Ruth.
Dead.
But that’s okay, I’m dead myself, am I not?
Lander Dills, he dead.
Not quite yet, he’s not.
He angled away from the village, looking for the place where he’d left Ruth’s body, but not really expecting to find it there. After searching the area for a few minutes, he gave up.
He returned to the village. He crouched beside a hut. From there, he saw a dozen figures lying near the embers of campfires, and maybe twenty busy near the main fire. The twenty seemed subdued, as if they didn’t want to disturb the sleepers.
Standing, he slipped the knife and hatchet under his vest, and walked directly toward the group. His heart thundered and he had trouble breathing, but he continued to walk, slightly hunched and limping.
A woman glanced at him. Casually looked away.
He came to the rear of the group and peered into their midst. Several, kneeling, were busy with knives. Cutting arms and legs off bodies. The body of the man he’d killed by the stream. The woman who’d worn her knife in front The man he’d taken the hatchet from. The one who’d speared Ruth. And Ruth herself.
One arm already off.
As he watched, a woman finished severing Ruth’s other arm, and tossed it onto a stack of bloody limbs near the fire.
Two men were cutting her legs.
Lander staggered backward. He turned, head spinning, afraid he might throw up or faint. Breathing deeply, he walked through the middle of the village.
Two women and a man were asleep in front of the farthest hut. The man’s head rested on the flat belly of the younger one. A fat, older woman slept on her side, her breasts drooping sideways. Bones lay scattered about.
Lander dropped to his knees. Taking out his weapons, he crawled past the fat one and through the fur-draped entrance of the hut.
He crept slowly in the darkness.
Someone was here. He could hear the breathing. He stopped to listen. Two were here. Clamping the knife in his teeth, he reached out.
He touched a foot. It moved, just a bit, and he heard a sleepy moan. A man’s moan. Sliding his hand up the leg, he felt moist flaccid genitals. Another moan, this one almost a sigh of pleasure. He moved his hand up the man’s belly and chest. He found the neck. He found the mouth.
Setting his hatchet aside, he jammed a hand against the mouth and slashed the man’s throat.
Warm liquid sprayed his face. Arms and legs flailed, but only for a few seconds. The wet gurgling sounds were loud.
“Onich?”
Lander reached through the dark, and touched a bare shoulder. He crawled closer. He touched a small, firm breast.
A hand trailed down his body. The fingers lightly jiggled his scrotum. They encircled his growing shaft. Abruptly, the woman gasped. Her hand vanished. Her body lurched, but he held it by the breast and swung the knife down. It plunged deep. The woman cried out. He groped for her mouth, found it, muffled her cries with one hand, and shoved the knife into the side of her neck just below the ear. Her body went rigid under him, quaked, and finally stilled.
He lay on top of her, listening.
How loud had her outcry been? Had it awakened others?
For a long time, he didn’t move. Then, satisfied that nobody had heard, he silently climbed off.
He sat between the two bodies, wondering what to do next. Perhaps he should mutilate them. Cut off their heads, maybe. Cut off the guy’s cock, and stuff it in the woman’s mouth. Stick something up her twat.
Thinking about it, he got an erection.
No. Shit no.
I’m not a beast for Godsake.
An avenger, not a beast.
An avenging angel.
The Angel of Death!
Again, he laughed, and muffled it. When he was done, he touched himself. The erection was gone.
Good thing.
I’m an avenger, not a raving sex maniac.
He crawled through the darkness and pushed open the fur flap of the entrance. Air from outside came in, cooling his sweat. He crawled out.
He crouched beside the dead fire where the man and two women still slept. He scanned other figures sleeping nearby. The closest were two men, about fifteen yards away. The group near the main fire kept working. They had built up the fire, and were suspending several arms above it from a tripod.
Cooking the meat before it goes bad.
Lander raised his hatchet.
Here’s more for you, he thought. I’ll keep you fat and happy.
With a single swift stroke, he broke the head of the older woman. He leapt, crouched, and swung. The ax bit into the man’s forehead. He pulled it out. The young, thin woman opened her eyes. She squealed. Lander aimed for her nose, missed, and cleaved the left side of her face, splitting her eye.
A spear whished past Lander’s face. He saw a crowd coming toward him—the whole bunch.
He stood up straight. Waving the hatchet overhead, he yelled, “Cry havoc, you fuckers!”
And then he ran.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Neala sat under a candle, her back against a wall, and watched Johnny search the cabin.
He checked the walls, first. They were hung with deerskins, probably to keep the winds out. He lifted each pelt, and looked beneath it.
When he finished the walls, he stepped to the fireplace. A black pot hung over the dead coals. He swung it out, took off the lid, and sniffed. Gagging, he jammed the lid into place.
Sherri, asleep on her pile of furs, groaned and rolled onto her side.
“What is it?” Neala whispered to Johnny.
“Spoiled.”
He returned the pot to its hook. He pushed his hand into the ashes beneath it. “Cold,” he said. Brushing off his hand, he stood. He hefted a metal fireplace poker. It looked solid and heavy, to Neala. He swung it a few times as if testing its weight, then put it back. For a few moments, he inspected the sooty billows, a broom, a stool with a wicker seat. Then he turned away.
He wandered the cabin floor, his feet silent on the thick layers of fur that covered it.
“What’re you looking for?” Neala asked.
“Anything we can use.” He shook his head. “The place is bare. Except for
“What do we need?”
“Food and water. A couple of guns would be nice.”
From the corner came Sherri’s voice. “While you’re dreaming, how about a chopper to haul us the fuck outa here?”
“Maybe there’s another room,” Neala suggested.
