James Axler - Ice and Fire

"Come on in," Norman Mote invited. "Zombie, you wait in here. Other two outside the door. Don't want to be interrupted till I say so."

The Mote family was relaxing in a suite of elegant rooms behind the temple. Norman was smoking a large cigar, feet resting on a table. Joshua was picking his nose and thumbing through a crudely colored porn mag. Marianne had changed into a loose gown of chem-cloud-pink chiffon that swirled loosely about her as she moved. Ryan couldn't help noticing that she hadn't been very careful about the fastening and it kept swinging open to show the top of her thighs. The reverend mother looked like she didn't believe in wearing panties.

"Nice church," Ryan said. "Good number of the folk of Snakefish there."

"Break their piss-ant knees if they didn't come," Joshua mumbled.

"Now, now." Norman smiled. "Boy will have his joke, Ryan. You understand that? You got any children of your own?"

He was taken off guard by the question. It had been such a long time since anyone had asked him that. Oddly Krysty had never asked him. She'd talked about their future together. Even kind of hinted that maybe one day she'd like kids. But she'd never asked him...

"No. I don't think..."

"You don't think, Ryan?" Marianne Mote laughed. Close up the resemblances he'd noticed were stronger. The gaudy queen with the dead eyes. And she was years older than he'd even guessed.

"That's right."

"Mean you don't know? Lots of little Ryans running around Deathlands looking for their long-lost daddy? I declare!"

Norman resumed control of the conversation. "Just wanted a word, Ryan. One or two folks say you and your... party look mighty like a load of mercies. What d'you say to that?"

"I say that I don't like answering the same question more than once."

There was a shocked silence in the room and, for the first time, Ryan realized that he was dealing with real power.

"Daddy asks a question, folks answer it," Joshua hissed.

"That's right," Zombie added. "Reverend Mote says 'jump' and you just say 'how high?' and do it."

But Norman wasn't thrown by Ryan's attitude. "Now this is the core and kernel of why I wanted a quiet word. I see that you seven outlanders have the look of... of folks that can handle themselves if there was any trouble. I just wanted to satisfy myself that you hadn't been hired by..." He paused then carried on. "By anyone in the ville to take their side if there was to be some sort of difficulty."

"Or firefight," Joshua said loudly.

"Yeah. A scale-blasted firefight," Zombie enthused, clenching his fists.

Marianne swept closer to Ryan, so that he could smell a cloying scent, overlaying the stale odor of her body.

"We don't believe it will come to that, Ryan. But you have arrived, no doubt by coincidence, at a key time for the ville. There is change in the air. Most of us believe that what comes from the ville belongs to the ville. All of it."

"The gas," Ryan said.

Norman nodded. "Indeed. Man of perception, Ryan Cawdor. I saw that right away. Now, if... let's imagine you might have been hired by someone." He raised up a hasty hand. "I know what you say about happening by. First time's happenstance. Second time it's pure luck. Third time and you're on your back staring up at the sky. We'd double whatever you'd been paid. Double it, clear and free."

"Bear it in mind," Ryan said.

Mote moved closer. "I'm not a man to fuck around with."

"Yeah," Ryan agreed, his voice flat and steady. "Stick your prick into my business, and you'll get it cut off."

"Yeah, Reverend."

"Go and have a nice day now. Zombie, see Brother Cawdor here off these premises. Good day."

"Well?" Krysty pressed when Ryan joined his friends.

Ryan took a deep breath of the morning air, tasting the sickly taint of gasoline. He grinned. "Like you said, lover. Friendliest little ville in the whole fire-blasted west."

"Saw an old movie, back when I was... you know. It was Japanese, and about a sort of ace swordsman coming to a ville like this. He found two warring groups there, and they both wanted him to help them against the other. In the end, they kind of wiped each other out and he moved on. Seems a bit like that, here in Snakefish."

Ryan nodded. "Sure is. Looks like this place is a pan fit to boil. Baron's lost his hold. The Motes got the power. Folks in the middle go along with the power."

Doc was sitting on the bed, cleaning his nails with one of Jak's throwing knives. "Go with the power. Always have and always will. Show them a whip and they'll fall down to kiss it."

Rick stood and walked to the window, stooping to peer out across the street. Ryan noticed that he was less steady on his feet than he'd been on the way to the service, when he'd had the help of the stick.

The freezie turned back to face the others in the room. "Meant to ask you, though I have the feeling I'm not going to like the answer very much. Just what is a stickie?"

J.B. told him. "After the long winters Deathlands was full of hot spots."

"Centers of high radiation?"

"Right. Seems that the nuking did some strange things to animals and plants."

"And people," Lori added with a dramatic shudder.

"And people," the Armorer agreed. "You saw the snakes. There's plenty of mutie creatures of all kinds. Some grossed out. Some you have to look real hard to see what's wrong. Stickies are kind of obvious."

"What do stickies do? Stick to you, I guess. Is that it?"

The smile faded at the expression on J.B.'s face. "Right, Rick. They have kind of suckered hands. Some have feet the same. They can hang on smooth surfaces, like the side of a wag."

"Terrific. And there's a gang of them around here someplace?"

Ryan nodded. "So they say. Oh, there's a couple of other facts you should know about stickies. First is that they generally love all kinds of fires and explosions. Sometimes get themselves killed going too close to grens or flames."

"What's the other thing this twentieth-century boy should know about stickies, Ryan? I can hardly wait."

"Stickies all have a homicidally vicious hatred of all other living things."

Rick whistled. "Hell's bells! Like I said, I can hardly wait."

They were halfway through lunch when Carla Petersen arrived at the Rentaroom Hotel. Ruby Rainer was bringing in a tureen of stew with sweet potatoes and okra, sniffing with audible disapproval at Baron Brennan's assistant.

"Good noon to you, Mrs. Rainer. I'm not here to help myself to your food, though that does smell so good! I just want a word with our outlander brothers and sisters, if you don't mind."

"Sure. Go ahead." The woman flounced out of the room, muttering something that sounded amazingly like "mercies" as she went.

"Hollow tooth! That dried-up old bitch would sell her own kin to the feedings. If she had any kin to sell."

"What's a feeding?" J.B. asked quickly.

Carla picked at a small gravy stain on the cloth in front of her, hesitating briefly before she answered him. "A feeding's when... Only about one a year. Less some years. More in... Gas doesn't run so free or there's a sickness in the cattle or the crops fail or the rains don't come."

"And the creeks don't rise," Rick muttered absently to himself.

"Then the Motes have a big service... lasts for hours on end. They go into the brush and consult the oracles. How the big snakes are moving. Trails. Shed-skin. All kinds of things. Then they proclaim a need for a feeding."

Doc coughed, laying down his knife and fork. "I have lived long enough, Miss Petersen, to hear the words behind the words."

"How's that, Doctor Tanner?"

"A feeding. To my ears it sounds as though you really mean a killing."