a hot dose of lead in the head. True words, indeed.
In the corner, a young boy without shoes was playing a dilapidated upright piano with considerable skill, but there was no jack in the tip jar perched on top. On the second-floor balcony, a host of gaudy sluts leaned over the battered wooden railing, their bare breasts openly on display to entice new customers upstairs for fifteen minutes of sweaty delight.
Telling jokes and pouring shine behind a plywood counter, the bartender was a tall man named Mark Michalowski, a thin man with a shaved head and a wide, easy grin.
Gathered along the counter were a couple of sluts and a dozen burly men. Mountain men from the looks of them, Ryan guessed, remembering a friend of his from a long time ago. The hunters were dirty, unshaved, and dressed entirely in clothing made from animal hides: griz bear boots, deerskin pants and shirts, beaver coats and coonskin caps, minus the tails. They looked friendly enough, but machetes hung at their backs and muzzle-loading longblasters hung across their shoulders. The men looked so similar to one another that Ryan knew they had to be close kin, and from a pretty damn small gene pool, at that. Which only made them that much more dangerous. The only true law in the Deathlands was that kin helped kin, especially in a fight.
The mountain men were talking low among themselves, drinking shots of shine from cracked plastic tumblers and stuffing their bearded faces with handfuls of salted popcorn as if they’d never encountered the stuff before. Ryan knew that the locals used the stuff to feed their pigs when it got stale, but when it was fresh, Big Mike the bartender gave it away free, the heavy coating of rock salt a mighty inducement for his customers to drink more shine, and eventually end upstairs where their pockets could really be emptied. The one-eyed man knew that there was no such thing as a free lunch. That phrase had never been so nuking true than in the desert ville of Hobart where everything had a price. Baron Felix Harrison was so crooked that he could eat soup with a corkscrew, and the sooner Ryan and his companions were out of this rad pit the better he’d like it. But for the moment, they were trapped. Nobody could leave Hobart without a signed pass, and those were damn near impossible to get from the baron. However, Ryan knew one of the ville sec men from his days riding shotgun with the Trader, and the man was going to meet Ryan here at any moment.
“Ya wanna refill?” a serving girl asked, the wooden tray expertly balanced on an outthrust hip as if it was nailed there.
The teenager was shapely and well proportioned, with a lot of cleavage showing over the top of her tight leather bodice. Unfortunately her face was horribly scarred from once being caught in an acid rain storm, and her features were nearly destroyed. What little there was remaining had twisted into a permanent scowl as if she hated the whole nuking world and wished it to die screaming, as had her youthful beauty. Even her long auburn hair was sprinkled with white from the ravages of the acid rain. Only her full breasts seemed to have been spared. They were pink and plump, and damn near perfect.
Ryan had heard several of the customers call the teenage girl Crate, and guessed that was a short version of Crater-face, the nickname given because of her ghastly resemblance to the moon. Unconsciously touching the disfiguring knife scar that crossed his own face, Ryan felt a tug of camaraderie for the disfigured girl.
“Just some more beer and bread,” Ryan said, tossing over a .22 cartridge. “And lean over more when you bring it, honey.” He had no real interest in bedding the girl, but Doc always liked to say that good manners cost nothing. Which was true enough, the man supposed.
Making the catch with a free hand, Crate seemed startled by the crude pass, then clearly warmed to the idea. “This much brass will get ya the best beer we got, and some time with me in the back room, if ya like,” she whispered, a suggestion of a smile appearing briefly on her distorted lips. “I’m good. Damn good, and I don’t mind facing the wrong way, if you know what I mean.”
Clearly hearing the need in her voice, Ryan understood that in spite of working in a tavern situated under a gaudy house, the girl had never shared a bed with anybody before. The local boys had to be feebs. The fruit of the desert cactus looked like a brain tumor and was covered with more barbed needles than a mutie porcupine, but inside was the sweetest damn pulp a person ever tasted. Mother-nuking-ambrosia. Ryan knew that ugly didn’t tell you drek about what juicy treasures waited for a smart man on the inside of an apron.
“So what do they call you?” Ryan asked, looking directly into her face. Her eyes were bright and alive with intelligence.
“Crate,” she muttered, both cheeks turning bright red.
“Short for Catherine, eh?”
The girl blinked in surprise at that, then smiled broadly and leaned over to rest an elbow on the table, both breasts nearly spilling out of her bodice. “You can load that into your blaster,” she said in a throaty purr. “Short for Catherine.” Impulsively she reached out to touch his face. “I’ll bet the other guy lost a lot more in the fight.”
“Damn straight he did,” Ryan muttered, adjusting the leather patch covering the empty socket that had once held his left eye. His own brother had taken the eye in an effort to chill Ryan and claim the throne of their home ville, Front Royal. However, in the end, Harvey was breathing dirt, while Ryan was still walking the shattered earth, so there was no question to him who won that fragging knife fight.
In fact, Ryan and the companions had been on their way from Ohio to visit friends at Front Royal when an avalanche had closed off the only pass and they had been forced to circle around through Hobart. Now all they wanted to do was to get out again, as soon as possible.
“Well, what do ya say?” Catherine asked eagerly.
But before Ryan could answer, the front door swung open and Derby Joe Schwartz sauntered inside. Tall and slim, the man appeared to be made out of nothing but bones and darkly tanned skin. His scraggly hair hung to his shoulders, and a battered old derby rested on top, an eagle feather sticking out of the leather band. Blasters rode on each hip, and a cloth star was sewn onto his shirt, showing he was the sec boss for the entire ville.
Whistling sharply, Ryan caught the man’s attention, and Joe nodded in greeting, already heading over.
“I’ll have to put a timer on that ride, Catherine. My friend is here, and biz comes first,” Ryan said, patting her on the rear. It was nice, warm and well-rounded. The man didn’t finish the offer because soon he would be long gone, but Ryan never saw the profit in hurting somebody weaker than yourself just because you could.
“Anytime, anywhere, Blackie,” Catherine stated, her damaged face alive with raw sentiment. The girl unexpectedly leaned in to kiss him hard on the mouth, then turned to rush away through the smoky tavern and disappear into the steamy kitchen.
“Hey,” Joe said, pulling out a chair and sitting in it backward to keep a clear and fast access to his blasters. “How drunk are you to be sucking face with Crater?”
“The name’s Catherine,” Ryan replied, a rare smile coming and going just as fast. “And, brother, the man who corrals that mare is in for the ride of his life.”
“That so?” Joe asked, tilting back his derby to expose a large bald spot. “A fellow could forget that face, if she could really cook.” Then he smiled lewdly. “Who knows, mebbe she even knows how to do stuff in the kitchen!”
Slapping their palms together into a shake, the old friends shared a mutual laugh. Then the men jerked their hands back and clawed for weapons. The subtle sound had almost been lost in the sea of conversations filling the tavern, but somebody somewhere had just worked the pump-action on a scattergun. The noise was unmistakable.
“Nothing
