clarissa held up one of the neatly cut slabs. "Sturgeon."

 

 "Is that good eating?"

 

 "No worry," Jak said, "When finished, taste like chicken."

 

 BRODY REJOINED the crew later in the afternoon. "I bet all the jack I had on you at ten to one," he told Ryan. "You're sitting at eight to one now."

 

 "What about you?" Ryan asked.

 

 "Me," Brody shrugged. "Something like twenty-five to one, but that's just being kind. No one's put any jack on me, not even me. Come to think of it, nobody's put any jack on you except for the people in this crew. They've all bet on you."

 

 A sec man approached them from behind. Ryan's muscles tensed, ready to strike the man or his blaster if the situation required it.

 

 "All right, you two, your work is over for today," the sec man said. "Catch a ride on the wag back to your quarters. The baron wants you rested up for tonight's entertainment."

 

 The two men stopped pulling weeds and headed for the wag.

 

 Ryan didn't like to chill anything for sport, but it appeared he wouldn't be having any choice in the matter this time around.

 

  

 

 Chapter Twenty-Two

 

  

 

 Baron Fox sat back in his chair behind his desk, looking through the pages of another one of his tattered predark skin mags.

 

 "Nineteen have signed up for the contest, Baron," Norman Bauer said after waiting several minutes for Baron Fox to finish with his mag.

 

 The baron didn't lift his eyes from the page. "Who is favored?"

 

 "Mog. One to four."

 

 The baron nodded. "Who's got the best odds next after Mog?"

 

 "The one-eyed outlander," Bauer reported. "Eight to one."

 

 That seemed to catch the baron's interest. "The outlander has signed up to save his woman, has he? Oh, that's precious."

 

 "From what the sec men tell me, this one-eye is a very dangerous man."

 

 "Really?"

 

 "We can't prove it, since none of the slaves will come forward, but the talk is that the one-eye must have chilled Purvis in the shower his first day in the orchards."

 

 Baron Fox put aside his mag. "In the shower?"

 

 "Everyone says Purvis slipped on some soap, but he and the one-eye were the last ones in the showers."

 

 "He chilled Purvis in the shower, with his bare hands?"

 

 "Smashed his head on the tiles, it would seem."

 

 The baron was excited by the thought of it.

 

 "Tell Mog's crew," he said at last. "A week free of work for the man who chills the one-eye."

 

 THERE WAS A KNOCK on the door to the nursery.

 

 "Come," Mildred said. She was watching over Jasmine, making sure the woman was comfortable. She was still experiencing afterpains in the abdomen and was showing a bloody vaginal discharge. The latter was beginning to clear up, but the pains were still as sharp as ever. And then there was the depression that followed delivery, made worse by the absence of the newborn child.

 

 A sec man entered the nursery first, followed by Krysty Wroth.

 

 "Krysty!" Mildred said warmly. "What brings you here?"

 

 "The baron," she answered. "He wants me to get checked out to make sure I'm healthy for the winner."

 

 "Girl, you're one of the healthiest females I've ever known. But if the baron wants you checked out, then we should do that in the examination room." Mildred smiled and led Krysty away from the sec man and into a small room at the back of the nursery.

 

 When the door was closed behind them, Mildred turned to Krysty. "Looks like they've been treating you well."

 

 Krysty nodded. "The best of everything."

 

 "Ryan's signed up for the contest," Mildred said. "And you saw that woman out in the nursery. Her man will be fighting alongside Ryan."

 

 "It's good to know he's not alone."

 

 "His work crew's behind him, as well."

 

 Krysty lowered her voice some. "I found out that our blasters are being stored in the armory near here. They'll be having another contest, a shooting contest between sec men to see who gets them."

 

 "Hopefully we won't be here that long."

 

 Krysty nodded. "The door's locked, but I've been told it can be easily broken into."

 

 "Maybe I'll do that when the time comes."

 

 "My guess is tomorrow."

 

 "Mine, too."

 

 Just then the door to the examination room opened, revealing a sec man standing in the doorway.

 

 "Can I help you?" Mildred asked, her hands on her hips.

 

 "Keep the door open," he said. "So I can hear what you're saying."

 

 "I was just telling her that her female parts are in fine working order and that's she's going to make the champion one happy man."

 

 The sec man smiled and turned away from the open door.

 

 JAK AND CLARISSA COOKED the fish steaks over an open fire near the entrance to the underground garage.

 

 As usual, there were muties hanging around on the other side of the garage door, but they'd all gorged themselves on the sturgeon carcass in the river and were now just waiting for instruction from their goddess, Clarissa.

 

 J.B. had managed to free the 37 mm cannon from the P-39 and was now in the process of stripping it to check for dampness and rust.

 

 "Will it fire?" Doc asked, peering over J.B.'s shoulder.

 

 "I think so."

 

 "Any thoughts on how you might mount such an infernal weapon?"

 

 "Thinking about bolting it onto the side of the wag, but there's not much solid steel to mount it on," he explained. "If we had any more than sixteen shells to fire, the cannon's recoil would eventually tear the whole side off the wag. Should hold together till we're done with it, though."

 

 "What about aiming it?"

 

 "I'll have to point the wag where I want the round to go. Probably have to use a round or two to calibrate the cannon, mebbe put an X onto the windshield marking the target at a hundred yards or so."

 

 "Ah, a precision weapon, I see," Doc teased the Armorer.

 

 J.B. smiled. "In some ways it's like your LeMat, Doc. With this thing, all I have to be is close. The half pound of hot lead will do the rest."

 

 Doc smiled, knowing J.B. was in his element. "When do you think it will be ready?"

 

 "Not tonight," the Armorer said with a disappointed sigh. "I still have to mount the .50 calibers and then test the guns, and that should be done during the day. So I'm afraid Ryan will have to wait one more night."

 

 "I could do with another night's sleep myself," Doc said. "That and a bite to eat." He turned in the direction of Jak and Clarissa, who had now been joined by Dean. "I say, Master Jak, is dinner close to being served?"

 

 "Not yet," the albino said. "Take time if want taste like chicken."

 

 Doc was forced to go hungry another fifteen minutes, but forgot all about the wait when he discovered that sturgeon steaks did indeed taste like chicken.

 

 And very tasty chicken at that.

 

  

 

 Chapter Twenty-Three

 

  

 

 There was a carnival atmosphere in the air.

 

 The slaves had gotten off work early and many of them had broken out their private stocks of booze, most of which the baron had given them as reward for good breeding.

 

 An eight-point ring had been mapped out in the courtyard about fifty feet across, with tall wooden stakes being pounded into the ground and connected to each other by a length of medium-gauge chain. Each stake was topped with a red flag, and the chain was painted bright red to clearly denote the perimeter of the circle.

 

 Slaves and sec men gathered around the outside of the circle. Those eager to be spattered with sweat and blood sat on the dry, hard ground just a few paces back from the chain, while less bloodthirsty spectators kept farther back of the makeshift arena, sitting on an assortment of crates, boxes and chairs.

 

 Baron Fox appeared on the wooden stage that had been constructed years earlier for such outdoor spectacles and addressed the crowd.

 

 "This is a happy time at Fox Farm," he began. "We have birthed more offspring in the past month than in the previous three months combined, and it's all because of you!

 

 "So, as a small token of my appreciation for so many jobs well done, I have arranged a special entertainment for this evening. Like gladiators from a long ago time, these men will be testing their strength, courage, desire and spirit in a fight to the finish. Ten men will enter the circle…"

 

 Over in the main building, Ryan stood behind the closed doors, waiting for his time to enter the circle. "Only ten?"

 

 "A few must have dropped out," Brody explained, "signing up just for show and an early quitting time. Or the sec chief might have tossed out a few men he thought would only get in the way."

 

 "…and in the end, only one will remain. The victor!"

 

 "To the victor go the spoils!" the crowd shouted in unison. "To the victor go the spoils!"

 

 The baron looked pleased. He nodded and Krysty was led out onto the stage by a pair of sec men. She had changed yet again, this time into a short skirt and skintight tank top that highlighted all of her curves. She was still wearing her cowboy boots, but a studded collar had been added to her neck.

 

 The baron put out his hand to calm the crowd. "The spoils, yes! Here she is, a shining example of feminine perfection, hot, fiery and a worthy prize for the strongest, most virile male on the farm. Their union will produce a beautiful offspring."

 

 The baron placed his hand on Krysty's breast. She tried to move away, but the sec men behind her held her in place.

 

 The sight caused Ryan's blood to boil with anger.

 

 "Easy, my friend," Brody said. "You've got to chill a few other men before you can get close to him."

 

 The baron continued. "But before any of that can happen, we must first decide which of these brave males will be allowed to be drowned in this woman's ample feminine charms. And so, I give you sec chief Grundwold, who will remind you all of the rules."

 

 The crowd let out a long, loud cheer.

 

 The baron, waving to the crowd, sat on the purple throne set atop the stage. Krysty was brought by his side and was made to sit on pillow at his feet. A chain was attached to her dog collar, with the other end locked to one of the throne's purple legs.

 

 Grundwold stepped forward. "The last man left standing in the circle is the victor. Rest periods will be called for the removal of bodies from the circle. Wounded combatants can leave the ring of their own free will, or they can be forced out at any time by another combatant, or they can be chilled!

 

 "And so, let the game begin. And as always, to the victor go the spoils!"

 

 The doors to the main building were opened by a sec man standing in the courtyard. "Get out there, you two!"

 

 Ryan and Brody stepped out into the hot afternoon sun and walked along a path kept clear by sec men that led into the circle. There were a few cheers for the two men coming from their own crew, but everyone else kept quiet, saving their loudest cheers for the others.

 

 When Ryan and Brody reached the far end of the circle, they turned to see a white miniwag pull up and two sec men step off the back, heading for the circle. The noise level among the slaves remained constant, but the sec men who were scattered around the courtyard and up in the towers all whistled their approval.

 

 "Richmond and Salazar," Brody said. "They're the two meanest sec men on the farm. I doubt they'll go up against Mog and his animals, but if they've entered the game it means they're looking to chill someone."

 

 Ryan understood, and he hated the two men instantly. He'd seen plenty of sec men go mad from the power they had over people. These men enjoyed beating slaves and had probably chilled dozens over the years. Their first few had been a mistake, the result of a combination of overeagerness and not knowing when to quit. After the first few, however, chilling got easier, until they needed to chill someone like an addict needed jolt They were here for some fun, to chill and inflict pain and then back out of the fight like cowards. Ryan would see to it that they didn't leave the circle in the same shape they entered it.

 

 The doors to the big barn opened next, and two pale creatures scrambled across the courtyard and into the circle. Their skin was white, covered by a layer of grime. The rest of their bodies were covered in tattered clothing, and their exposed arms were as thin as blaster barrels. Tufts of black hair stood up on their heads, patches of it coming low on the forehead and shading eyes that were sunk back deep in their sockets. Tongues lolled uselessly out the sides of their mouths as both of them sniffed at the air.

 

 "That's Laslo and Hambly."

 

 "Muties?"

 

 "Mostly," Brody answered. "They're more norm than mutie, but they aren't allowed to rut with the rest of us. The baron keeps them in the barn to shovel shit and clean toilets. Every once in a while he gives them a nonbreeder he's all done with since once they go into the barn, they don't usually come back out alive. They've probably got their sights set on your woman."

 

 "That's all they'll get of her, too."

 

 The crowd began chanting as one. "Mog! Mog! Mog!"

 

 "Here he comes," Brody said.

 

 Ryan turned toward the orchard closest to the courtyard. Walking between two rows of plum trees, almost as tall as a tree himself, was what had to be the man called Mog.

 

 He stood over six and a half feet tall, and his naked upper body bulged with well-defined muscles and flesh that was covered with a road map of scars. His head was shaved above the ears, and his remaining hair was cut short, bristling straight up from his head in a sort of cocomb that split the sides of his skull in two, like a wedge. Half of his left ear was missing, and his nose looked as if it had been broken several times.

 

 "Mog! Mog! Mog!"

 

 Mog was obviously the crowd favorite, getting slapped on the back by men and women alike all the way into the circle.

 

 "And he's as mean as he is big," Brody said. "The sec men wanted to recruit him into the ranks, but he refused. Said he'd rather be a slave than a rad-blasted sec man."

 

 Ryan appreciated the sentiment. "Looks dangerous enough."

 

 "When he first arrived, the sec men had trouble keeping him in line. He broke the necks of two men the first week."

 

 "Why didn't they chill him?"

 

 "Baron wouldn't let them. Mog's offspring bring in top jack for the farm. Baron even gave him his own personal group of breeders."

 

 "Sounds like he's got a good deal going. What's he doing here?"

 

 "I think he wants Krysty for himself."

 

 Ryan remembered something the Trader used to say and muttered it now under his breath. "A chilled man has no desires, no wants."

 

 "What was that?"

 

 "Nothing," Ryan answered, craning his neck to see the three men walking in Mog's shadow. "Who are they?"

 

 "Dorfman, Billingsley and Foghat. They're Mog's cronies and will be watching his back, like I'll be doing for you. Stab you in the back if they can. Makes no difference to them."

 

 "Thanks for the warning."

 

 "Well, all of them will stab you in the back if they get the chance."

 

 Ryan nodded. "That's what I figured."

 

 "Chill or be chilled."

 

 Grundwold entered the circle carrying a canvas duffel bag filled with weapons. When he reached the center, he upended the bag and let the contents fall to the ground. Piled in a heap were several lengths of heavy chain, an assortment of knives, a few long wooden pikes and a few rusty swords. However, included in the jumble were several newer pieces, including Ryan's own panga.

 

 Seeing the knife's eighteen-inch blade, Ryan moved closer to the center of the circle.

 

 "Back off, One-eye!" Grundwold bellowed. "You start anything while I'm in the circle, and my snipers will blow a hole through your skull big enough to drive a wag through."

 

 Ryan looked at the armed men in the towers and took a cautious step backward.

 

 Mog moved closer to the circle's center, as well, but instead of calling the man on it, Grundwold simply hurried out of the circle.

 

 "Makes no difference to me, outlander," Mog said, gesturing to the weapons. "I'll chill you with whatever you leave behind."

 

 Ryan watched the giant man stop a few paces from the pile of weapons and wondered if he meant what he'd said, or was merely trying to put Ryan off.

 

 "Take what you want," Brody said. "Hurry!"

 

 Ryan reached for his panga, slid his fingers around the handle and pulled it roughly out of the bottom of the pile.

 

 Brody grabbed a six-foot-long pike, selecting the best weapon to keep the others at bay.

 

 The sec men and muties also reached for the weapons, the sec men picking out knives and the muties selecting the aged swords. True to his word, Mog and his men took what was left behind. The giant took a length of chain for himself, while Dorfman, Billingsley and Foghat ended up with a knife, pike and sword respectively.

 

 "I can chill you with a chain as easily as a blaster, One-eye," Mog said, his voice a low, deep rumble that boomed out of his cavernous chest like a cannon shot.

 

 Outside the circle, Grundwold raised his hands. "Ready?"

 

 The question was answered by a rumble of shouts and whistles from the crowd. They were more than ready, for blood and chilling.

 

 "Fight!"

 

 The circle came alive with movement.

 

 Ryan stepped back from the center, expecting Mog to swing the chain in his direction, but instead he quickly turned to the left, whipping his arm out and catching the mutie named Laslo in the neck. The chain tore into the mutie's neck, embedding itself three inches into the flesh, causing a gout of blood to spurt up from the open wound.

 

 Hambly looked at his partner with stunned fascination as Laslo desperately tried to pull the chain from his neck. Blood was pouring over the dying mutie's shoulder as he fell to his knees, still vainly trying to work the chain free.

 

 Mog took a step toward Laslo, wrapped the remaining length of chain around the part of the neck that remained, and then pulled with both hands. The blunt chain ripped through the mutie's flesh like a dull blade, tearing his head from his shoulders and sending it spinning into the air.

 

 The flying severed head, blood still draining from inside, caught the attention of the crowd and most of the combatants.

 

 But not Ryan.

 

 He used the opportunity to move right and slash at the leg of one of the sec men. He caught Salazar on the right leg just below the knee. The man let out a yelp of pain as his pant leg was slashed open and blood began to pool around his right foot.

 

 "You should have chilled me with that blow, One-eye," Salazar said, clutching at his bleeding leg. '"Cause I'm gonna make you pay for it."

 

 The sec man lunged forward, but stopped himself in midstride when he found the sharpened tip of Brody's pike between himself and Ryan.

 

 "Let him come," Ryan said, moving the pike aside with his left hand. "You just watch that the other poor excuse for a sec man doesn't interfere."

 

 Richmond heard the comment and sneered at Ryan. "Don't chill him, Sally," he told Salazar. "Leave a bit of his worthless life for me."

 

 "You got it." Salazar grimaced, still bleeding.

 

 Ryan stepped back to keep his distance from the approaching sec man. On Ryan's right, the second mutie, Hambly, had his hands full trying to stay away from Mog. The giant appeared to be toying with the man, putting on a show with his chain that the crowd seemed to be enjoying since they were still shouting, "Mog! Mog! Mog!" louder than ever.

 

 Salazar's knife was about the same length as Ryan's panga, but that's where the similarities ended. Ryan's blade was sharp, and the balance of the weapon was excellent. Salazar, on the other hand, seemed to be fighting his knife, not sure whether to lunge or slash with it.

 

 And there was another advantage Ryan held over the sec man. Salazar's wounded leg continued to spill blood. If the cut hadn't slowed him, the loss of blood was sure to. All Ryan had to do was wait, but in this arena, waiting was a luxury he might not have time for.

 

 "What's the matter, One-eye, don't want to stand and fight?"

 

 Ryan thought of the Trader's saying about those who run away being able to run away another day, but that didn't apply here. If he ran, his fight was over and one of these creatures would end up with Krysty.

 

 His best friend.

 

 His lover.

 

 The thought of her made Ryan stand his ground.

 

 He planted his boots on the dry, dusty ground and threw the panga back and forth from his left hand to his right. The move had been intended to confuse Salazar and let him know that Ryan was equally good with the knife with either hand, but it had also captured the attention of the crowd, who appreciated a fighter with some showmanship and flare. Even Mog and the others were watching Ryan now. But he refused to put on a show for their entertainment. Chilling was a matter of survival, not people's amusement. He stopped tossing the panga back and forth and held it before himself to guard against an attack.

 

 Salazar had no problems about putting on a show, however. He tried to emulate Ryan's prowess with his knife, but was handling the weapon awkwardly. Ryan followed the flight of the knife from one hand to the other, waiting for his chance.

 

 It came on the third time the knife was in Salazar's left hand. He fumbled with it, having to adjust his hand slightly to firm up his grip on the knife. Ryan wasted no time.

 

 In a flash, his right boot shot up from the ground, kicking Salazar's hand, breaking several finger bones and sending the knife spinning through the air.

 

 Salazar looked stupidly at his empty right hand, as if the knife had suddenly betrayed him.

 

 Ryan followed the kick with a hard left cross to the side of the sec man's face. Teeth and blood flew out of a corner of his mouth, much of it landing outside the ring, and his eyes rolled up in their sockets. He fell to the ground in a heap, his head slamming hard into the ground.

 

 Richmond stepped forward to help his fellow sec man, but Brody kept him back.

 

 Even one of Mog's men, Foghat, moved in to keep Richmond away.

 

 Ryan stepped forward and looked over the fallen guard. "If you agree to leave at the break, I won't chill you, sec man."

 

 "Fuck you, outlander!" Salazar spit on Ryan's boot and pounded a fist weakly against Ryan's thigh.

 

 Ryan flipped the panga so that it was pointing down and plunged the tip of it into Salazar's chest. The knife stopped when it was through his body and had come up against the hard-packed ground beneath it.

 

 A faint pulse of blood bubbled up around the panga's blade, and a crimson line leaked out of the corner of the man's mouth.

 

 The crowd grew silent.

 

 A bell rang to signify the first break.

 

 Ryan and Brody were still alive, and there were two fewer opponents to worry about.

 

  

 

 Chapter Twenty-Four

 

  

 

 Sec chief Ganley helped pull the second boat onto dry land and began overseeing preparations for another night on the shore. The volunteers were near exhaustion after fighting the wind and current on Erie Lake throughout the long afternoon. Some had gone off into the nearby forests in search of firewood and anything else that might be useful to them.

 

 There was plenty of fresh fish to eat, but Ganley would allow them to break into some of the dried stores they'd brought to trade if anyone wanted. The following day would be a long one, and they'd need all the rest and strength they could manage.

 

 A sudden scream came from somewhere inland.

 

 Ganley ran toward the sound, followed closely by several of the others.

 

 When he reached a small stand of trees, Ganley stopped in his tracks. He frantically searched the deadwood and pale leaves of the trees, but could see nothing in the afternoon shadows.

 

 "Help me!" The scream was fainter this time, but clearly a man's scream.

 

 The scream had come from somewhere up ahead and to the right. Ganley headed toward it, signaling to the others to fan out to the left and farther right.

 

 With each step the sounds of the man's scream grew fainter, replaced by another noise more sinister in nature. It was wet and sloppy and mixed in with the unmistakable sound of bones snapping and muscle and sinew being torn apart.

 

 And then he saw it.

 

 Russell Duncan, a young fisherman in his early twenties on the mission to bring home a wife, was lying in a small clearing while his body was being torn apart by several pale white, sickly-looking mutants. They were tearing Duncan's flesh open with their bare hands and taking bites from his open wounds with their teeth, shredding the skin and muscle with vicious jerking motions of their heads.

 

 There were four of them feeding on the body.

 

 "No!" Ganley cried out, but none of the muties seemed to notice. Others began trying to scare the muties away, but they all remained where they were, feeding.

 

 Ganley raised his blaster and fired nearly a dozen shots. He was careful with the first shot, making sure he placed the round in Russell Duncan's skull. When the body went limp and he knew the young fisherman was dead, he opened fire on the creatures in earnest, peppering the muties with a hail of blasterfire, throwing them back and away from the corpse and ripping holes in every part of their bodies.

 

 He walked over to the remains of Duncan's body and grabbed the man's jacket collar. He began to drag the corpse toward the beach where they could bury it properly and with an appropriate ceremony.

 

 J.B. HAD THE FOUR .50-caliber machine blasters out of the P-39. All of the parts had been fairly well preserved, and a few of them still had a light sheen of oil.

 

 "I thought we would only be using two of these blasters?" Doc asked.

 

 "We are," J.B. answered. "I'm going to use the best parts out of the four to make two."

 

 Doc sat and watched the Armorer work. There was pleasure to be had watching someone who thoroughly enjoyed his work, and that was J.B. He had quality blasters to fiddle with, and he looked just like a boy in a toy store. There was a strange look of pleasure on his face, as if he couldn't wait to fire the .50 caliber, or to see the 37 mm cannon blow apart the side of a building.

 

 Doc envied the man's simple pleasures and wished he could become so lost in something. Instead, he spent his time thinking of his dear Emily and the two children they'd had together, Rachel and Jolyon.

 

 With all the talk of breeding going on the past couple of days, Doc took solace in the fact that he had sired two of the most beautiful and vibrant children in all of the eastern states. They would have lived their lives out long ago, and while he was sure that Emily had raised them right, he often wondered about what they made of their lives, and if his family name or bloodline had lived on into skydark.

 

 J.B. tried the gun he'd been assembling, pulling the trigger and gauging the action by the sound the mechanism made. He looked pleased.

 

 "Impressive!" Doc commented.

 

 "Rate of fire of five hundred rounds per minute, a muzzle velocity of 895 mps, and a range of 10,000 feet," J.B. said with a look of pride on his face. "This blaster can destroy any soft target it can reach, and that includes buildings."

 

 Doc nodded, silently wondering if it might have been better if none of his descendants had survived the nukecaust.

 

  

 

 Chapter Twenty-Five

 

  

 

 "How are you?" Mildred asked. She had been assigned to the circle to help with the wounded combatants. She hadn't had much to do so far except pronounce two of them dead.

 

 Ryan looked over his arms and shoulders. "Not a scratch on me yet."

 

 "Try and keep it that way," Brody said. He had suffered a cut on his right arm.

 

 "Intend to," Ryan said.

 

 "I don't think Richmond and Hambly are likely to team up this next round. Something about sec men and muties that just don't mix. If anything, Richmond will be after you, wanting to give you payback for chilling Salazar. Hambly will either be taken out by Mog and his men, or he'll be hugging the edge of the circle hoping a wound will take him out at the next break."

 

 "Can't he just quit?"

 

 Brody shook his head. "He could, but that would make him a laughingstock."

 

 "On your feet!" called Grundwold.

 

 Ryan and Brody stood along with the others.

 

 "In this round, all combatants will remove their shirts," the sec chief ordered.

 

 Ryan took off his shirt. The crowd seemed to enjoy the sight of bare, bloody and sweaty flesh.

 

 "Ready?" the sec chief bellowed.

 

 The crowd screamed its approval.

 

 "Fight!"

 

 As Brody had suggested, Mog and his men went after Hambly, allowing Richmond the chance to go after Ryan.

 

 Brody made sure Dorfman, Billingsley and Foghat remained with Mog and didn't try to take out Ryan amid the confusion.

 

 "You're good with the knife, Cyclops," Richmond said, calling Ryan by the name the sec men on the farm seemed to favor.

 

 "Better to be quick with a knife than quick with my mouth."

 

 Richmond was a tall, lanky man. Ryan estimated they weighed about the same, but Richmond stood about three inches taller. Unlike the knife scars he'd seen on other sec men and slaves here, Richmond had a big round blaster scar on his right shoulder that was about three inches across. The wound was set back in the flesh about an inch, as if someone had scooped out a patch of flesh with a knife. "You want me to put down the knife, Cyclops?"

 

 Ryan shrugged.

 

 "No problem." Richmond dropped his knife onto the ground and kicked it to the edge of the circle.

 

 Meanwhile, Mog and his three men had Hambly, the mutie, surrounded. Billingsley was poking him with his pike while Foghat was slashing at his back with his sword. There was pale red blood flowing over the mutant's equally pale flesh, making him look like a predark barber's pole. Every once in a while, Hambly would make a break for the circle's edge, but Mog would always catch him and pull him back for still more torture.

 

 As Ryan was dealing with Richmond, he noticed what was going on out of the corner of his eye and knew he'd have no trouble chilling Mog when the time came. He was too careless and casual in his way, and Ryan would take full advantage of it when the time came. He looked back at Richmond and threw his panga to the ground where the tip dug into the hard, dry earth and stuck, leaving the handle to quiver slightly in the sun.

 

 "I'll get more pleasure chilling you with my bare hands anyway," Richmond said, moving closer. "That way it will happen slowly and with plenty of pain."

 

 Ryan said nothing, concentrating solely on Richmond's hands and feet.

 

 Dorfman, one of Mog's cronies, wandered over toward Richmond and Ryan, looking for a chance to chill one of them while they fought. But Brody stepped forward, waving the sharp end of his pike in Dorfman's face, and the man backed off.

 

 Richmond lunged at Ryan, but the one-eyed man was able to move left, out of the way. Richmond turned, a slight smile on his face, then lunged again, this time feigning left, then moving right. Ryan again stepped to the side, but this time as Richmond passed him, he put out a knee, catching the sec man in the thigh and sending him spinning to the ground.

 

 Richmond spit dust and dirt from his mouth and rolled onto his back, expecting Ryan to be right there towering over him.

 

 But Ryan was standing well back, waiting for the sec man to regain his feet.

 

 "You'll be sorry you didn't try to finish me off, Cyclops!"

 

 "I'll make you the same offer I made your friend," Ryan said. "If you leave at the next break, I won't chill you."

 

 Richmond said nothing for several seconds, then began to laugh. "You're gonna spare my life, slave!"

 

 "I'm no slave," Ryan said.

 

 Richmond grabbed a handful of dirt and dust and threw it in Ryan's face. The one-eyed man had been expecting as much from the sec man and turned his head to the right, causing the grit to sting his face and fall harmlessly against the patch over his left eye.

 

 Ryan moved in, not giving the downed sec man any more time to get back to his feet. But before he could get his hands on Richmond, the man had a knife in his right fist. He gave it a flick and a four-inch blade appeared, as if out of the air.

 

 The crowd had noticed Richmond's weapon and realized he had brought it into the ring with him. They began to boo and throw rotten fruit and vegetables into the circle. Ryan was hit in the back by an overripe tomato.

 

 Grundwold got up from his chair, looking as if he might stop the fighting or force Richmond to drop his weapon, but the baron motioned for Grundwold to sit down, then waved his hands, signaling that the combatants continue their fight.

 

 Ryan ducked low and kicked at Richmond's feet, sending the sec man spinning onto his back. Without hesitation, he kicked him again, this time hard in the stomach.

 

 Richmond sputtered and coughed up a mouthful of bile, but still managed to slash at Ryan's leg, splitting the fabric of his pant leg open at the knee.

 

 Brody moved in with his pike to pin the sec man down, but Ryan waved him off. "I don't need your help!"

 

 The crowd roared its approval and turned its attention away from Mog's battle with Hambly. The mutie had been cut and slashed so many times that he would probably bleed to death before the next break. But that hadn't stopped Mog from continuing the torture, cutting off pieces of the mutant's body just to see how long he could remain standing. The sadistic punishment had held the crowd's interest for a while, but paled in comparison to the drama of the close contest being waged between Richmond and Ryan.

 

 Richmond slashed at Ryan with his knife, forcing the one-eyed man to back away. When a few yards separated them, the sec man reached behind his back and produced a second knife. For a moment it seemed he might toss it to Ryan to make it a fair fight, but it soon became apparent he had no intention of doing anything of the sort. He came at Ryan with both knives leading the way.

 

 Ryan backpedaled from the slashing steel, then tripped on something on the ground and fell onto his back.

 

 A groan of disappointment washed over the crowd as it looked as if Ryan would be chilled, but the one-eyed man grabbed a handful of dirt and flung it at the face of the approaching sec man, just as the sec man had done to him scant minutes before. Richmond stopped in his tracks and did his best to clear his eyes of the grit, but it was no use. He couldn't open his eyes, and even if he could, he'd still be unable to see.

 

 Ryan sprung up to his feet, ran around to Richmond's side and rammed his heel into the sec man's knee. Richmond's leg bent backward, toppling him to the ground like a felled tree, and forcing him to drop one of his knives and use a free hand to try to clear the dirt from his eyes.

 

 Ryan reached into his back pocket and pulled out the brass knuckles he'd been given earlier in the day. He hadn't planned on using the weapon, but since Richmond had set the tone for the fight, he had no problem slipping the heavy metal rings over the knuckles of his right hand.

 

 Reaching back and cocking his arm, Ryan threw his fist forward, catching the downed sec man in the back of the head. The brass rings broke through Richmond's skull, allowing Ryan's knuckles to put a fist-sized hole in the man's head.

 

 He was chilled instantly.

 

 But Ryan wanted to make sure and threw four more punches before climbing off the body. He rose to the sounds of a rousing cheer.

 

 Grundwold chose that moment to ring the bell, allowing everyone, including the crowd, a chance to rest, and giving the mutant Hambly an even chance of recovering from his wounds.

 

 Ryan picked up his panga, then sat to catch his breath. He checked the pant leg that had been cut open and found the skin beneath unbroken.

 

 "Are you hurt?" Mildred asked, handing Ryan a bottle of water.

 

 Ryan upended the bottle and gulped down the water.

 

 "I don't like the odds in this next round," Brody muttered.

 

 "What do you mean?" Mildred asked. "There's only four of them." She cracked a smile for Ryan and winked at Brody. "I know what you're saying. I don't trust the four of them to fight fair."

 

 "Who's been fighting fairly?" Ryan asked.

 

 Mildred let out a small disgusted laugh, then excused herself. "Sorry to run, but I've got a dying mutie the baron wants mended. Good luck."

 

 "Thanks," Ryan said, passing the water bottle to Brody.

 

 Mildred took a few steps, then suddenly turned back. "Almost forgot. Krysty sends her love."

 

 Ryan looked up at the stage and saw Krysty sitting there at the baron's side. The afternoon sun shone brightly against her hair, turning it the color of crimson fire. She waved at Ryan then, giving him a thumbs-up and blowing him a gentle kiss that was hidden from the view of the baron.

 

 Ryan felt revitalized and decided that despite what Brody had said, the odds in the next round suited him just fine.

 

  

 

 Chapter Twenty-Six

 

  

 

 "How are you enjoying the contest, my pretty?" Baron Fox asked Krysty.

 

 The titian-haired beauty looked away from her lover and said, "It's very, very bloody…and violent."

 

 "Indeed it is. And exciting."

 

 Krysty shrugged. "I suppose it is, if you like that sort of thing…chilling people for no reason."

 

 "Do you find it exciting?" the baron asked.

 

 "I've seen plenty of men chilled in my life. Some deserved it, some didn't, but it's almost always a waste of life."

 

 That seemed to excite the baron further. "I bet you have seen plenty of dead men, even chilled a few of them yourself, hey?"

 

 "A few."

 

 "Oh, you must tell me about them sometime…in precise detail."

 

 "If you like."

 

 The baron raised his hand, summoning both sec chief Grundwold and Norman Bauer to his side. He spoke discreetly in each man's ear, and they left quickly to carry out their orders.

 

 In minutes, Norman Bauer returned with a young red-haired girl with a full figure and pretty face. The look on her face was a mixture of excitement and fear.

 

 The baron looked over the girl. "Excellent!" he said. Then he leaned back and pulled open his bathrobe to expose himself. Without a moment's hesitation the girl knelt between the baron's open legs and took him into her mouth.

 

 "Better," the baron muttered. "Much better."

 

 GRUNWOLD APPROACHED Ryan, a hard, angry look in his eye. "The baron wants no surprises this time around. No more extra weapons."

 

 Ryan looked up at the baron on the stage and saw the girl knelt between his legs, her head moving up and down in a slow and regular rhythm. "The baron wants a lot of things."

 

 "And he gets what he wants."

 

 "That so?" Ryan said.

 

 "Yes, always. And now he wants you to take off the rest of your clothes," the sec chief stated.

 

 "What?" Brody shouted.

 

 Ryan just looked at the sec chief, wondering how such a competent sec man could become the baron's whipping boy.

 

 The sec chief sighed. "All of you. Mog and his men, too."

 

 "What if we refuse?" Ryan asked.

 

 Grundwold looked up at one of the towers overlooking the circle and signaled one of the men.

 

 The crackle of blasterfire erupted suddenly, and Ryan could hear the rounds whizzing into the ground by his feet, throwing up small clouds of dust on impact. The sec man firing from the tower drew a line in the sand neatly between Ryan and the sec chief, delivering the sec chiefs message loud and clear.

 

 Ryan began undoing his belt.

 

 "I knew you'd see it the baron's way."

 

 The one-eyed man stared at the sec chief. "Does the baron always get what he wants from his sec slaves, too?"

 

 Grundwold seemed confused by Ryan's words, but slowly their meaning became understood. "If you two are lucky enough to make it out of this circle, I'll see to it that you wished you hadn't said that."

 

 Ryan stood his ground, speaking through slightly clenched teeth. "When I get out of this circle, you'll be wishing I hadn't, too."

 

 Again the sec chief looked at Ryan strangely, not understanding the meaning of his words.

 

 "Sec chief Grundwold!" the baron called out. "Is everything ready?"

 

 Grundwold's body snapped straight, as if it had just been whipped across the back. "Yes, Baron."

 

 "Then let's get on with it."

 

 The sec chief stared hard into Ryan's eye. "To the victor go the spoils."

 

 "Absolutely," Ryan said.

 

 "And losers like you get fed to the muties."

 

 Ryan ignored the comment and turned to retrieve his panga. When he was upright again, the sec chief was gone, climbing back onto the stage. "Are you ready?" he asked the men in the circle.

 

 "Yes!" roared the crowd.

 

 "Fight!"

 

 Ryan and Brody moved forward.

 

 Foghat charged at Ryan, while Dorfman, Billingsley and Mog surrounded Brody.

 

 Their intention was clear. The sword-wielding Foghat had separated Ryan from Brody so the other three could easily do away with Brody. But instead of trying to chill Ryan, Foghat was just keeping Ryan away from the others.

 

 It was the man's first and only mistake.

 

 Ryan circled the outside of the ring until he came upon the extra weapons that had been left on the ground by the combatants. There was a rusty sword, a length of chain and a short-bladed knife. Ryan picked up the knife and, doing his best to remember Jak Lauren's instructions, threw it in Foghat's direction.

 

 The knife was unbalanced and fluttered through the air instead of flying true. It also missed the target by more than a foot, but no matter. Foghat leaned far to the right to avoid the flying knife, and Ryan used the opportunity to swing his panga at his off-balance opponent. He caught Foghat on the arm, cutting cleanly through the flesh and tendons of the elbow, exposing the polished white bone beneath.

 

 Foghat let out a cry of pain and grabbed at his arm to keep it in one piece. He was able to hold his arm together but couldn't staunch the flow of blood.

 

 Ryan, feeling sorry for the man, kicked him from behind. He stumbled forward, tripped over the chain outlining the circle, and hit the ground hard with his shoulder.

 

 Foghat screamed again, this time silencing the crowd.

 

 Ryan turned into the circle and hurried to Brody's side.

 

 "How are you doing?"

 

 "I could use some help," Brody said breathlessly.

 

 "At least the odds are in our favor now," Ryan said.

 

 "But there's three of them."

 

 "Exactly," Ryan said.

 

 "Are you gonna talk or fight, One-eye?" Mog said in his booming deep bass voice.

 

 "In a hurry to get chilled, Monster?"

 

 "That's Mog," Mog said, his whole upper body quivering with anger.

 

 Billingsley moved forward with his pike, tangling as he had before with Brody. But instead of their confrontation stalling into a stalemate, Mog came lumbering forward, swinging his chain wildly in front of him.

 

 Brody pulled back, as did Ryan. They took several awkward steps backward until they came upon the chain ringing the circle, almost tripping over it.

 

 They were in a dangerous spot with their backs against the chain. Mog and his two men could easily pin them down, tire them out, then chill them at their leisure. Ryan knew he had to level the field of battle.

 

 The next time Billingsley charged forward with his pike, Ryan swung his panga across the shaft, cutting the hard wooden pole neatly in two. Billingsley suddenly found himself holding little more than a mop handle. Brody took advantage of the moment, lunging forward with his pike and piercing Billingsley's belly.

 

 Billingsley let out a bloodcurdling scream of agony and clutched Brody's pike, but Brody didn't relent. He began to swing the pike from side to side as if he were waving a flag on the end of it. The hole in Billingsley's gut grew bigger, spilling more blood and entrails into the circle.

 

 Mog grabbed the pike and pulled on it before Brody had a chance to let go, drawing him forward.

 

 Dorfman, the one who'd chosen a knife similar to Ryan's panga, moved forward in an attempt to chill Brody, but Ryan headed him off, throwing a shoulder into the man's chest, which knocked the wind from his lungs with a whoosh and threw him onto his back.

 

 Meanwhile, Brody had stumbled and had fallen face first into the dirt.

 

 Mog raised his massive right arm, holding the chain high above his head for a moment, readying to bring it crashing down on his opponent's prone body.

 

 Brody rolled right, trying to get away, but wasn't quick enough. The chain came down on his right leg, slicing through flesh and shattering the bone just below the knee.

 

 Now it was Brody's turn to scream.

 

 But instead of striking again and going in for the kill, Mog stood over the writhing Brody, as if he were admiring his handiwork.

 

 Ryan took the moment to go after Dorfman, who was still gasping to catch his breath. Ryan stood over the downed man, the bloody panga clenched tightly in his right hand. He raised it over his head to cut the man in two, but as quickly as a mutie ant, Dorfman crawled on all fours to the edge of the circle and under the chain.

 

 Ryan turned to see Brody doing his best to keep Mog at bay with his pike, but it was a losing battle. The giant of a man was toying with Brody, kicking at his right foot, just to hear the wounded man scream.

 

 "The next kick will be your last," Ryan said.

 

 Mog stopped what he was doing and turned to look at Ryan. "So it's down to you and me, One-eye."

 

 Brody tried to stand then, using the pike as a sort of crutch, but the added pain of his ruined leg was too much for him to bear. He let out another agonized scream, then fell back to the ground, this time lying still and motionless.

 

 A few seconds passed as sec chief Grundwold waited to see if Mog would try to chill Brody. When he didn't, the sec chief rang the bell, signaling another break.

 

 Sec men moved in to pull Brody from the circle.

 

 "You be careful with him," Ryan said, turning to look for Mildred. He found her at the edge of the circle closest to the main building. "Fix him up," he told her.

 

 Mildred just nodded in Ryan's direction, too busy directing the sec men carrying Foghat to answer him.

 

 Knowing Brody would be in good hands, Ryan looked over at the mountain of a man named Mog. He knew he wouldn't take him up on it, but Ryan thought he should give the man the chance. "If you step out of the circle now, Mog, you might live to see another day."

 

 Mog laughed, and the ground seemed to shake beneath him. "You're good, One-eye, but not good enough. I'm going to enjoy chilling you."

 

 Ryan shook his head. "No, the pleasure's gonna be all mine."

 

  

 

 Chapter Twenty-Seven

 

  

 

 "This way," Mildred said, leading the way for the sec men carrying the badly bleeding Foghat.

 

 The slave groaned in pain with each step the sec men took. His cries were growing weaker and weaker as the man's lifeblood dribbled out of the huge rent in his arm.

 

 Mildred opened the door to the nursery. "Put him on that table in the middle of the room!" Foghat needed her immediate attention. When Brody arrived, he could be given a painkiller from the generous medical stores and be made to wait until she'd finished with Foghat. "And when the other one is brought in here, put him on the table by the wall."

 

 The sec men carried Foghat across the room and eased him onto what was normally a delivery table. There were all sorts of medical instruments and supplies in the nursery, more than was generally necessary for the delivery of babies.

 

 Mildred hoped it would be enough to save the man's life.

 

 She began by checking the man's pulse. It was weak, but he still had one. She'd managed to staunch the flow of blood from his arm with a tight tourniquet, but didn't want to cut off the arm's blood supply for too long.

 

 "Can I help you, dear?" the old woman who usually worked in the nursery said.

 

 "Get his shirt off and clean up his arm," Mildred ordered, rifling through the medicine cabinet, hoping to find a vial of morphine. Luckily there was some.

 

 One of the sec chiefs lieutenants had followed the men carrying Foghat into the nursery and was now watching Mildred with a look of disbelief on his face. "What are you doing?" he asked.

 

 "Trying to save this man's life."

 

 "Why?"

 

 "For old times' sake."

 

 "What?"

 

 Mildred paused for the briefest of moments. "Let's just say I'm doing this because I can."

 

 "You're wasting time, and using up medicine on a slave. Just amputate the arm and send him on his way."

 

 "No!" Mildred said forcefully.

 

 "But he's just a slave."

 

 Mildred paused again, looking at the problem as the sec man would. "How much good to the baron is a one-armed slave? What do one-armed slaves go for at auction these days?"

 

 The sec man fell silent.

 

 "You don't tell me how to do my job, and I won't tell you how to do yours. All right?"

 

 The sec man took several steps backward.

 

 "Come on, dear," the old woman said, taking hold of the sec man's sleeve and moving him away from Mildred. "We'll be a while in here, and it won't be pretty. We'll let you know when we're done."

 

 Reluctantly the sec man left the room, standing out in the hall on the other side of the open doorway.

 

 Mildred got to work on the wounded slave.

 

 Foghat was falling asleep from the morphine, but before he went unconscious, he managed to look up at her, smiled and said, "Thanks."

 

 "Don't thank me yet."

 

 "I know you'll save my arm," he said before the morphine finally put him under.

 

 Mildred sighed. "I wish I was as confident as he is."

 

 JAK GRABBED the barrel of the .50 caliber and helped J.B. lift it into place on the back of the transport wag they would be using to free Ryan, Krysty and Mildred.

 

 The Armorer had fit two of the P-39's blasters with makeshift pivots and was mounting them on the front-left and rear-right positions of the wag's open cargo area.

 

 The two eased the blaster into position, and J.B. locked it in place with a single horizontal bolt and a cotter pin.

 

 "Short bursts," Jak said. "Two, three seconds, not more."

 

 "That's right. Anything longer and you're wasting ammo." J.B. took hold of the blaster handles he'd made from a bale of heavy gauge steel wire he'd found on one of the loading docks and tested the movement of the gun. To his delight, it swung easily in both directions. "Should give a good range of fire. Pretty much a complete circle."

 

 "Test in morning?" Jak asked.

 

 J.B. nodded. "I'm sure the .50 calibers will fire without a glitch, but I'm not so sure about the cannon."

 

 "Although I'm more than two centuries old, I never thought I would live long enough to see the day when John Barrymore Dix was unsure about anything to do with weaponry." Doc had wandered up to the wag and was standing by the rear wheels, looking up at J.B. and Jak with a delightful grin on his face.

 

 "Mebbe Mildred right," Jak said.

 

 "About what?" J.B. asked.

 

 "Your dream."

 

 J.B. was silent. Being reminded about his dream sent a chill down his spine. The .50-caliber design had been tried and tested for years. The cannon was another matter entirely, since it had probably had a few reliability problems during its lifetime, even when it was new. He'd done everything he could to make sure it was working properly, but there was still a chance it could fail when they needed it most.

 

 But while the Armorer had some reservations about the cannon, Dr. Theophilus Algernon Tanner had none whatsoever.

 

 "Of course the cannon will fire, John Barrymore. Not only will it fire, but it will fire magnificently… stupendously. It will cut a swath of destruction through the farm, unleashing a little bit of hellfire from its angry maw with each deadly round."

 

 Doc had his swordstick raised in the air and although they were underground, he seemed to be standing in the path of some strange breeze that blew back his white hair and made him look like a wild-eyed doomsayer atop a mountain.

 

 "Thunder will roll, the earth will shake and barons and sec men will cower in fear at the mere sight of this infernal blaster." There was a strange shine in Doc's eyes, and his body was beginning to shake and tremble uncontrollably.

 

 Jak signaled to Clarissa to come to Doc's aid. She came running, and when she reached Doc's side, she took his arm and led him to a nearby pile of crates where he could sit and rest, while whatever it was that was affecting him ran its course.

 

 "He'll be all right," J.B. said.

 

 "Not worried Doc," Jak replied. "Worried Ryan and others."

 

 "If I know Ryan Cawdor, he's probably sitting back and enjoying his time on that farm. Who knows, after we break in, he might not even want to leave."

 

 The two men laughed.

 

  

 

 Chapter Twenty-Eight

 

  

 

 Ryan moved into the middle of the circle.

 

 Mog stood facing him, his body somewhat grimy, but not nearly as bloody as Ryan's. "Just you and me, One-eye! Just like I figured."

 

 Ryan had suspected it might come down to the two of them, but he wasn't about to give the mountain of a man any compliments. "Really. I thought you'd be chilled a long time ago."

 

 "Mog always wins. And I'm going to feel good between Red's legs."

 

 Ryan looked up at Krysty.

 

 She was leaning to the side, trying to distance herself from the baron, who was now fully occupied with the woman servicing him. Her head continued to move up and down between his legs, but he now had firm hold of her hair, forcefully guiding her head in the movement and rhythms he wanted. The girl looked limp and lifeless now, as if she were either unconscious or dead.

 

 Baron Fox either hadn't noticed or didn't care.

 

 Ryan looked back over at Mog.

 

 Mog flashed Ryan a gap-toothed smile. "If she's used to having you, One-eye, then she'll be thrilled to have a real man for a change." Mog reached down between his legs and scooped up his genitals in his hand. Ryan had paid little attention before, but now that the man was making a point of putting them on display, he couldn't help but notice how big they were. Like the parts of the rest of his body, Mog's penis and testicles were enormous, and it was no wonder he enjoyed the status of the farm's alpha male.

 

 But while such equipment made for an impressive sight, it did nothing to give him an advantage within the circle. If anything, he was at a bit of a disadvantage having his equipment swinging freely, and vulnerable to attack. Ryan was seriously considering exploiting this advantage, since his panga was the right weapon for the job.

 

 "She'd never have you, stupe," Ryan said. "I either chill you in the circle, or she'll chill you the moment you two are alone."

 

 Mog looked up at Krysty, considering Ryan's words.

 

 At that moment Grundwold entered the circle and approached the two combatants. "If one of you wants to leave the circle now, you can do it, no shame. It's been a good show."

 

 "Nobody's walking out of the circle, Grundwold," Mog said. "Let's get it going."

 

 "My thoughts exactly," Ryan agreed.

 

 Grundwold nodded and left the circle, climbing onto the stage and calling out, "Fight!"

 

 Ryan was caught momentarily off guard by Mog, who threw a pike at Ryan as if it were a spear, the second after the sec chief gave the call to fight. The long weapon glanced off Ryan's body, but not before the pointed tip broke the flesh on his right shoulder and blood began to flow freely down his arm.

 

 Ryan countered by picking up the pike and throwing it out of the circle.

 

 The crowd cheered.

 

 Then Ryan gathered the rest of the weapons in the circle and threw them all out, as well.

 

 The crowd roared in delight.

 

 Now all that was left was Ryan's panga, which he picked up and moved just outside the circle, as well, next to the pile of his clothes.

 

 "You think you can chill me with your bare hands, One-eye?" Mog laughed.

 

 "No," Ryan said, running toward Mog and leaping into the air. He hit the giant in the chest with the balls of both feet. There was a loud whoosh as the air came out of Mog's chest.

 

 After delivering the kick, Ryan fell heavily to the ground, landing hard on his side.

 

 Mog stumbled backward a few steps, tripped over his own feet and landed heavily on his ass.

 

 There was laughter from the crowd.

 

 "Shut up!" he roared. "All of you."

 

 The laughter died down, but not completely.

 

 Ryan circled the big man, looking for another weakness. He was big and powerful, likely able to crush Ryan's ribs with a bear hug or able to suffocate him. Ryan had been lucky to knock him over by hitting him so high up and knew that the next blow would have to be different, since Mog would never fall victim to the same attack twice.

 

 "You move fast, One-eye. But is it fast enough?"

 

 Ryan didn't waste his breath answering.

 

 He had moved to the right, looking to take Mog down once more. He darted in close and tried to sweep his right leg around to take out one of the big man's giant tree-trunk legs. He struck him in the calf with his foot, but the leg didn't give way.

 

 Mog reached down and managed to catch Ryan's leg in his hands.

 

 Ryan desperately tried to scramble away out of his reach, but Mog was able to reel him in, and in seconds he had his huge arms around Ryan's body and was pulling him ever closer.

 

 The one-eyed man gasped for breath as Mog began to squeeze the life out of him. Ryan struggled to free himself, but his efforts only used up more air and tightened the grip the giant had on his body.

 

 Mog continued to squeeze.

 

 Something snapped in Ryan's torso, and a lance of pain shot through his chest. And then the world seemed to be getting dark around the edges.

 

 He thought of Krysty and Dean first, almost simultaneously, and after that came thoughts of J.B. and Doc and Jak, and then images of the chilling he'd done over the years. Trader came next, as if the man were waiting for him somewhere up the road. Lush green fields, a home that was his and a family…Krysty and Dean out on the porch of their home, looking for him. Looking, looking, looking.

 

 Ryan managed to get his right arm free. That freed up space for a breath, and to wriggle his left arm from the giant's viselike grip. Now with both hands free, Ryan jabbed a finger into one of Mog's eyes. The big man turned away quickly, though, and instead of his eye, Ryan found himself trying to poke a hole through the hard bone of Mog's skull.

 

 The crowd was beginning to shout "Mog! Mog! Mog!"

 

 Ryan took another breath, perhaps his last, then reared back with both hands and boxed Mog's ears as hard as he could.

 

 Immediately the man's grip loosened.

 

 Ryan gulped at the sweet, sweet air as it rushed into his open mouth and down into his needy lungs.

 

 But Mog didn't let go.

 

 So Ryan boxed his ears again.

 

 Mog stumbled, then finally released Ryan, putting his hands to his ears as if it might do something to ease the ringing pain.

 

 When Ryan hit the ground, another bolt of pain slashed through his body. He rose slowly, his eye always on the big man.

 

 Mog was still stumbling, trying to keep his balance when all the balancing mechanisms inside his head had been scrambled. But as the seconds passed, the giant was recovering, shaking off the pain and noise inside his head, and readying himself to fight again.

 

 Ryan knew he couldn't get in close to the man and survive. His only chance was lightning-fast attacks, darting in and striking a blow, then moving back just as quickly to a safe distance.

 

 And with such a tactic, Ryan had to choose a target that was most vulnerable so his efforts would have the greatest effect. With that in mind, Ryan looked at Mog's dangling penis and testicles and knew exactly what he had to do.

 

 Without another moment's hesitation, Ryan stepped forward and launched a kick into the soft flesh between the big man's legs. There was a satisfying smack of flesh on flesh, and then Ryan could feel his foot come up against the man's pelvic bone.

 

 After the kick was delivered, Ryan pulled back, only to see Mog double over in pain. Vomit and drool leaked out of the side of his mouth, and he seemed to be struggling to catch his breath.

 

 This was Ryan's chance to finish off the big man. But his earlier idea of removing the weapons from the ring had been slightly premature. Without a knife or sword, he'd be hard-pressed to chill the giant with just his bare hands. Mog had enough strength to brush Ryan aside if he tried to smash his head on the ground or tried to strangle him with a choke hold.

 

 He needed a weapon.

 

 Even a chain would be of some help.

 

 Ryan looked to the edge of the circle and had an idea. He'd thrown all of the weapons out of the circle, so they couldn't be used against him, but what about the circle itself?

 

 Ryan stepped up to one of the posts that staked out the perimeter of the circle and undid the chain connected to it. Then he went two posts over and undid the chain there, leaving a single post with chains on either side of it.

 

 He pulled the post out of the ground, turned the pointed end toward Mog and charged across the circle.

 

 Mog's eyes opened wide. He was still in pain, and still unable to stand upright. He turned to the right and brushed aside Ryan's thrust with his left hand.

 

 The crowd was cheering on Mog. He had been their champion for a long, long time, and he was showing he had the strength and ability to take a beating and survive the circle. Ryan realized that if he didn't deliver the final blow soon, the big man would have had time enough to recover from his injuries.

 

 When that happened, he'd be like a bear awakened from a deep sleep, fireblast mad and looking for payback.

 

 Ryan turned the post around and held it by the pointed end, leaving the blunt end with the chains exposed. Then he spun the post over his head so centrifugal force would extend the chains to their full length. The post was four feet long, and the chains measured another six, giving Ryan a reach of more than ten feet. But more importantly, the chains were whipping around at lightning speed and when they struck something soft—like the back of Mog's legs— it would feel like a hammer blow.

 

 So Ryan swung the post close to the ground and caught the stumbling Mog around the ankles. The chain cut through the big man's Achilles tendon, then swept him completely off his feet. Blood began to spurt from the wound as the length of chain wrapped itself around his leg, binding him like a slave in heavy leg irons.

 

 Ryan jerked the post back and forth, twisting and turning Mog's leg in a number of unnatural directions. The big man screamed, and the deep bass howl of pain silenced the spectators as they wondered if their champion might fall, or even worse, be chilled, at the hands of the outlander.

 

 Ryan unwound the chain, leaving behind an angry red wound and a ruined foot that seemed to hang from his leg by a string.

 

 "Leave the ring and I won't chill you," Ryan said.

 

 "Fuck you, One-eye!"

 

 Ryan raised the post over his head and threw the pointed end to the ground between Mog's legs, tearing apart the man's scrotum.

 

 Blood spurted up from the wound.

 

 Ryan could feel the giant's scream in the pit of his stomach.

 

 "Last chance to live," Ryan said.

 

 "Fuck you!"

 

 Ryan pulled the post from the ground and brought it down again, harder this time, piercing Mog's throat and smashing apart his neck.

 

 The dying man gurgled a few wet and bloody words, then fell silent.

 

 The crowd for the most part was left stunned, except for Ryan's crew, who had bet heavily on the one-eyed man and won.

 

 Ryan looked up at Krysty, who was smiling, as much in relief as joy. "Well done, lover," she said, mouthing the words slowly so Ryan could understand.

 

 Ryan nodded at Krysty, then slowly headed to where his clothes lay in a heap. His ribs were on fire, and the cut on his arm stung from the sweat and dirt that was running into the wound. He needed to get dressed as quickly as possible to have some place to hide his panga if he wanted to leave the circle with it in his possession. When he put on his shirt, he made sure the big blade was concealed within it. Then when he slipped into his pants, he was able to slide the long knife into the rear of his waistband. It wasn't the best place for the knife, but hopefully it would be hidden well enough to get it past the sec men.

 

 By the time he was fully dressed, the sec chief had come down from the stage and had entered the circle, holding Krysty's arm and leading her like a horse.

 

 Up on the stage, the baron raised his hand and addressed the crowd. "You've done well, one-eye," he proclaimed. "You've defeated our champion, and provided us with some of the best entertainment we've had in months."

 

 "I don't chill people for sport," Ryan muttered.

 

 "Can it, one-eye," Grundwold advised Ryan under his breath. "You cross the baron now and you'll be full of blaster holes before you take a step. Keep your mouth shut and you get to spend the night with pretty little red here."

 

 Ryan looked at Krysty, saw her smile, and steeled himself from saying or doing any more.

 

 "And now," the baron said, "as the winner of our little contest, you shall have a prize like no other."

 

 "To the victor goes the spoils!" the crowd cried out.

 

 "A rutting mate of exquisite beauty. You will create offspring of exceptional quality and when you do, all will be taken care of, and you will yet again be rewarded for your service to your baron."

 

 The crowd rose to their feet and began chanting. "Baron Fox relieves the burden! Baron Fox relieves the burden!"

 

 Ryan thought of Dean, about having to turn him over to a complete stranger as some sort of prize, or product made in a factory or mill, and his blood began to boil.

 

 Krysty, sensing Ryan's anger beginning to build, cautioned him. "Easy, lover," she said to Ryan as Sec Chief Grundwold presented her to Ryan as his prize. "This is not the time for it."

 

 Ryan nodded. Krysty, of course, was right.

 

 "We can chill the baron tomorrow," she whispered in his ear. "Tonight is for us."

 

 She kissed him then, her tongue darting into his mouth and probing deeply. Ryan returned the kiss, holding Krysty in his arms as tightly as his aching ribs allowed.

 

 The crowd roared in approval.

 

 Even the baron seemed pleased.

 

  

 

 Chapter Twenty-Nine

 

  

 

 Night had fallen.

 

 The underground garage remained illuminated by a few naked bulbs and smelled of cooked fish, machine oil and sweating bodies.

 

 J.B. had finished arming the wag. It had .50-caliber blasters at the northwest and southeast corners of its cargo bed. Instead of fixing the 37 mm cannon to the side of the wag as he'd intended, the Armorer had to bolt it onto the hood of the wag. But in order to allow the huge blaster enough room, the wag's windshield and rear window had to be removed, which allowed the breech of the cannon to sit in the cargo area where it could be reloaded with shells.

 

 Jak and Dean would man the fifties while Doc's job would be loading the cannon. That left J.B. the job of driving the wag, and, more importantly, aiming the cannon. Clarissa would ride up front bearing smaller arms. It would be her task to protect J.B. from any threat from close range. The Armorer would have his Uzi within reach, but his attention would be focused on driving and positioning the cannon.

 

 "I must say, John Barrymore, that this time you have outdone even yourself. You've turned this wag into an awesome fighting vehicle, and you are to be commended."

 

 "Feeling better, Doc?"

 

 "Yes, I am. The comforting ministrations of the young woman, Clarissa, did much to calm my nerves and rejuvenate my spirits. In a way I was reminded of my dear Emily. Why, it was almost worth catching cold just to have her make a fuss over me."

 

 The time traveler was beginning to ramble.

 

 J.B. grabbed his arm and gave it a firm shake. "Doc!"

 

 Doc stopped talking and his body shuddered slightly, as if he'd just been awakened from a dream. "Yes," he said sharply.

 

 "Get some rest. Mildred, Krysty and Ryan, they're waiting for us. We leave at first light."

 

 "Yes, of course. Some rest might do me some good."

 

 MILDRED SAT on the cot she'd set up in the nursery and let out a long sigh.

 

 She had sewn up Foghat's arm as best she could, set it in a splint so he wouldn't tear the stitches and given him something for the pain. Then she'd fixed up Brody's leg and wheeled him over so he could spend some quiet time with Jasmine. After that, she'd watched over both of them for a few hours to make sure infection or any other complications didn't set in.

 

 Now with the lights in the nursery turned down and her charges asleep for the night, Mildred lay down and rested for the first time all day.

 

 The moment her head hit the pillow she was asleep, and dreaming of her days as an young intern.

 

 THE FIRE ON THE BEACH had been put out for the night, and guards were posted on the edge of the marauders' camp. In the morning they would travel north to the falls. In the evening they would take up positions around a farm there. And during the night they would break into the complex and take men and women to breed with to insure the survival of Reichel ville.

 

 Some of them wouldn't be making the journey home, and the mood in the camp was somber.

 

 "Rhonda!" sec chief Ganley whispered when he saw the young woman approaching. He'd been lying on his back, staring up at the stars unable to sleep. "Unable to sleep, too?" he asked her.

 

 Rhonda nodded.

 

 "Scared?"

 

 Again she nodded.

 

 "Me, too."

 

 She looked surprised.

 

 "Do you want to talk about it?" the sec chief asked.

 

 "No."

 

 "Then what do you want?"

 

 "For you to hold me."

 

 The sec chief took her in his arms, their shared body heat keeping them warm through the night.

 

 THE BIG CLAWFOOT BATHTUB in Krysty's room was full of hot, steaming water. Ryan lay back in the tub, his arms stretched out over the sides, his body's energy depleted and close to exhaustion. Krysty ran a soapy sponge across Ryan's chest, cleaning away the afternoon's blood and grime.

 

 Ryan's ribs still ached, but now that he'd had some time to rest, the pain had ebbed to a level he could tolerate. The cut on his shoulder had also cleaned up well, the wound having looked far worse than it really was.

 

 Krysty squeezed the sponge and let the water flow over Ryan's broad, muscular shoulders, then she guided it down his chest and over his stomach toward the water.

 

 Ryan flinched the moment the sponge traced a line over his aching ribs.

 

 "Sore, lover?"

 

 "A bit tender is all, but I'll manage."

 

 Krysty kept her hand under the water, but let go of the sponge and let it float to the surface.

 

 Ryan could feel her fingers caressing him between his legs. He quickly responded by growing hard.

 

 "I thought you were tired, lover."

 

 "I am."

 

 "But not too tired?"

 

 "Never too tired for that," Ryan said.

 

 "I can see that. Or should I say, I can feel it."

 

 Ryan reached up and cupped one of Krysty's full breasts. She moved closer to him, bringing the nipple close to his mouth. Ryan responded by taking it between his lips and sucking until it condensed into a rosy nub of flesh.

 

 "Oh, lover," Krysty whispered, continuing to stroke Ryan beneath the water.

 

 "To the victor go the spoils," Ryan said. Krysty joined him in the tub. They made love long into the night.

 

  

 

 Chapter Thirty

 

  

 

 J.B. had roused the group before the sun rose, and they spent the first hour of the day just getting the wag started. After having sat in the garage for several months, the wag's battery had run down and was without power. So instead of using the wag's starter motor, the group had to push the wag while J.B. used the clutch to put the vehicle in gear. After a half hour of trying, it seemed the engine was never going to start, but then it coughed once.

 

 Spurred on by that success, they tried again and again, cough turning into sputter and then finally into a shaky rumble.

 

 And then the engine roared to life.

 

 J.B. wasted no time getting everyone on the wag and moving. The exhaust fumes had a foul smell to them, and the less they had to breathe them in the better.

 

 The group pulled the wag out of the underground garage just as dawn broke over the horizon. The sky was a dazzling shade of orange, and the cloud cover that had been hanging over them the past two days was now all but gone.

 

 They left the garage and soon turned onto Niagara Falls Boulevard. With an open road in good condition in front of him, J.B. opened up the throttle and the rumbling noise from the engine smoothed out into a loud but regular hum.

 

 They drove several blocks along the boulevard until they found the remains of a building that suited their needs. J.B. stopped the wag about a city block from a deserted and crumbling bank building on Pine Avenue, keeping the engine running in the hopes that it would recharge the wag's battery. The east wall of the bank building was made of bricks and painted white, and would provide an excellent test target for the 37 mm cannon.

 

 J.B. judged the distance to be about one hundred yards, well within the range of the cannon and the .50 calibers, but a tough distance to cover with small-arms fire, especially from remades like those used by the farm's sec men.

 

 "Put a round in!" J.B. ordered.

 

 In the back of the wag, Doc loaded one of the better shells into the cannon's breech. They had decided to try the shells in the order of the ones in best condition first, because if the cannon didn't fire the best quality shells, it probably wouldn't fire at all.

 

 "Ready!"

 

 J.B. paused a moment, knowing that the cannon barrel could just as easily blow apart as fire the shell. At least if the barrel exploded, he'd be chilled instantly.

 

 J.B. pulled the cord he'd fashioned into a makeshift trigger, and the cannon boomed.

 

 The cannon's recoil pushed the wag back about two feet, despite J.B.'s firm pressure on the brake pedal.

 

 There was a brief moment of silence, and then the cannon shell struck the side of the building, punching a wag-tire-sized hole in the brickwork ten feet off the ground and almost directly in front of the wag.

 

 "Hot pipe!" Dean exclaimed.

 

 "Hot pipe, indeed," Doc echoed.

 

 "Well, at least we know the cannon works," J.B. said, a broad grin on his face. "Now we've got to get it to the farm so we can use it on some live targets."

 

 "Excuse me, John Barrymore," Doc said, kneeling so he could talk to J.B. through the open window at the back of the wag's cab. "But I am not sure that the bridge we crossed the other day is stable enough to support the weight of this wag."

 

 J.B. nodded in agreement. "And the other one we saw didn't look too sturdy, either."

 

 "So close and yet so far," Doc muttered.

 

 "There's another bridge," Clarissa said. "South of here."

 

 "How far?" J.B. asked, shifting the wag into gear.

 

 "Ten or fifteen miles. It crosses the river upstream at Buffalo."

 

 "What's the bridge like there?"

 

 "It's pretty rusty," she said, "but it's complete. You'd be able to drive the wag over it no problem."

 

 That settled it for J.B. The fuel they had in the wag was old, but they had a tankful of it and they wouldn't be needing more than a quarter of a tank to drive the thirty mile round trip to the farm. Sure, it would take longer, but they'd have to wait until dark once they arrived anyway, and it was better to spend some time traveling the better route than risk breaking an axle or puncturing a tire trying to cross the ruined remains of the Rainbow and Whirlpool bridges.

 

 "All right, that's the way we'll take." J.B. let out the clutch and the wag lurched forward. "What's the name of this bridge, anyway?"

 

 "It's called the Peace Bridge."

 

 Jak smiled.

 

 Doc laughed out loud.

 

 SEC CHIEF GANLEY instructed a team to cover the boats with weeds and tree branches so they'd be hidden while they were away. He had considered leaving behind two men to guard them, but quickly dismissed the idea, knowing they'd need all hands to help with the raid.

 

 They headed north on foot, moving quickly through overgrown forests and across the weed-choked flatlands. He got the feeling that the entire area had been farmland during predark times, but nothing had grown there since the nukecaust, except for weeds and muties.

 

 About an hour into their hike, the sec chief heard it.

 

 "What is it?" someone behind him called out.

 

 The sec chief raised his right arm and clenched his hand in a fist. The raiders scattered, disappearing into the underbrush as if they'd never been there on the path.

 

 Ganley could hear the rumble of an engine growing louder. Judging by the sound, it was running well and whoever was driving was in a hurry, with no worries about fuel. The sec chief crept forward, saw the road crossing his path up ahead and crawled through the weeds toward the strip of weedy pavement.

 

 Carefully he looked down the road to the east.

 

 A wag was approaching. It was manned by a large crew and was armed with a couple of machine blasters and a monstrous blaster up front.

 

 Ganley quickly dived back under cover and remained still until the wag passed. He kept down for some time after, feeling safe enough to move only after the sound of the wag's motor had faded into the distance.

 

 "What was it?" asked one of the raiders.

 

 "Just a patrol."

 

 "They have motorized patrols?"

 

 "Were they armed?"

 

 "I don't know if that was a patrol belonging to the farm we're planning to raid, or if it was just some baron's war wag passing through. Either way, we're in some bad country here and we might be getting into something we're not really prepared for."

 

 Silence.

 

 "Anybody who wants to turn around and go back to the boat, I won't stop you. And there will be no bad feelings when we return."

 

 Ganley waited for someone to speak.

 

 No one did.

 

 "C'mon, Chief," Rhonda called from the back of the group. "We're losing daylight here."

 

 "You all feel the same way?" There were mumbles and words said by everyone, but the general consensus was a resounding yes. "All right, then. Let's get moving."

 

  

 

 Chapter Thirty-One

 

  

 

 When Ryan awoke early the next morning, Krysty was still sleeping comfortably in his arms.

 

 "What is it, lover?" she said.

 

 "Time for work."

 

 "But you won," Krysty said. "You don't have to work in the orchards for a week if you don't want to."

 

 "Don't want to," Ryan said. "Have to."

 

 "Why?"

 

 "One of us has to be out in the orchards to look out for J.B. and the others. He's had time to get organized and come up with a plan. If he's got one, he might want to give us a message about when and where he's going to hit the farm. Someone needs to be out in the field to receive his message."

 

 "What if you don't hear from him today?"

 

 "Then we'll start making our own plans to get out of here."

 

 "Good," Krysty said. "I'm starting to have some bad feelings about this place."

 

 "Anything specific?"

 

 "Not really. But I am worried about you, lover. You might be in danger somehow."

 

 "I've been up to my knees in it since I got here."

 

 "No, this is something else. Different."

 

 "Thanks for the warning."

 

 Krysty was silent a moment, then said, "What do you want me to do while you're out in the orchards?" she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and getting dressed.

 

 "Talk to Mildred. Find out more about where our blasters are being stored and see if we can get them out without anyone noticing. See if you can talk to some of the slaves and let them know something might be happening soon and that they should be ready." He paused a moment, thinking. "And mebbe the two of you could come up with a plan for a diversion. We'll need one whether we break out of here ourselves or J.B. comes to get us."

 

 "Anything else, lover?" Krysty asked, her hands on her hips and a smile on her face.

 

 Ryan looked at her a moment, then crawled slowly back onto the bed, where he made love to her one more time before starting the day.

 

 BARON FOX HAD HAD trouble sleeping all through the night. He'd called for a nonbreeder before getting into bed, but the usual sense of peace and tranquility he enjoyed after a good rutting had eluded him.

 

 Even now, hours later, he was still too tense to rest and his mind was far from being at peace.

 

 There was something on his mind.

 

 It was the outlander with one eye.

 

 He'd been magnificent in the circle, chilling his opponents with as much cunning as brute strength. He'd chilled Mog as easily as he might a dog. It had been a good show, but there was still something wrong about the one-eye, something not right.

 

 Mog had been a monster, but he could always be easily controlled. A few breeders and he was happy, producing offspring that netted top jack. But this one, he was a rogue, a renegade, a rebel. He wasn't the type to be happy just working and rutting his life away on the farm.

 

 He was wild.

 

 Untamable.

 

 And he was an outlander. Soon he'd be looking at the fence surrounding the farm as a prison wall, and he'd want out. Worse still was the possibility that he would spend his time on the farm convincing the other slaves to rebel. The slaves outnumbered the sec force ten to one, and any organized rebellion stood a good chance of succeeding.

 

 And if that happened, Baron Fox knew he'd be chilled for sure, but only after a very long and painful torture session.

 

 All it would take is the right man.

 

 And that man was the one-eyed outlander. The baron was sure of it.

 

 Earlier in the night, when the baron had first tried to get some rest, he'd drifted into a light sleep and dreamed of the door to his chambers bursting inward and the one-eyed outlander charging inside, blaster in hand, cutting him to ribbons with a burst of automatic fire.

 

 That dream, a brief picture of his own hellish demise, had started the baron wondering about the outlander and whether it was wise to keep him on the farm, even if it was only long enough to ship him out and sell him at auction.

 

 Each day would give him time to talk to the others and put thoughts of rebellion, escape and freedom into their little minds.

 

 The baron shook his head. There was no doubt in his mind. He couldn't allow that to happen.

 

 The one-eyed outlander had to be chilled.

 

 The sooner the better.

 

 "Number One!" the baron called out.

 

 The door to the baron's chamber opened immediately, and Norman Bauer stood there in the doorway with the ledger in his hand, as if he'd been waiting on the other side to be summoned.

 

 "The one-eyed outlander," the baron said.

 

 "The champion of the circle?"

 

 "Yeah, that's the one. I want him chilled."

 

 "When?"

 

 The baron considered it. "Immediately. Make an example of him."

 

 Bauer seemed to hesitate, as if he didn't understand the nature of the baron's wishes.

 

 "Problem?" the baron asked, noticing Bauer's unease.

 

 "It's not my place to ask, Baron," Bauer said with a slight bow of his head. "But why?"

 

 "You're right, it's not your place to ask," the baron said sternly. But then he shrugged. "I just have a bad feeling about him. That's all."

 

 Bauer nodded. "I'll see that he's chilled."

 

  

 

 Chapter Thirty-Two

 

  

 

 Ryan tried to join the ranks of the slaves unnoticed, but his very presence attracted attention. The slaves either wanted to congratulate him on his victory over Mog, thank him for chilling the two sec men or else wanted to know if he was available for rutting that night.

 

 Even the sec men seemed to be pointing at him and whispering among themselves.

 

 Ryan didn't like the looks of that. Usually the sec men were uninterested in the daily comings and goings of the slaves, but now every eye seemed to be on him, watching his every move. The attention could be explained away by his victory in the circle, but they seemed to turn away every time he looked in a sec man's direction.

 

 Strange behavior, even for sec men.

 

 He could only hope that they had a sort of grudging respect for him, and not thoughts of revenge.

 

 Ryan moved along the line, getting his breakfast. He'd had better morning meals, but he'd also had worse. This morning's offering included a mound of tan mush that smelled like oatmeal, a bowl of fruit salad, slices of toast and a choice of juice-flavored water or coffee sub. Ryan took his tray and tried to find a spot in the corner where there wouldn't be so many eyes upon him.

 

 But he couldn't hide from the crowd of slaves.

 

 "Great job yesterday, Ryan," said a young man from his crew. "We all won a lot of jack because of you, and we just wanted you to know how grateful we all are."

 

 "No problem," Ryan said, wishing the man would go away.

 

 "And in appreciation, we want you to have Simka here as your own personal slave for as long as you like. She can get you food, bathe you, and she's a good rutter with both men and women."

 

 "Thanks, but no thanks."

 

 The girl, Simka, looked disappointed.

 

 "You're too good to be a slave," he told her. "My slave or anybody else's slave, including the baron. You deserve to be free."

 

 She smiled at that.

 

 "Make some other man happy," Ryan said, gently pushing her and the man escorting her away. He began eating his food, trying to look very much as if he didn't want to be bothered.

 

 But after just three spoons of oatmeal, another slave slid into the seat next to him.

 

 "You're the one-eye, right?"

 

 Ryan said nothing, but turned so the blond-haired teenager next to him could see his patch.

 

 "Okay, I guess you are, then."

 

 Ryan took another spoon of oatmeal.

 

 "Just want to tell you to be careful today."

 

 It sounded like a genuine warning.

 

 Ryan continued eating. "Why?" he asked, staring straight ahead.

 

 "I work in the sec men's lounge serving meals. They were all quiet this morning, like something was going down. I wanted to know what it was, so when I finished my shift I hid in one of the empty lockers." The youth paused to take a quick glance around. "I heard one of the sec men say the baron wants you chilled."

 

 Ryan wanted to know the reason why, but knew it didn't matter and made no difference to the sec men why the baron wanted him dead. "When?" he asked.

 

 "Today sometime. Probably out in the orchards. Just be careful."

 

 It occurred to Ryan that this might be some sort of trap being set by a group of slaves who'd been friendly to Mog. "Why are you telling me this?"

 

 "You were good in the circle yesterday, and you chilled Richmond and Salazar. I hated those two sec bastards and was glad to see that they got what they deserved. With those two gone, slaves won't be gettin' chilled for sport anymore. Way I see it, we all owe you somethin' for that."

 

 Ryan understood. "Thanks."

 

 The man started to get up to leave, but Ryan caught the sleeve of his shirt and pulled him back down.

 

 "Spread the word that something's going to be happening soon. Something big."

 

 The youth turned to look at Ryan and for the first time he saw the jagged razor cut that went under the youth's right eye, across the bridge of his nose and down his left cheek. "You gonna try breakin' out?"

 

 "No," Ryan said. "More like somebody will be breaking in."

 

 "When?"

 

 "Don't know. Soon."

 

 The blond-haired teen with the scar nodded.

 

 Ryan couldn't help staring at the man's scar. It was red and fresh and reminded him of his own scar.

 

 "Nice, huh? That's Salazar's handiwork. And while he did it, Richmond watched…and laughed."

 

 "Thanks for the warning," Ryan said.

 

 "Likewise."

 

 Ryan finished eating his breakfast, and, seeing he was done, other slaves offered him food off their trays. Ryan took them up on their offer, not knowing when he might have another chance to eat a hot meal.

 

 J.B. PULLED THE WAG off the road at the top of a rise that overlooked the farm. He guided the big vehicle behind a stand of trees and cut the ignition. The wag's engine rumbled for a few more strokes, then came to a sputtering, choking stop. He wanted to try the battery to see if their short trip north had recharged it, but decided he'd find that out later when he really needed to restart the engine. No sense wasting power. Besides, if the engine didn't turn over, they could always roll it down the hill and start the wag that way.

 

 "Got time before dark," Jak said, looking at his wrist chron.

 

 "Better to be early than late," J.B. answered.

 

 Dean hopped off the back of the wag. "What'll we do till the sun goes down?"

 

 J.B. looked at Clarissa. "You find your mutie friends and let them know what's going down tonight. And let them know that once we get inside, they can have all the food they can eat."

 

 Clarissa nodded and headed off.

 

 "Jak and Dean," J.B. summoned.

 

 The albino teenager and the boy stepped in front of J.B.

 

 "We'll need to get a message to Ryan, Mildred or Krysty about our plans. Walk the perimeter of the farm and see if you can spot one of them and pass along the word. If I know Ryan, he'll be expecting you."

 

 Jak and Dean turned and headed down the road toward the farm.

 

 Alone with J.B., Doc cleared his throat. "And what might you be requiring of me, John Barrymore?"

 

 "You're going to help me, Doc. The wag's still running rough, and there's a few more things I need to do to make sure the blasters and the cannon don't jam when we need them most."

 

 Doc nodded. "While I am not well versed in the mechanics of such infernal devices as this wag and those blasters, I'll endeavor to be the best assistant armorer my limited abilities allow."

 

 "And I'll need you to keep your blaster ready, in case any stray muties wander by."

 

 "Or if need be," Doc continued, hardly missing a beat, "I will gladly assume the duties of sentinel, guarding against any intruders who might wish to thwart us in our quest to free the noble Ryan of Cawdor…"

 

 J.B. merely looked at Doc for several seconds, then said, "Bring me the toolbox."

 

 Doc looked up, as if yanked out of a daze. "The toolbox, of course."

 

 The two men set to work.

 

 RYAN COULD SEE the sec men moving into position, blocking off the exits. Several armed with longblasters were also walking the upper level that ringed the cafeteria.

 

 He knew he didn't have much time.

 

 "You," he said, calling over to a bearded man in his thirties. "Come here."

 

 "You want to talk to me?"

 

 "Yeah, you." Ryan nodded. "Come here."

 

 GRUNWOLD WANTED to grab the outlander as soon as possible, but they couldn't move in on him just yet. If they singled him out in the cafeteria, that would arouse the suspicion of the other slaves. The man was, after all, their new champion, and there was no reason for him to be taken away and chilled. Doing it now would incite a riot, and that was to be avoided at all costs.

 

 But if they waited too long, the outlander might get out into the orchards where capturing him would be much more difficult. Once a breeder named Clarissa had hidden out in the orchards for two days before sneaking into the barn and stealing their best wag right out from under their noses. This outlander was far more resourceful and dangerous than the female breeder had been, and if he got loose within the compound Grunwold might lose several sec men before he was caught.

 

 The sec chief kept his eye on the outlander while he gave the signal to his sec men to tighten up the circle around him. If all went well, they'd wait until the slaves had finished with breakfast and were on their way out to the orchards. Sec men would escort the one-eyed man out a door leading back into the main building, and once the door was closed they'd chill him with a single bullet to his brain.

 

 After that it would be up to the baron to explain to the slaves why their hero was suddenly dead, something Grundwold was interested in hearing himself.

 

 Just then a fight broke out in one corner of the cafeteria.

 

 "I'm rutting with her tonight!" someone yelled.

 

 "She's mine," came the response. "I claimed her first."

 

 Fights between slaves over rutting with breeders wasn't unusual, but the timing of this one seemed peculiar to Grundwold. These things usually took place at the end of the day when slaves began pairing up for the night. Another thing that wasn't right was how many other slaves seemed to have an interest in the outcome. At most a fight involved four men, but this one seemed to involve the entire side of the cafeteria. Men and breeders were piling onto one another, trying to strike their blows against the two that had started the fight.

 

 The cafeteria was rapidly becoming a sea of jumbled bodies. The noise was growing louder, and the fight was beginning to move toward the doors.

 

 Grunwold signaled for his men on the cafeteria floor to intervene.

 

 Sec men moved in to break it up, but despite pulling bodies out of the fray, more were joining in. Several slaves were pushed away, falling through the exit doors that led outside. In moments streams of slaves were spilling out into the orchards, and the sec men on the floor still hadn't gotten a handle on the fight.

 

 The sec chief quickly scanned the cafeteria, looking for the one-eyed outlander. When the fight broke out, he'd been content to finish his breakfast as the fight stormed around him.

 

 But now he was gone.

 

 "Son of a gaudy slut!" the sec chief shouted.

 

 The fight below was still going on.

 

 Grunwold unslung his longblaster, pointed it into the middle of the jumble of bodies and pulled the trigger.

 

 The crack of the blaster's fire stopped the fighting.

 

 Slaves moved back from the center of the scrap, leaving the young man who'd been caught by Grundwold's bullet to fall to the floor in a bloody mess, half of his head blown off and splattered against the faces and bodies of those around him.

 

 "The one-eyed outlander!" Grunwold yelled.

 

 "Where'd he go?" a sec man asked.

 

 The sec chief, seething in anger over the loss of the outlander, leveled his longblaster on the sec man who'd asked the question. He even toyed with the idea of pulling the trigger, but he put the weapon down, knowing he'd need every man on his force to find the man who surely had known they had intended to chill him. "He's gone out the door, you triple-stupe bastard!"

 

 The sec man looked out at the orchards just beyond the open door.

 

 "Don't just stand there," Grundwold fumed. "Go after him. All of you! And electrify the fence, no intervals."

 

 The sec chief took a deep breath then, knowing it was going to be a very long day.

 

 Fillinger came up beside Grundwold and looked down over the half empty cafeteria. "What will we do with the other slaves?"

 

 Grundwold slung his longblaster over his shoulder and turned to the sec man. "Get them all into their cabins and lock them down, then get every available man out in the orchards looking for the one-eye. Do whatever you have to do to make sure he'll be chilled on sight."

 

 Fillinger looked confused. "It sounds like you're putting me in charge."

 

 "I am, for now."

 

 "What are you going to be doing?"

 

 "Someone has to tell the baron what's happened."

 

 Fillinger looked grave. There was a chance he would never see the sec chief again. "Good luck."

 

 "Just find the son of a gaudy slut and chill him for me."

 

 "Yes, sir."

 

 MILDRED HEARD the rumble of boots outside the nursery and stuck her head out the door to find out what was going on.

 

 A pair of sec men was coming down the stairs in a big hurry.

 

 "What's the matter?" she asked.

 

 "Your friend the one-eye killed a couple of sec men during the night, and now he's making a break for it," the lead sec man said as he unlocked the door to the armory.

 

 Mildred didn't believe it. It didn't sound like Ryan to do something like that without letting her or Krysty know about it first. "He's no friend of mine. We just traveled together. I'm happy enough here. You sure he chilled them?"

 

 The sec man nodded. "Fillinger told me." He started selecting longblasters from one of the racks inside the weapons room, handing one of them to the sec man behind him.

 

 "Where's the coldheart now?" Mildred asked, trying to befriend the sec man with the hopes of catching him with his guard down.

 

 "He's out in the orchards." The sec man put one longblaster back on the rack and selected another.

 

 As he did, Mildred pulled a length of adhesive tape from the roll on her belt and stuck it over the bolt that locked the door to the armory. "Well, good luck finding him," she said.

 

 "Plenty of jack for the one who chills him," he said, closing the armory door and locking it behind him.

 

 "I bet you're gonna be the man to do it." Mildred smiled, giving him the thumbs-up.

 

 "Thanks," the sec man said and was gone.

 

 "Don't mention it," she muttered, opening the door to the armory and slipping inside.

 

 ONCE RYAN WAS out of the main building, he was on the run. There seemed to be plenty of commotion going on behind him, and with any luck the sec men in the cafeteria would have their hands full breaking up the fight.

 

 When he heard a crack of blasterfire come from inside the building, Ryan knew that someone had been chilled, giving up their life so he could have the chance to slip away. Ryan swore that someone would pay. Stretched out before him were acres and acres of orchards and gardens. There were countless rows of trees that all looked the same and provided enough leaves to create hundreds of hiding places above the ground. But the sec men would methodically check each tree until he was found.

 

 It was better to hide closer to the main building and the complex's cabins and barn. There were just as many places to hide. And so, instead of running into the orchards, Ryan doubled back toward the complex, climbed the ladder to the farm's water tower and slipped inside. Later on he would climb out of the tower and head for one of the slave cabins. They'd certainly be checked that morning, which would make them a safe place to hide in the afternoon. From there he might be able to get in touch with Mildred or Krysty, and figure out a plan of escape or learn if there'd been any word from J.B.

 

 That was the plan for later in the day.

 

 For now, all he could do was wait.

 

  

 

 Chapter Thirty-Three

 

  

 

 "Say that again," the baron demanded.

 

 "We were watching him in the cafeteria," sec chief Grundwold said, "and waiting for the best time to take him because we didn't want to make a scene so close to his victory over Mog."

 

 "And then…?"

 

 "And then a fight broke out over one of the breeders. In the confusion the one-eyed outlander got out of the building."