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passed as sport.
"I'm hungry, then I'll kill. I'm cold, then I'll kill."
"No other reason?" Ferryman leaned so close to Ryan that he was enveloped by
his sour breath. Their faces were almost touching.
"Yeah. I kill when I have to."
It was more like a military expedition than a hunt for a single animal.
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Wearing his inevitable three-piece suit and gray hat, Baron Alias Carson rode
in an armored jeep at the head of a procession of a dozen vehicles.
The Trader had asked him whether the mythical white lion was worth all this
amount of logistical trouble for his ville.
"If a thing is worth seeing, sir, then it is worth killing." was his drawled
reply.
There had been a brief discussion between Ryan, the Trader and J.B. about how
many from the crews of the two war wags should be allowed to go along on the
hunt. In the minds of all three men was the ever-
present possibility of treachery from the baron.
"The men and women are getting hot-pissed about hanging around for the gas,"
J.B. said.
"Baron says he'll lend us two of his smaller wags," the Trader said. "That way
they can watch out for backstabbing."
"How about the wags here?" Ryan asked.
They were leaning against the starboard side of War Wag One. The Armorer had
managed to get hold of a supply of his favorite thin black cheroots, and he
puffed a cloud of aromatic smoke into the cool, damp air.
"Can't all go rushing around the desert after some bleached puma," he said.
"Need enough crew to guard them safe."
In the end they agreed that a total of a dozen, split between the two wags and
drawn by lot, would go out hunting.
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Deathlands - Time Nomads
The two borrowed vehicles would be commanded by the Trader and J. B. Ryan
hadn't been very keen on going out into the wilderness as part of a mass hunt,
and had volunteered to stay in charge of War Wags
One and Two.
"Watch out for stray bullets," he warned the Trader. "Ferryman's got a score
against us. Go up a blind arroyo and you get a full-metal jacket through the
middle of your spine."
The Trader gave his thinnest smile, one that barely touched his lips and never
approached his eyes. "Not with you and the war wags right smack in the middle
of his ville. Blood price'd be too high for him to risk."
"Guess that's right."
Ryan got a pat on the shoulder from the older man. "Part of learning, Ryan.
Young man gets to see a little part of the picture. Grow up some and you can,
mebbe, take in the whole picture."
The early rain was absorbed so quickly into the earth that the mud became dust
within a few minutes.
The wind had risen again, obscuring the tracks of the Harley across the main
open area of the ville. Most of the men and women going on the hunt had
goggles slung around their necks in anticipation of the weather to come, and
everyone had a scarf of some kind tucked about their throats.
Ryan stood by the war wags and watched the final preparations being made.
Ferryman strode across to join him.
"Sure you can't be tempted, outlander?" he asked. "Don't see a white lion
every day. Might be something to tell your grandchildren."
"Need children before you get grandkids. And I aim to avoid that for as long
as possible."
"Man should leave something behind him. Read something once about footprints
in the sands of time.
Know what I mean, Ryan?"
"Yeah. I buy the farm now and what've I left?" An engine roared into life,
revved up, then fell away to a gentle rumble. "Not a lot, Ferryman. No brats.
But a shit-load of corpses. That's what I leave behind me."
Sharona Carson had come out to join her husband. She was wearing comparatively
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dull clothes skintight jodhpurs tucked into highly polished riding boots, a
blouse of milk-white silk and a kerchief of maroon satin around her neck. Her
blond hair was pulled back into a short ponytail and held in place with a
silver clip shaped like an eagle's claw. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]