shot in the back. The pistol cracked—and Cal
was
shot in the back. But a crackling flash came as the bullet struck the armoring field—the energy shield Roland had given him. It wouldn’t take too many hits before running through its charge. Maybe one or two more and the shield would fail.
“Come back here, boy!” the bandit shouted at him. “Yougonna squeal when I cook ya?” The bandit fired again, this time the bullet whistling past Cal’s right ear.
Then Cal reached the end of the narrow pass between cliffs, and ran to the right—just as Roland had told him to. He pressed himself against the wall of stone, outside the defile. The bandit rushed out into view—to be met by Roland, who’d been waiting there for him on the other side of the opening, with the biggest knife Cal had ever seen, almost a machete. He swung it hard; the bandit’s head was severed from his neck and spun away to bounce along the ground, some distance off, trailing blood. The bandit’s headless body staggered, went to its knees, then flopped forward, the stump of its neck spouting scarlet from the surgically neat cut.
Cal turned away, retching. Only a little food came up.
Roland came over, handed him a canteen. “Good job, kid. But there’s more to do. Have some water. Then we’re gonna do a costume change.”
The Bruiser watched as the two Psycho bandits with him carried a shiny chrome metal chest of weapons out from the hut. This stuff was worth good money—rare Eridian weapons in that chest. Might use the weapons himself. Might sell them in Jaynistown—if there was anyone left to sell them to. Last time he was there, they were all busy killing each other. But that was okay too. If they were all dead, he could loot the bodies.
“Put it down there, Vultch,” he told the taller of the two Psychos.
The Psychos giggled and dropped the silver case.
“I didn’t say drop it, goddamn it. Ya gonna bust something in there!”
Vultch pulled his buzz axe from the strap that held it to his back and waved the wicked cutting weapon in the air. “Lemme bust it open! I wanta bust something open!”
“Yeah, we been waiting a week to open this thing!” said Gunch, the other Psycho. Their faces were identically masked, their goggled eyes glowing yellow, their shirtless bodies
nearly
identical, except for the scars—but with long acquaintance, the Bruiser knew which was which. Gunch was the shorter, more heavily scarred one who sometimes spontaneously fell to the ground and started licking rocks. The Bruiser usually had to kick him in the head to get him to stop doing that.
“I’ve been waiting because that goddamn buncha mercenaries been around, we hadda either kill ’em or wait till they moved on. If they spied on us when we opened it, we’d have to fight ’em for it and the shitbuggers outnumber us. Now, I’ll open it myself. Get outta the way before I jump on you and squeeze your guts outta your mouth.”
“Hey!” someone yelled from the entrance to the gulley. “I got somethin’ for ya!”
The Bruiser turned toward the sound and spotted what looked like his perimeter sentry, Mulch, up on the boulder that bulked in front of the passage to the gulley. He was poised up there with a prisoner who was lying on his belly, maybe unconscious, hands tied behind his back. The prisoner lying across the boulder was a big black guy, looked like that ex–Crimson Lance Roland, who’d been hanging out in the area. The guy was twice Mulch’s size and dangerous as a gasoline can on fire—Mulch must’ve gotten lucky to bring him down.
“I got Roland here! He’s all tied up!” His voice seemedhigher than usual. Shrill. Excited maybe. Catching Roland—who wouldn’t be?
“Good catch, Mulch! Tied up like a skag pup waiting for the roaster!” He pointed at Vultch and Gunch. “Why can’t you bums be useful like that! Come on!”
The Bruiser ran toward the boulder, catching up his shotgun as he went, the two Psychos coming along
was
shot in the back. But a crackling flash came as the bullet struck the armoring field—the energy shield Roland had given him. It wouldn’t take too many hits before running through its charge. Maybe one or two more and the shield would fail.
“Come back here, boy!” the bandit shouted at him. “Yougonna squeal when I cook ya?” The bandit fired again, this time the bullet whistling past Cal’s right ear.
Then Cal reached the end of the narrow pass between cliffs, and ran to the right—just as Roland had told him to. He pressed himself against the wall of stone, outside the defile. The bandit rushed out into view—to be met by Roland, who’d been waiting there for him on the other side of the opening, with the biggest knife Cal had ever seen, almost a machete. He swung it hard; the bandit’s head was severed from his neck and spun away to bounce along the ground, some distance off, trailing blood. The bandit’s headless body staggered, went to its knees, then flopped forward, the stump of its neck spouting scarlet from the surgically neat cut.
Cal turned away, retching. Only a little food came up.
Roland came over, handed him a canteen. “Good job, kid. But there’s more to do. Have some water. Then we’re gonna do a costume change.”
The Bruiser watched as the two Psycho bandits with him carried a shiny chrome metal chest of weapons out from the hut. This stuff was worth good money—rare Eridian weapons in that chest. Might use the weapons himself. Might sell them in Jaynistown—if there was anyone left to sell them to. Last time he was there, they were all busy killing each other. But that was okay too. If they were all dead, he could loot the bodies.
“Put it down there, Vultch,” he told the taller of the two Psychos.
The Psychos giggled and dropped the silver case.
“I didn’t say drop it, goddamn it. Ya gonna bust something in there!”
Vultch pulled his buzz axe from the strap that held it to his back and waved the wicked cutting weapon in the air. “Lemme bust it open! I wanta bust something open!”
“Yeah, we been waiting a week to open this thing!” said Gunch, the other Psycho. Their faces were identically masked, their goggled eyes glowing yellow, their shirtless bodies
nearly
identical, except for the scars—but with long acquaintance, the Bruiser knew which was which. Gunch was the shorter, more heavily scarred one who sometimes spontaneously fell to the ground and started licking rocks. The Bruiser usually had to kick him in the head to get him to stop doing that.
“I’ve been waiting because that goddamn buncha mercenaries been around, we hadda either kill ’em or wait till they moved on. If they spied on us when we opened it, we’d have to fight ’em for it and the shitbuggers outnumber us. Now, I’ll open it myself. Get outta the way before I jump on you and squeeze your guts outta your mouth.”
“Hey!” someone yelled from the entrance to the gulley. “I got somethin’ for ya!”
The Bruiser turned toward the sound and spotted what looked like his perimeter sentry, Mulch, up on the boulder that bulked in front of the passage to the gulley. He was poised up there with a prisoner who was lying on his belly, maybe unconscious, hands tied behind his back. The prisoner lying across the boulder was a big black guy, looked like that ex–Crimson Lance Roland, who’d been hanging out in the area. The guy was twice Mulch’s size and dangerous as a gasoline can on fire—Mulch must’ve gotten lucky to bring him down.
“I got Roland here! He’s all tied up!” His voice seemedhigher than usual. Shrill. Excited maybe. Catching Roland—who wouldn’t be?
“Good catch, Mulch! Tied up like a skag pup waiting for the roaster!” He pointed at Vultch and Gunch. “Why can’t you bums be useful like that! Come on!”
The Bruiser ran toward the boulder, catching up his shotgun as he went, the two Psychos coming along
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