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Ryan peeked through the fringe of dark green leaves, looking back down the
trail. At the tail end of the column, to his disquiet, he spotted a pair of
the slavers walking together, with four dogs on leashes. The animals were
slavering brutes with underslung jaws and the red eyes of killers.
They were tugging ahead, snarling at the heels of the last of the line of
slaves.
Ryan tried to ease himself back into the undergrowth, praying that the
overwhelming scent of the colorful
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Deathlands 28 - Emerald Fire flowers covered his own smell and hid it from the
hounds. In his right hand, the SIG-Sauer was already cocked, his index finger
resting lightly inside the trigger guard.
Now most of the sorry column had trudged by. Not one of the natives had lifted
his or her head to look at the surrounding brush, and none of the guards
seemed to be bothering with checking against a possible ambush.
Slavery was endemic in some parts of Deathlands, generally where there was
some sort of crude manufacturing or processing plant set up, or where old
mines were being reopened and reworked. In all those cases, the work involved
was bitter and arduous, and it simply wasn't possible to attract paid workers.
So the barons and owners used slaves.
Over the years Ryan had encountered slavery on several occasions. Trader's
rule in life was not to interfere unless there was some good reasongenerally
commercialto justify it. For the miserable victims, condemned to dwell at the
very bottom of the poverty heap, slavery was a way of life. If you tried to
combat it and free a few poor wretches, then others would be taken and the
circle would remain unbroken.
The only way of stopping it was to totally wipe out the slavers themselves,
and there wasn't often much profit in trying to do that.
One of the young girls stumbled and fell, dragging down the next two in line.
For a moment there was chaos, with screaming and yelling and dogs barking.
Whips raised and fell, cracking into defenseless flesh. The fattest of the
slavers grabbed the girl and heaved her to her feet, slapping her hard across
the face to teach her a lesson to be more careful.
"Don't spoil the merchandise," called the man on the burro's back.
"Stupe bitch went down on purpose," the angry man replied. "I'll show her to
be trouble, tonight."
"No, you won't, Manuel. Not unless I say so."
There was a clear note of warning in the voice, and Manuel let the girl go,
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snatching a chance to brush the flat of his hand over her budding breasts,
making her wince more than the slap had. "Sure, boss," he called out.
Ryan frowned, wondering about the accent. They spoke reasonable American, but
there was a heavy guttural accent to it that he couldn't place.
Now the prisoners were almost past him.
Ryan felt movement and looked down, seeing that a tiny lizard, vermilion in
color, was industriously climbing over the toe of one of his combat boots.
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Deathlands 28 - Emerald Fire
He noticed that it had a triple row of needle-sharp teeth, and it was trying
to gnaw its way through the toughened leather. Moving with infinite slowness,
Ryan hefted the two pounds of cold metal that was the
SIG-Sauer P-226 and brought it down firmly on the back of the reptile's skull,
cracking its head open in a puddle of gray-pink brains, sending it toppling
lifelessly into the leaf mold that lay all around.
The dogs were level with him when he risked a glance through the fringe of
leaves, and one of them, a brindled brute with scarred flanks, was heaving on
the leash, as though it had managed to scent him.
But the guard took no notice, cursing at it and tugging savagely at the spiked
choke collar.
"Come on, Diablo, you piece of shit! Walk on, will you."
He kicked at the dog, which turned and snarled at him, showing its teeth.
Ryan crouched lower, part of his attention fixed on the death throes of the
little lizard, which was on its back, legs jerking convulsively, a thin
trickle of green blood seeping from between the pointed teeth.
The column of slavers and their victims had almost gone, moving safely along
toward the east, passing unsuspectingly by Ryan and the others.
Ryan relaxed his grip on the blaster, ready to ease down the hammer, when Dean
leapt from the undergrowth immediately opposite him, yelling at the top of his
voice.
Chapter Eight
Ironically it was only the total chaos that prevented a bloody firefight.
Dean's totally unexpected appearance took everyone by surprise, including Ryan
and the other companions.
The slavers swung around, and blasters were drawn and leveled. But the dogs
had gone crazy, pulling the guard off his feet, knocking over his companion.
Also, at least half of the natives fell down in screaming panic, pulling one
another to the ground, making it impossible for anyone to hope for a clear
shot at
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Deathlands 28 - Emerald Fire anyone else.
It was a hair-trigger moment.
Ryan took a chance and stood, holding his automatic in his outstretched hand,
pointing it toward the tops of the trees, shouting as loudly as he could.
"Don't shoot! Nobody start shooting or there'll be a load of dying."
To his relief, J.B., Krysty and the others all stayed hidden and silent in the
undergrowth, meaning that they didn't tip his hand, didn't show that they were
outnumbered almost two to one by the slavers.
Dean was rolling on the track, beating at his body with flailing hands. From
where he stood, Ryan could see the problem, the same problem that Doc had so
narrowly avoided.
Ants.
Dean had inadvertently chosen a nest of fiery red ants for his hiding place,
staying still and quiet for as long as he could, stoically enduring the
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repeated bites until they became unendurable.
"Sorry, Dad, sorry," he kept repeating, weeping bitter tears with the acidic
agony of dozens of bites, all over the most tender parts of his body.
Ryan ignored his son, focusing his attention on the slavers, particularly on
the man in the panama at the head of the raggedy procession, who had slipped
agilely from the saddle of the burro, dropping to a kneeling position behind
the skittish animal. He held a battered Armalite that looked the identical
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