Prodigal's Return (7 page)

The next morning, a yawning Dean opened the door to the little cabin to be hit by a tumultuous roar of men whooping, dogs barking and blasters firing.

For an instant, he thought the ville had been taken back by the baron, and the sec men had come to chill him. But as the last dregs of sleep left his mind, he saw the crowd of people was composed entirely of Stone Angels, along with a scattering of women wearing chains. Dean recognized each of the men: Natters, Bradshaw, O’Shay, Durante, Lutz, Shapario, and oddly, Hannigan, his expression unreadable.

Behind the beaming throng of coldhearts, wrinklies and small children were loading buckboard wags with barrels of taters, jugs of shine and wicker baskets full of dried fish. Dean knew that had been the main reason for the attack, supplies for the coming winter.

“How was she, brother?” Natters asked, striding from the mob. Although he was unshaved, his face streaked with blood, the man was wearing clean clothing, without patches, and two blasters jutted from his wide leather belt, a revolver and a flintlock.

“Better than your sister,” Dean said, forcing a wide grin while hitching up his belt.

Laughing in delight, Natters moved fast to throw a punch. Having experienced this sort of thing before,
Dean didn’t dodge or duck. Instead, he caught the fist in his palm, and they stood locked together, both straining to shift the other.

“That’s our Tiger!” Natters smiled, relinquishing the attack. Throwing his arms wide, he embraced Dean, then draped an arm across his shoulders. “Let’s hear it for the new Angel!”

As the grinning crowd gave voice to their approval, Dean felt his stomach turn as he pushed off the friendly arm. Was this what they had been waiting to happen before he was fully accepted into the gang—for him to rape an innocent girl? The famous Cawdor anger boiled inside him, and Dean let loose with a full-throated bellow of rage, the ferocity and volume surprising even him.

Shocked at first, the coldhearts then redoubled their joyful cries, obviously mistaking it merely as a defiant roar.

“Nuking hell, that’s what a good slut can do!” Bradshaw chortled. He had an arm draped across an older woman, his bloodstained hand openly fondling her breast. “Turn a boy into a man!”

“So where is the bitch?” Hannigan muttered softly, almost as if speaking to himself.

On cue, Althea stepped out of the cabin. Saying nothing, she stood behind Dean, her head down and her hands meekly folded.

“Come on, let’s see what she’s got!” Shapario chuckled, uncoiling a bullwhip from his shoulder.

Dean stopped him with a raised palm. “No need to bruise the goods,” he said with a humorless laugh. Over a shoulder, he added, “Strip, girl.”

Quickly, Althea disrobed, letting her clothing fall to the dirt until she was completely naked. Shivering in the morning cold, she stayed mute while the coldhearts voiced their various opinions about her physical attributes.

“Black dust, Tiger’s got her trained like a dog already!” Natters grinned in frank approval. “Well done, brother. I still have to beat mine with a club just to make the bitch open her mouth.”

“Wouldn’t mind having a ride on that myself,” Hannigan growled, the throwing ax tight in his fist. There were grisly new souvenirs on his necklace, most of them still oozing life.

“Nobody rides my horse but me,” Dean answered back, the Browning Hi-Power instantly leveled at the man. “And that goes double for my slut.”

“Just asking,” Hannigan replied, the muscles in his arm visibly tightening as he turned to walk away from the celebration.

“All right, get dressed,” Dean commanded, not bothering to turn around. “Don’t want you catching the black cough.”

Obediently, Althea put her clothing back on and stood barefoot in the dirt, waiting patiently.

Just then, the
Atomsmasher
chugged into view from around the ruin of the former baron’s home. With a police gun belt now draped across his chest, and a bloody cloth tied around his head, Camarillo was still standing inside the control room. More iron bars had been added to the narrow windows, the raw welds still shiny, and the armored roof was festooned with new coils of razor wire. In the tender behind the engine, a sweaty
pair of chained slaves maintained a steady rhythm as they threw chunks of wood through the open fire door to feed the ravenous machine.

“All right, mount up!” Camarillo ordered, removing the cigar from his mouth. He flicked ashes into the breeze. “We’re heading for camp! Be sure to pack everything you want, because we’re burning this rad pit to the ground.”

“That seems a waste, Chief,” Dean said, with a frown. “If we leave the ville standing, more pilgrims will come to rebuild, plant crops, and eventually we can hit it again for new supplies.”

“Sort of like planting winter corn for the summer harvest,” O’Shea said, nodding.

“Makes good sense to me, Chief,” Lutz added, scratching at his arm inside a leather sling. He had caught an arrow during the fight, but the new healer had done a good job getting out the shaft and patching him up. Tiger had been triple-smart to save the woman, he thought. Her assistant had been useless, though, so was thrown to the troops. She hadn’t survived the night, but nobody was really complaining.

Blowing a long stream of dark smoke out his mouth, Camarillo inspected the soggy end of the cigar. “Yeah, that does sound smart,” he admitted, putting the cigar back into place. “Hate to not torch the place, but Tiger makes a good point. Which is why—” Just then, a valve on the engine discharged a thunderous blast of steam.

“What was that again, Chief?” Durante asked, cupping an ear.

“I said, that’s why I have changed my mind, and instead of Durante, I’m promoting Tiger to be my new
lieutenant.” Camarillo shifted the cigar to the other side of his mouth.

Grinning widely, Natters pounded Dean on the back, while Shapario let loose a war whoop.

“The newbie?” Durante gasped. “B-but he’s just a kid!”

“A kid smarter than most,” Camarillo said, resting an elbow out the window grill. “He figured out how to fix the
Atomsmasher.
He helped D’ville make the black powder we used to blow up the ville gates, and he walked into the damn ville as a scout with only a blaster at his side.” Camarillo removed the cigar to stab it at the coldheart. “Didn’t you refuse to do the job because it was too dangerous?”

At the pronouncement, Althea glanced sideways at Dean, her eyes alive with hatred. If Dean noticed, he gave no sign.

“But…I…that is…” Durante stammered, turning red in the face.

“On the other hand,” Camarillo continued, “if there was somebody tough enough to take him out—”

Snarling, Durante spun, clawing for his blaster.

With the Browning Hi-Power already in his hand, Dean fired once, and blood erupted from the older man’s upper arm. Clutching the flesh wound, Durante reeled backward, then made a feeble grab for his own blaster. Coolly, Dean shot him again, in the upper thigh. With a cry, Durante toppled over to lay sprawled in the hard-packed dirt, his breath a puffy mist in the cold morning air.

“Why’d you let him alive?” Camarillo asked, crossing his arms.

“Be a waste of lead to ace him, Chief,” Dean countered, holstering the weapon. “He’s just drunk from all the shine and chilling. Besides, the Sarge is the best damn gunsmith we have. Those don’t grow on trees, ya know.”

“That’s for sure,” Camarillo said softly, the words almost lost in the huffing of the steam truck. “However, during the fight last night, I saw him hide among a pile of corpses when the ville boys staged a rally.” Pushing up the cloth on his forehead, he exposed an open wound. “I got this because that yellow piece of mutie shit ran when the lead started flying hot.”

“A dirty coward,” Natters whispered, putting a wealth of hatred into the last word.

Hawking loudly, Lutz spit on the wounded coldheart, while O’Shea and Bradshaw pulled out knives and started walking forward.

“Wait, don’t ace him!” Dean commanded.

“What?” Bradshaw said in a throaty growl, his knuckles white on the handle of the knife.

“You gonna let him live?” O’Shea asked incredulously.

“Th-thank you, brother,” Durante wheezed, tears streaming down both cheeks. “By the Sacred Eagle God of DeeCee, I promise that—”

“Shut up, slave! Strip the bastard naked, and break both arms so that he can’t defend himself,” Dean stated without emotion. “Then chain him with the other sluts. The ladies can play with him on the trip back to camp…where we’re going to nail his stinking bones to the lashing post!”

As the coldhearts gave voice to their savage approval,
a pale Durante fumbled for the knife on his belt and started to cut his own throat. Before anybody could move, a blaster cracked, and the blade went spinning away, a mirror in the sunlight, to bounce off the armored side of the hulking
Atomsmasher.

“Natters, take his boots,” Dean said, holstering the Browning. “Shapario, you get his horse. Lutz, his blaster. I’ll take half his brass, and the rest goes into the war chest.”

Screaming hysterically, Durante tried to fend off the coldhearts as they descended upon him, brutally using their blasters and boots to pulverize his shoulders and arms. Mercifully, the feebly struggling man fell unconscious long before they were done and dragged him away to certain doom.

“You could have taken everything,” Camarillo said, pulling a home rolled cigar from his shirt pocket. He tossed it over.

Making the catch, Dean tucked it into the side of his mouth. “That would have made it seem personal, instead of biz,” he replied, flicking a wooden match alive with a thumbnail. He started to hold it to the end of the cigar, then paused. “Is this tabacca?”

“Mixed with a little Mary Jane and wolfweed.”

Flicking aside the match, Dean tucked the cigar into a pocket. “Then I’ll save it for later, when I’m not in front of the troops.”

“I’m smoking one,” Camarillo stated gruffly, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

Dean gave a half smile. “Yeah, but I’ll bet that yours is just broadleaf tabacca, and not a damn thing else.”

“As I said before, smarter than most,” Camarillo
grunted, the fumes of the cigar rising into the air exactly like the dark smoke exiting the iron-bound chimney of the
Atomsmasher.

“What good is a feeb as XO?” Dean asked, drawing the Browning to drop the clip. He started thumbing in fresh rounds.

“XO?”

“Old speak for executive officer, a lieutenant.”

Camarillo nodded. “Nice, I like it. But the troops would prefer lieutenant.” With a squeal of rusty metal, a riveted door in the control room swung aside, and he stepped onto a short set of stairs. “So, Lieutenant Cawdor, what’s our next move?”

Easing the clip back into the handle of the blaster, Dean worked the slide to chamber a round, then clicked on the safety. “We leave for camp, and along the way accidentally let a couple of the wrinklies and some of the little ones escape.”

Camarillo frowned deeply at that. “What in nuking hell for?”

“They’ll head straight for the nearest ville. That will spread word of the massacre, and put fear of the Stone Angels into the bones of every civie and sec man across the whole damn valley.”

“I see,” Camarillo muttered, removing the cigar to inspect the soggy end. “That way, the next time we charge a ville shouting our name, most of the civies will run away in fear, weakening the wall defense.”

“Mebbe some of the sec men, too. Then we keep doing it. Each time, making it easier for us to take over a ville, and the next one after that.”

“Winter corn again, eh?”

Dean shrugged. “Gotta plan for the future, Chief. Besides, the wrinklies wouldn’t be good for anything but target practice, and now we have Durante for that.”

For a long minute, Camarillo looked hard at the teenager, then slowly smiled. “Well done, Lieutenant. There’s a sealed jelly jar of .308 brass that’ll fit your BAR longblaster in my bunker back at camp. Stop by for dinner tonight. We’ll talk some more biz, and you can pick it up afterward.”

“Thanks! But you better make it after dinner. I plan to do some hard riding with my new slut as soon as possible,” Dean said, smacking the girl on the butt. Althea jumped at that contact, but stayed mum, her face oddly blank.

“Fair enough,” Camarillo relented, going back inside the iron room. “Now go choose your wrinklies. Two should be enough.”

“Better make it an even dozen.”

“Five, and make triple-sure they’re strong enough to run away from any mutie, but not in such good shape that they’ll try to come back and rescue any friends.” The door slammed shut, and Camarillo scowled through the grille. “If even one of my coldhearts gets aced by them, you pay the price. Understand?”

“Yes, sir!” Dean said, snapping off a smart salute.

Snorting in reply, Camarillo returned the gesture much more cavalierly, then started working the controls of the steam truck. Slowly, the huge machine began to inch forward, gradually building speed.

“Come along,” Dean commanded, and Althea rushed to obey.

Once they were away from the other coldhearts, she
moved in closer to whisper, “You helped these monsters raid my ville,” she said, “yet you saved those wrinklies. I don’t understand.”

“I have to pretend to be a part of the gang, or else it will be my ass nailed to the lashing post,” Dean stated bluntly, slowing his long stride to match her smaller steps. “I helped the wrinklies because it’s the right thing to do. An old friend of mine named Doc always used to say that the only true definition of civilization was the strong helping the weak. That sounds about dead center to me.” He shrugged. “I can’t save everybody, but if I manage to rescue even one poor bastard from a life in chains, that seems worth doing.”

Walking alongside the teenager, Althea said nothing until reaching his horse. Climbing into the saddle, Dean reached down a hand. Without hesitation, she took it, and he pulled her up to sit behind him.

“Hang on tight. The sons of bitches like to ride fast,” Dean growled, his hatred for the other coldhearts readily evident. “It takes the fight out of the slaves, and makes them easier to train.”