Child Of Slaughter

Krysty smiled. “It always does,” she said before turning away to resume her search, leaving Ryan to wonder how much of the conviction in her voice was for his benefit.

* * *

AFTER A FEW more hours of searching, sundown came and put an end to it. Going over the same barren ground after nightfall made no sense. If the trail was nonexistent in broad daylight, it wouldn’t likely become visible in the beams of flashlights.

Still, the group stayed in the area and pitched camp at the rock wall, in the hope that Doc might reappear.

The companions broke open their packs, dining on MREs they’d scrounged from the redoubt they’d jumped to.

“How long are we going to stay here?” Mildred asked as she threw down her bedroll in the dirt.

“Until we find a lead on what happened to Doc.” As he said it, Ryan stole a glance at Krysty, who was also rolling out a sleeping bag. The truth was, they couldn’t stay long at all, not if the place was killing Krysty. He wasn’t about to risk losing her.

J.B. flashed him a look that said he could see right through him.

“I hope that lead turns up damn soon,” the Armorer said.

Ryan nodded. “You and me both.”

“Supplies low,” Jak said, smacking the side of his backpack for emphasis.

“I know that,” Ryan replied.

“Can’t build fire,” the albino added. “No firewood near.”

Ryan nodded. He knew Jak and Ricky had looked hard for it, to no avail. This part of Nebraska—the Sandhills, according to a map in the redoubt—was rich in sand and rock and not much else. If there was a stick of wood or a growing thing anywhere in a five-mile radius, they hadn’t come across it yet.

“We’ll take it as it comes, like we always do.” Ryan met the eyes of his companions, each in turn, projecting all the strength and confidence he could muster. “For now, we need some shut-eye.” Gripping his longblaster tightly, he stared into the moonlit night. He didn’t ask for anyone’s opinion; he was taking the first watch, looking out for muties on the move.

So was J.B. “I kind of hope one of those damn muties shows up.” Mini-Uzi in hand, the Armorer walked up to stand beside Ryan. “Mebbe he could give us a lead on Doc.”

“You think the muties took him?” asked Ricky, who was sitting with his back against the base of the rock wall, cleaning his Webley Mk VI revolver.

“Good chance of it, if you ask me,” J.B. stated. “They seemed to know exactly what changes were coming, and when. It was like they could read the phenomenon.”

“Or control it,” Mildred suggested. “If that’s even possible.”

“Why not?” J.B. shrugged. “We know certain people can be attuned to the Earth Mother.” He glanced over his shoulder at Krysty. “Why not control her, as well?”

“Whatever they’ve done, whatever’s happening here, it’s awful.” Krysty scowled and rubbed her temples. “It’s wrong. Beyond wrong.”

“And Doc’s out there alone in the middle of it.” Mildred stepped up alongside J.B. and cast her gaze into the night. “Either that, or he’s…” Her voice trailed off.

No one wanted to finish her sentence.

Chapter Three (#ulink_78e427be-34dd-5407-9227-db37523cab8f)

“Am I dead?”

As Doc blinked his eyes open, he could see nothing but darkness. He tossed his head one way, then the other, and the result was the same. More darkness.

But not emptiness. He could feel a solid surface beneath him, like rock, and he could sense some kind of walls around him. “Hello? If this is the afterlife, I’m really not complaining, you know. Life in the Deathlands has rather worn thin, to be perfectly honest.” When he spoke, there was no echo; he could tell from the sound of his voice that he was in an enclosed space.

And more than that, he was somewhere dank and damp. He could smell moisture in the air, feel a chill against his skin.

But there was no draft of any kind, no air moving anywhere in that space, not even the faintest breeze.

Wherever he was, it didn’t feel as if it was out in the open, which was odd, because that was exactly the last place he could remember being. Out in the open.

Reaching down, Doc felt a cold, damp sheet of smooth stone. Bracing against it, he boosted himself up to a sitting position, instantly regretting it when his head collided with a rock-hard ceiling.

“Ow!” He dropped back down, clutching his aching skull. “That hurt!”

At that exact moment, Doc realized two things: one, he was still alive and, two, he was in an even smaller space than he’d expected.

These two realizations generated a terrible thought, a possibility that was starting to seem increasingly likely. If he wasn’t out in the open, and he wasn’t dead…

“Have I been buried alive?” The thought of it made involuntarily clench the pit of his stomach. Fear seized him, as cold and primitive as a stone ax or the plunging beak of an ancient carnivore.

Had the ground opened up and swallowed him, then closed itself over him? Was he doomed to suffocate in this tiny, dark cell in the bowels of the earth?

“Help! Somebody, help me!” As Doc cried out, he scrabbled with his fingers at the ceiling, instinctively trying to dig his way to freedom. But the ceiling was all rock, as unyielding as the stone surface on which he lay.

Panting, Doc dropped his arms at his sides. “Help me!” Even as he shouted, he knew it was in vain. Even if Ryan and the others were directly overhead, they could never hear his wailing through a layer of rock. “Please help me!”

Taking a deep breath of the chilly, damp air, he fought to get control of himself…and won, at least for the moment. He knew panic was never the answer. Calm thinking and resourcefulness were the only qualities that ever saved a person in the damnable Deathlands.

“Perhaps my tools…” Doc reached into the folds of his frock coat, seeking the holster of his LeMat revolver, with no success. Next, he rolled onto his right side, searching the stone around him for the blaster or his ebony swordstick. He did the same on his left side, with the exact same result. He found a hard rock wall within arm’s reach, but no revolver and no swordstick.

“I am bereft.” Slumping back on the stone, he sighed loudly. “Without a tool to effect my escape or another mortal soul to offer solace.”

Just then, Doc heard a scuffling sound in the direction of his feet. “What now?” He pushed himself up on his elbows, staying low enough that his head wouldn’t hit the ceiling. “Rats, I suppose? Some other burrowing vermin come to feast on my flesh?” He reached around for a rock to throw but found nothing. “Begone, vermin!” Noise would have to suffice. “I shall not be your dinner yet!”

The scuffling came closer, got louder. Doc peered toward it but saw nothing in the pitch-blackness.

“Begone, I say!” He drew up his legs, pulling away from whatever was there. “You won’t find me an easy prey, I promise you!”

Suddenly, he heard a different sound from the same place, a distinctive sound that could not be mistaken for any other.

Giggling.

Doc’s mouth fell open in shock. The question was no longer what was over there—it was who.

That was no vermin scuffling in the darkness. It was a person.

Doc’s heart hammered in his chest. He meant to snap out some words of defiance to try to intimidate his giggling visitor.

But before a single word could leave Doc’s lips, the visitor scrambled forward. Hands grabbed hold of Doc’s ankles and wrenched his legs straight with an iron grip.