Remember Tomorrow (31 page)

Buckley strutted up and down in front of the line. After overpowering the companions, the Nagasaki dwellers had hastily erected the framework to which the companions were now tied, stringing them up before they had a chance to recover consciousness. Each of the companions had been roused by the pain of their upper arms and shoulders, muscles and tendons straining to pop as they were stretched at an unnatural angle.

“Hope y’all are real comfortable,” Buckley said as he reached the end of the line again, “as we’s got a little something to talk to y’all about.”

“Just get on with it, asshole,” Ryan muttered.

Buckley glared at him, then walked up and spit in Ryan’s eye. “Y’all show some respect, and mebbe y’all won’t buy the farm too slow. But then again,” he continued, stepping back, “mebbe y’all will, just for the fun of it.”

The people gathered around the frame were yelling and screaming incomprehensibly, a sea of faces distorted by rage and lust, drooling and grinning at the thought of what they were about to do. Buckley held up his hands for silence and gradually they subsided.

“Now I’s a fair man, as y’all know, and I’s say we give these shit heaps a fair trial.” The noise rose again as the crowd either agreed or disagreed, it was impossible to know which. Buckley quieted them again before continuing. “Question is, did these fuckers sell us out by telling the Duma scum we’s was coming? Hard to know how, ’cept for one thing…who let our little prisoner go? Was it any of y’all?”

The crowd howled. Once they had discovered that the prisoner in the barn was gone, it had been obvious to them that one of the companions had released him.

Buckley held up his hands to silence them. “Yeah, yeah, I know. It don’t need no other saying than that. They’s let the prisoner go, they’s screwed up our raid and got some of us chilled. They’s guilty as charged. I say the penalty for such an offense is capital. They’s buy the farm by being pounded on and having their guts spilled on the ground, their bowels laid out in front of ’em. Nice ’n’ slow. But first we’ll have ourselves some fun, right?”

The crowd roared its approval. Doc muttered to himself, recognizing the language Buckley was using as some obscene paraphrasing of legal terms that had been prevalent in predark times. To hear such words again, even in such a bizarre context, was strange. But then again, it was strange that it would seem his life was finally to end as the plaything of a bunch of drooling cretins.

Buckley cackled wildly and took a step toward them, pulling out a metal pipe with which to begin the beatings. With a roar of approval the mob picked up cudgels, sticks and blades. And then the torture began.

“O
UT, OUT, OUT—GET AN
M-203 on that, now!” J.B. yelled as the wag ground to a halt. It had swept easily down the valley and into the rear of the ville, careening into shacks and sending them flying into splinters of wood and glass, carving a path through the Spartan back of Nagasaki. There was no opposition as everyone was gathered in the square by the ranch house, only a few mules and goats remained.

“What if there’s anyone in there?” Esquivel yelled above the noise.

“It ain’t who I’m after and fuck the rest of this scum,” J.B. returned.

The sec man shrugged. Their orders were to level the ville, and the only people he would look to rescue were those his friend was looking for. He stepped aside as a heavyset sec man carrying an M-16/M-203 combo dismounted and took up a firing stance on one knee, loading a gren into the bottom rack of the blaster.

“Make it two, take the bastard out quick. Fire, then cover,” J.B. added, slapping another sec man with a combo on the back, directing him to join his comrade.

The two men exchanged glances and synchronized their firing. The two grens left the launcher, carving a path through the air before shattering into the reinforced rear of the barn, exploding on impact. The force of the blast rent the air and ripped the wooden structure apart, shards of the metal sheeting used to reinforce the walls flying in all directions, joined by sharp splinters the size of a man’s forearm. The sec men, J.B., and the rest of the wag crew hit the ground, feeling the force of the blast wash over them, the debris hit the ground, the earth rumble.

Looking up, the Armorer could see that barn had almost disintegrated, the front and back ripped apart by the blast, remnants of the side walls still standing. The wood, covered in pitch, was burning steadily, adding to the pall of smoke from both the blast and the earlier fire. Now, with this obstacle removed, and the knowledge that it had contained no threat, the men felt ready to move on.

The way for the wag would be indirect because of the moat around the area where the barn had—until recently—stood. J.B. gestured to the sec men, dividing them into two parties.

“Take the track each side, keep frosty, triple red. They all look like they’re in the center, but don’t be taken by surprise. And watch for your own. It’s gonna get hard to see who’s who in there.”

The wag crew did as ordered and J.B. set off with one-half, joined by Olly and Esquivel. They took the track to the left of the barn, leaving the wag driver to guard his vehicle, moving on the double, blasters ready for action.

Around the edges of the ville, it was eerily deserted, contrasting with the sounds of a firefight up ahead. The other wags had been able to penetrate to the heart of the ville and had discharged their crews, who were now engaging with the Nagasaki dwellers. The air was filled with the sound of automatic and SMG blasterfire, mingling with the screams of the injured and chilled.

“Man, I’ll be glad to see some action,” Esquivel murmured. “This shit is making me jumpy.”

“Well keep your finger away from the bastard trigger while you’re right behind me,” J.B. threw back at him.

As far as he could tell, the sec detail on the other side of the old barn was also making unhindered progress. There was no blasterfire that he could pinpoint from that area, but the smoking wreck of the barn made it impossible to see across the gap.

The track was leading round to the front of the shattered building and the square that lay beyond. J.B., taking the front, held up a hand to halt his crew.

“Take it easy, guys—we’re entering the battle zone,” he yelled, unable to completely take in the sight that confronted him. J.B. had seen many a firefight in his time, but nothing quite like this.

O
N CUE, THE WAGS HAD ROARED
in from their positions on the ridge of the valley, speeding down and into the ville. The wag taking the only track in had the quickest route and had squealed to a halt at the head of the square. The mob of gaping, slack-jawed inbreds was still focused on the five prisoners they had strung up in front of them, unable in their bloodlust to comprehend quite what was happening.

So they were easy meat for the first wave of blasterfire as the wag discharged its crew, who came out firing.

At the same time, the other wags slid down the sides of the valley and careered into the shacks, sending pieces of glass and wood in all directions. The wag drivers kept their engines gunning and blasted through any obstructions. The only buildings that were too sturdy to be mowed down were the ranch house and the original outbuildings that were being used by some of the Nagasaki dwellers as housing. These the wags skirted, taking the dirt paths around them and carving a way through the shacks on either side.

Their arrival, therefore, was staggered by a matter of minutes. This worked to their advantage as each crew discharged from a wag had clear shots at the backs of the ville dwellers, who were disorganized and unprepared for the attack.

But the sec men from Duma made two mistakes. First, they broke ranks and started to close in on the crowd, putting themselves in the line of their compatriots’ fire. Secondly, they underestimated the threshold the inbreds had for pain and stubbornness. Fired up by beating their captives, and used to lives of pain and injury, the Nagasaki dwellers were almost immune to the blasterfire that rained in on them. Unless it hit hard enough to chill them straight away, they were able to remain upright and to fight back.

The sec men moving among them now made it impossible for the sec force on the margins to fire at will on the inbreds. They had to pick their shots with greater care and accuracy, and this gave the ville dwellers a chance to regroup and counterattack.

The companions were only dimly aware of what was going on when the attack first hit. In their shared universe of pain, the only thing they knew was the pain had suddenly ceased, that fewer blows were landing, that fewer blades were cutting and that there was an increase in the noise and activity around them. None was in any state to take in what exactly was happening.

It was when the blasterfire stared to chatter around them that the companions realized something major was happening. The problem was how to avoid being hit when you were trussed and hanging in one spot, unable to take cover of any kind.

Doc was almost totally out of the picture, nearly unconscious. But the other four were able to rouse themselves by effort of will. Muscles refused to respond and movement was sluggish, but as they opened their eyes they were all able to take in what was happening around them, and to recognize the sec men moving among the crowd by their uniforms.

Not that it was doing the sec men much good. Buckley yelled incomprehensibly, his guttural voice cutting through the noise. The chief’s rallying call had an immediate effect. His people carried blasters as well as blades and it took them a matter of moments to move into a position where they could fight back. Ignoring the blasterfire that rippled all around them, they swarmed over the oncoming sec force, engaging them in hand-to-hand combat as well as exchanging blasterfire.

The Duma sec force was unprepared for that and as they attempted to use their longblasters at close range, the Nagasaki fighters brought their blades into play, slashing at their opponents, and using their handblasters to fire into the bodies of the oncoming sec men.

Suddenly, what seemed like a simple operation was becoming something they were in danger of losing.

“Dark night, what a bastard mess,” J.B. breathed as he took in the scene. He also scanned the crowd for the frame from which the companions were hanging. It was nowhere to be seen.

A blast of SMG fire had splintered the cross-piece of the frame, causing it to give way under the combined weight of the companions. Severing toward one end, it had crashed down, pitching Doc and Krysty—the two nearest the break—to the ground. The others also fell, their wrists sliding down the pole until they were tangled in a heap.

Ryan and Jak were the most alert, but the albino could hardly move his arms from the strain on his shoulders. Although he could feel some circulation come back, he was still too stiff to move. Ryan, whose feet had touched the ground, had been luckier, and his shoulders were still relatively mobile. He passed his wrists over any obstruction until his hands were free, albeit tied. Ignoring the carnage around him—if he was hit, there was nothing he could do about it—he concentrated on the task in hand. As he had hit the dirt, he had felt the sharpened nails beneath him, trampled into the dust. They had fallen from their concealed hiding place in each companion’s clothes as they were strung up.

Ryan scrabbled in the dust with nerveless, bloodless fingers, trying to get a grip on at least one of the nails. He managed to keep hold of a few, and worked at the rope tying his wrists, working the sharpened nails between the hemp strands. Mildred could see what he was doing and joined him, grabbing at the scattered nails to begin on her own wrists, ignoring the pain as the movement of one hand caused the rope to bite harder into the wrist of the other. Krysty was also able to begin, but Doc was too far gone to notice what was happening and Jak was still struggling to move his painfully locked arms and shoulders.

Over at the edge of the clearing, now a heaving mass of hand-to-hand combat, J.B. looked frantically for any sign of his friends.

“Dude, they may have put them in there,” Esquivel said, indicating the ranch house. “You and Olly go and scout it out.”

“What about you?” J.B. asked.

The sec man looked at the carnage before him and at the wag crew behind. “I figure it’s about time some of these stupes found out what combat is really about. I’m gonna try and get them organized and haul some stupe asses outta there,” he said grimly, indicating the mass before them.

J.B. nodded. “We’ll recce the house, then join you.”

While Olly and J.B. sprinted toward the ranch house, Esquivel turned to his troops and ordered them into formation. His plan was simple. The wag crew would work around the perimeter of the mass, picking off Nagasaki fighters and dragging Duma sec from the periphery before relaying the same orders to them. Slowly, they would tighten the noose around the remaining Nagasaki fighters, drawing them into a circle where they could all be wiped out. It would be a slow, stubborn action, but it was the only controlled way that the sec man could think of to try and get his people on top of the situation.

The ranch house was eerily quiet when Olly and J.B. gained access. The thick walls cut down on the sound from outside, making the conflict seem a thousand miles away.

“Fuck, what kind of shit do these fuckers live in,” Olly exclaimed, wrinkling his nose at the stench and filth.

“Their own,” J.B. muttered shortly. “I’ll take down here—you take the upper level. Be careful. I think they’re all outside, but we don’t know.”