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living food to be found.
Chapter Seven
The ocean breeze blew steadily over the solitary guard on the stone tower as
the cannie watched the bobbing headlights of the motorcycle pack crawl along
the cliff road toward the oceanfront ville, the moonlight gleaming off the
polished skulls on their handlebars.
Far below the base of the cliff, whitecaps were breaking on the smooth stones
of the beach with the sound of distant thunder. There was no access to
Hellsgate ville from that direction, which was why the elders had chosen to
build here. The cliff was sheer, with no path or trail to facilitate passage.
And the Mex
Gulf was a death trap, the water filled for miles with bits and pieces of
predark wreckage, mostly the rusted remains of warships, but also some
scattered chunks of buildings and roads. No ship could land without being
smashed to pieces. Not to mention the sea muties that pulled down ships and
sometimes wandered onto the shore looking for food. Bad things, as big as
houses with tentacles and glowing eyes.
Shifting the longblaster slung over his shoulder, the man fumbled in a pocket
of his loose clothing and found a flat box. Pressing the release, the box
snapped open on squeaky hinges and he looked through the predark opera glasses
to sweep the landscape and find
the oncoming bikes. Under the magnification, he easily recognized the big
Harley of the Blue Devils and smiled. Excellent! The bikers always had plenty
of slaves to trade for slick, and afterward there would be a feast for those
in good favor with the elders. The guard smacked his lips at the thought,
displaying sharpened teeth. It had been too long since he had last eaten fresh
meat. The hated Trader had chilled several convoys carrying food to the ville,
and the cannies had been reduced to eating fish caught in nets for their daily
meals. Disgusting. Only muties and slaves consumed animals. The warriors of
Hellsgate ate man flesh to make them strong! Anything else was offal to feed
to pigs.
The elders had a long standing feud with the Trader.
They wanted him chilled, but couldn't find the bastard.
He wanted them aced, but didn't care to attack, not with the blasters of
Hellsgate commanding the landscape. Nothing on wheels could challenge the
ville's monster blasters.
Placing the opera glasses back into their box, the guard walked past a
crackling torch and over to a rope.
He tugged hard, and down on the ground a bell rang slow and steady, announcing
that outlanders were coming, but that there was no danger.
Releasing the rope, the cannie went to the edge of the tower to see a group of
guards holding lanterns gathered in the yard looking up at him expectantly.
"The Devils are coming!" he shouted through cupped hands. "Along the cliff
road! Ten bikes! Five miles away!"
A big man dressed in a patchwork cloak waved in response and turned to the
others standing nearby.
"So they're finally here," Elder Thomas said in a low growl. He wasn't sure to
be glad the long wait was finally over, or nervous that the long awaited
battle was
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about to begin.
"The day of the Devils," an old woman announced, her six fingered hands
shaking with excitement. "These are not the men you know. Impostors from your
great enemy."
The slave wore no chains to bind her hands or feet, and she was dressed well
in canvas moccasins and a thick woolen dress to keep her old bones warm. But
her weathered face was grotesque, her eyes empty holes ringed by layers of
scars where white hot knives had removed the orbs.
"Yes, I have seen it all happen in my mind," she said, cackling. "Death comes
here today." What the wrinklie didn't add, was that she saw the destruction of
the ville come in the form of a ray of sunshine. What that could possibly mean
was beyond her understanding, so she wisely kept quiet, knowing that she
risked death by withholding information, but also at displeasing the chief
elder.
"So you say, witch," Thomas growled, fingering the barbed whip coiled at his
hip. "You'd best to right this time, or we'll see if you do a better job
without your hands!"
She bowed at that, gushing affirmations until he ordered her silent. Damn
talky bitch was more trouble than he liked to tolerate, but the wrinklie was a
doomie, a mutie with the gift to see the future. A
former elder of the Hellsgate had heard that sight weakened the powers of a
doomie, and so he had her eyes removed to increase her value to the ville.
Only thing wrong with her predictions was that once she told what was going to
happen, that changed the course of events, sometimes drastically. The witch
was correct more often than not, and thus couldn't be harmed. But the pretense
of listening to advice from lowly food was repugnant to the elder, and he
eagerly looked forward for any excuse to gut the woman and
toss her into the stew pot.
The sea breeze whipped over the tall walls of the ville, bending the torches
in different directions, making a few of the men flinch as the flames got too
close to their faces.
"The question is, do we take the chance?" Elder
Getty asked gruffly, leaning heavily on a yellow cane carved from human thigh
bones. His long beard knotted into two strands to resemble the forked tongues
of a snake, and he tugged on the end of one thoughtfully. "If we chill the
wrong people, we could anger the storm gods and rain destruction upon
Hellsgate!"
"Praise be the sky gods," Elder Thomas muttered, pulling a shiny blue .38 Colt
from within his shirt and tucking it into his belt with the handle turned out
for a fast draw.
Privately, Thomas didn't believe in any unseen gods that ruled the air. The
man had traveled far in his youth, and everywhere he went the sky was a
boiling mass of rads and chems. Although, Thomas had to admit, why the acid
rains never fell upon Hellsgate was something for which there was no
explanation. Some said it was because they were the chosen people, or because
they ate man flesh to please the gods, and once a demented slave said it was
merely because of wind currents from the ocean. That sacrilege sent the slave
to the table of the Blood Feast, and his wails lasted long into the night. Oh,
yes, Thomas remembered it fondly. The slave had been a very satisfying meal.
"Four miles!" the guard in the tower shouted, silhouetted by the moonlight.
Elder Getty ceased tugging on his beard. "The choice must be yours," he
ordered, pointing at the younger man with a skeleton thin hand.
"Accepted." Thomas sneered, pulling his blaster.
"Master of the guards, call out your men! Let's get the shields in place
before the Devils arrive."
A sec man blew a single clear note on a ram's horn, and guards rapidly spread
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across the courtyard of the stone ville, shouting orders. The armory was
opened wide, weapons passed out to eager hands, along with sealed jars of ammo
and even a few grens.
Then handlers appeared from the holding pits, their shaved heads gleaming with
oil from the yellow light of the fish oil lanterns as the eunuchs whipped a
line of women toward the front gate. Dressed in dirty rags, the slaves were
all young, but looked almost as old as the witch, from their poor diet and the
daily beatings.
Teams of slaves pushed at the wooden beam holding the front gate closed, the
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