“No, he ain’t, is he boss?” laughed Deakes, stamping on the lifeless arm. He hooked a meaty fist around the sawed off weapon, tossed it to Vincent. “There. Extra toothpick for you.”
Vincent showed a grin full of brown teeth. He cocked the weapon, gave it a go. “Useless, jammed.” He threw it aside where it smashed into some broken plates.
Regers slung his rifle over his shoulder and sighed. “So, this is the local clubhouse.” His feet shuffled about and beady eyes roved around with critical inspection. “Shithouse more like it. Wouldn’t let a pet rabbit run loose in here. All that work and ’em all dead except the girl and a few bozos back there.” Vincent reached for the girl. Regers warned him back. “Nah, leave her. I don’t like her meat anyway. She can play amateur ham radio operator, chew on some hashish and twiddle herself.” He gave a hollow sigh. “How the day has run sour. Ramra fucked. Who’s next?” He glared around with a quizzical expression.
“Hey, locusts at two-o’clock,” Deakes shouted. He motioned to the table.
Regers grimaced. He peppered the chicken-wired captives full of fire. Heads and pincers went flying in sheets of puce-yellow blood. “No, not no more, Deakes. This is bug-crushing day.” He scowled, face curled in a sneer. “These creepos are sick here, harboring crickets. What the fuck are they playing, bug rape?”
Yul saw the desperate gleam in the other two gang members’ eyes, huddled in the shadows, thin, ragged, unkempt hoods. He shook his head in warning, as if they’d try something stupid, like make a run for it.
“Mickey wanted them as pets,” the girl whimpered. “You kilt Mickey.”
Regers looked down at her with a sad sigh.
“What we going to do about her, boss?” asked Vincent.
“Bring her topside into the light. All of them. The stench in here is killing me. Honestly, Yul, don’t know how you stood it, why you didn’t break out of this crib with fists flying.”
There was shuffling of feet and muttered grunts.
“Any time soon, you fucks,” sneered Regers. “Move your feet, Jennings, you slack bastard! Sick of you turning zombie on us.”
The four mercs brought the prisoners out at swift speed. Lace and two other no names shuffled along, the latter mumbling curses. Cloye and Yul remained silent. Vincent led the way, rifle fanning the shadows to deal with ambushers. Deakes and Regers took up the rear. All the while Lace giggled hysterically. She danced about, sing-songing out-of-key nursery rhymes.
Regers rolled his eyes and muttered a few dark words. “Girl’s getting a rude awakening to the reality of life—one big violent ant farm.”
Squinting through the broken glass, they stood in the lobby, staring out at the bright, open square. No stragglers in sight. Seemed as if any wandering locals had learned the hard way to stay away from this death zone.
The air battle had taken a new turn. Sleek submarine shapes of the NOA fighters now slid across the skies like brown leeches harried by a swarm of aphid and mantis fighters. Orbs drew in, armed to the teeth with lethal uro bombs. They raced after the newer threat, the smaller, lighter NOA craft. Space fireworks lit up the near distant skies; dogfights erupted everywhere, feints, dives and luck to play a role in deciding this battle. Yul gritted his teeth. He hoped, but knew his was a small hope that so few could win against so many. But if those damn mechnos could do their job…
Regers was about to motion them out toward the nearest overturned airbus when the girl sprang up in an unexpected fury. She laid teeth into Deakes’s wrist, prompting a painful howl as she wrenched at his rifle. Deakes pistol whipped her down but she was up like a cat, snarling, as if she felt no pain. She scrambled, hands and knees off into the dust like a crab with the other two gang members fleeing at her heels.
Vincent’s muzzle flashed. It slammed the slowest in the leg. The three stumbled off, groaning, cursing, the last hobbling on one leg. “Mother fucks, die in hell!” he called back.
Vincent sprayed fire, kicking up dust at their feet. They dogged it behind a crumbled corner of an alley. Vincent went to take after them but Regers held his arm. “Leave ’em. That girl’s so hiked up on smack she’ll live through anything, like a rabid animal. Our prizes are here.” He pointed in the fading light to Yul whose chest heaved. “Well, well, my good ole buddy Yul. Taking up with a pack of chicken shits to fight your battles. Shame on you.”
Cloye went to snatch up a piece of iron pipe, but Regers waved her back with his gun. “Uh, uh. Spring chickens get their wings clipped.”
Yul grunted with disgust. He cursed himself for not taking the initiative earlier. He started forward, but Regers was faster.
“Back the fuck up, Yul. Four to two, we got you covered. You too, young lady. Unless you’re itching for a pisshole full of E1. Think you can immobilize three marksmen before one blasts your ass?”
Cloye stepped back. Regers came up to her, squinting in the pale sunlight, licking his chops as the sun struggled between thin clouds.
“Well, well, a mighty fine spring capon. Perfect for a late afternoon dessert treat, eh Vincent?” He yanked the piece of pipe from her hand and tossed it into the rubble. His eyes roved over her wide hips, buxom chest and pouting jaw, his own jawbone outthrust in challenge. He turned to Yul. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Yul, having a lady like that. Always pegged you for a pansy ass.” His lascivious eyes raked Cloye again with deeper scrutiny. “I might get ugly old Deakes here to do her in front of you, just for kicks,
