It wasn’t always sincerely
meant, like anything else in the Deathlands. Except for professions of
bloodlust. Those were always sincere.
“Spent a few years as a trader myself,” Ryan said.
The riders slowed about fifty paces away. They pushed their
goggles up onto their stocking caps. Both were as lean as old coyotes. One was a
woman, the other a man. The woman carried what looked like a crossbow slung over
her back. They held their hands out to their sides in the recognized gesture of
peaceful intent.
“You should be running,” the woman called out. She had a nasal
Northeastern accent.
“Now, why’d that be?” Jones asked. “You wouldn’t be threatening
us?”
“Not us,” the man said. He had a long and narrow face, as if a
giant mutie had clamped his head in a vise and pulled hard on his chin.
“Them.”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
Jones made an exaggerated show of peering up the narrow road.
Dust drifted over it, but fairly regular traffic kept the ancient blacktop from
being buried under the dirt of ages.
“Who’d ‘they’ be?” he asked. “Seeing as you’re the only folks
on the road.”
“Don’t be a dick, Wolfskin,” P.F. said, sliding down the cut
behind her man and Ryan, with her flintlock longblaster cradled in her arms.
Standing, she turned out to be bigger than she looked. She stood a good two
fingers taller than Ryan. “Ask ’em to join us.”
But the riders shook their heads frantically. “We got thirty or
forty miles between us and them,” the man said. “We’d be happier if it was a
hundred and thirty.”
“Thirty-four hundred would be better still,” the woman said.
“You people need to get moving, too. They won’t be here for a few days yet. But
when they do…”
Ryan could see her shudder.
“Who’re these ‘they’ you keep talking about?” P.F. asked.
More of the refugee traders and Ryan’s friends had appeared. He
felt a rise in warmth on more than just a physical level as Krysty came up and
put an arm around him. A quick glance confirmed what he knew: Jak was lying low,
making sure everything stayed on the level. He wasn’t much for palavering, to
say the least.
“Heard some folk call ’em rotties,” the woman said. She shook
her head. “If we told you what they were really like, you’d never believe us.
But imagine the worst trouble you’ve ever known. Then triple that.”
“And it won’t be enough,” her partner added.
“Rotties,” Jones repeated thoughtfully. He turned his pale wolf
eyes to Ryan and Krysty. “Isn’t that what you called those unkillable,
brain-eating monsters you were telling us about?”
“You’ve heard of them?” the woman asked. “Then why are you
still here? You can’t chill ’em unless you shoot ’em in the head. They just keep
coming no matter what. They don’t feel pain or fear.”
“Just hunger,” the man said. “For your meat. And your brains in
particular.”
“And if they bite you, unless they eat all your brains, you
rise up as one of them. If they bite you and you die, the same thing happens.”
She shook her head. “Their numbers just keep growing. There’re dozens of them
already! And they’re heading this way.”
“This sounds familiar.”
“I told you these people were speaking straight,” P.F. said to
her man.
“You didn’t! You never told me that!”
“You’re such a dick.”
Jones shrugged. “It’s part of my charm. Where are you folks
headed?”
“Sweetwater Junction, to spread the word,” the man said. “Then
on. All the way to the Cific if we have to. And then mebbe we’ll catch a
boat.”
“Might want to change your route,” Ernesto called. “The
Junction’s enjoying itself a nice little civil war. Unless you’re willing to
sign as mercies for one side or t’other, best give it a wide berth. They look on
outlanders as meat on the hoof. They’ll chill you or slave you sooner than look
at you.”
“Thanks for the word,” the woman called.
meant, like anything else in the Deathlands. Except for professions of
bloodlust. Those were always sincere.
“Spent a few years as a trader myself,” Ryan said.
The riders slowed about fifty paces away. They pushed their
goggles up onto their stocking caps. Both were as lean as old coyotes. One was a
woman, the other a man. The woman carried what looked like a crossbow slung over
her back. They held their hands out to their sides in the recognized gesture of
peaceful intent.
“You should be running,” the woman called out. She had a nasal
Northeastern accent.
“Now, why’d that be?” Jones asked. “You wouldn’t be threatening
us?”
“Not us,” the man said. He had a long and narrow face, as if a
giant mutie had clamped his head in a vise and pulled hard on his chin.
“Them.”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
Jones made an exaggerated show of peering up the narrow road.
Dust drifted over it, but fairly regular traffic kept the ancient blacktop from
being buried under the dirt of ages.
“Who’d ‘they’ be?” he asked. “Seeing as you’re the only folks
on the road.”
“Don’t be a dick, Wolfskin,” P.F. said, sliding down the cut
behind her man and Ryan, with her flintlock longblaster cradled in her arms.
Standing, she turned out to be bigger than she looked. She stood a good two
fingers taller than Ryan. “Ask ’em to join us.”
But the riders shook their heads frantically. “We got thirty or
forty miles between us and them,” the man said. “We’d be happier if it was a
hundred and thirty.”
“Thirty-four hundred would be better still,” the woman said.
“You people need to get moving, too. They won’t be here for a few days yet. But
when they do…”
Ryan could see her shudder.
“Who’re these ‘they’ you keep talking about?” P.F. asked.
More of the refugee traders and Ryan’s friends had appeared. He
felt a rise in warmth on more than just a physical level as Krysty came up and
put an arm around him. A quick glance confirmed what he knew: Jak was lying low,
making sure everything stayed on the level. He wasn’t much for palavering, to
say the least.
“Heard some folk call ’em rotties,” the woman said. She shook
her head. “If we told you what they were really like, you’d never believe us.
But imagine the worst trouble you’ve ever known. Then triple that.”
“And it won’t be enough,” her partner added.
“Rotties,” Jones repeated thoughtfully. He turned his pale wolf
eyes to Ryan and Krysty. “Isn’t that what you called those unkillable,
brain-eating monsters you were telling us about?”
“You’ve heard of them?” the woman asked. “Then why are you
still here? You can’t chill ’em unless you shoot ’em in the head. They just keep
coming no matter what. They don’t feel pain or fear.”
“Just hunger,” the man said. “For your meat. And your brains in
particular.”
“And if they bite you, unless they eat all your brains, you
rise up as one of them. If they bite you and you die, the same thing happens.”
She shook her head. “Their numbers just keep growing. There’re dozens of them
already! And they’re heading this way.”
“This sounds familiar.”
“I told you these people were speaking straight,” P.F. said to
her man.
“You didn’t! You never told me that!”
“You’re such a dick.”
Jones shrugged. “It’s part of my charm. Where are you folks
headed?”
“Sweetwater Junction, to spread the word,” the man said. “Then
on. All the way to the Cific if we have to. And then mebbe we’ll catch a
boat.”
“Might want to change your route,” Ernesto called. “The
Junction’s enjoying itself a nice little civil war. Unless you’re willing to
sign as mercies for one side or t’other, best give it a wide berth. They look on
outlanders as meat on the hoof. They’ll chill you or slave you sooner than look
at you.”
“Thanks for the word,” the woman called.
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