James Axler - Ice and Fire

Ryan gestured with the barrel of the automatic rifle at his friends. "Lots of creditors here, Riddler," he said.

"I was thinking of moving... that way." The Last Hero pointed to the ribbon of blacktop that stretched out across the desert, behind the ruins of the gas plant. The remnants of the Sierra Sunrise Park had also caught fire, wood cracking and popping in the heat. Ryan considered for a moment. Trader had said that a dead enemy wouldn't ever come back to chill you. It would be simple to shoot the fat man, waste him with a single round. His finger tightened momentarily on the trigger, then relaxed.

"Get going."

"So long, brother." Riddler waved a fist to the others. "Brothers and sisters. Live righteous days. So long now."

Like Carla Petersen before him, Riddler revved up the powerful engine and roared away, beyond the pall of smoke.

Doc looked toward the ville. "The buildings are catching fire. I suggest that we might consider leaving."

"Best suggestion I heard all day." Ryan slung the blaster over his shoulder.

"Ville's done for," Jak observed, leading the way along the side of the scorched highway. Bodies lay everywhere, like blackened logs, one or two of them still moving. The smell of baked meat filled everyone's nostrils, and the smoke was whisked away by the changeable wind.

Snakefish was well ablaze. As the friends drew nearer they could see women and children scurrying frantically from the burning buildings, trying to save whatever possessions they could. Very few of the men had made it back, most of them having chosen to run into the brush on the wrong side of the blacktop, so that the rushing wave of flames pursued them to their doom.

"Look who's here." J.B. pointed with the toe of his boot to where one of the chunks of human charcoal was writhing in a slow-motion agony. The remnants of an M-16 near the clawed hand told them that this was what remained of John Dern, dealer in guns and failed assassin.

His eyes had been seared in their sockets, and his hair blasted from his wrinkled skull. Only the oddly gentle movements told them that life remained within the basted carcass.

"Chill him," Lori whispered. "I don't mind what he done. Nobody should..."

"Leave him be," Ryan ordered. "Man gets what he deserves."

They headed for the ville, the glowing heat of the burning buildings scorching their skin as they drew closer. Fire leaped from shingled roof to tarred porch. The whole of Snakefish, end to end, was blazing. Hardly anyone took any notice of the seven outlanders as they picked their way carefully around the streets of the ville.

At one point Ruby Rainer hobbled past them, eyes wide and crazed. Her blouse was smoldering across one shoulder and the hem of her shirt had been burned clear away. She held an empty bird cage in her right hand and a wooden spoon in the other.

"That's the Motes' wag," Krysty said, pointing down an alley near the temple.

Down the road a little way the whole storefront of Handmaid exploded out in a great blossoming of multicolored fire.

"Wind's veering," Krysty told her companions. "If it goes right around, it'll carry the flames into the brush where the rattlers are. Block us off from reaching the redoubt if we don't watch it."

Ryan coughed as the billowing smoke enveloped them. "Got me a triple-wish to see those three down and sky-staring."

J.B. shook his head. "Better we move on out fast, Ryan. Revenge won't buy you a good burying."

"We move through Deathlands. If we don't leave things a touch better after we're gone, then what's the point? I say we clear them out."

The Armorer hesitated a moment. "Guess you're right, Ryan. They must be along that dirt road, saving some jack from the temple."

"The doors at the back of the wag are open," Doc said, walking toward the parked vehicle with Lori at his side.

Joshua Mote suddenly appeared around the side of the armored truck, arms filled with a pile of papers. As soon as he saw Doc he dropped them, reaching for a blaster at his hip.

"Dead old fucker!" he snarled.

But Doc's Le Mat was already drawn and cocked and he fired first. The single .63-caliber shotgun shell hit the curly-headed young man low in the belly, doubling him over.

"Wrong again, Master Mote," Doc stated quietly. "The dead fucker is yourself."

Mote rolled on his back, clutching at his stomach, trying to staunch the massive blood flow from the gaping wound. Lori stepped forward quickly and lifted her foot in the air, stamping down hard on Joshua's open mouth. The heel of her boot smashed in his front teeth, the silver spur snagging the flesh of his lips. She leaned with all her weight, grinding her boot as hard as she could, withdrawing it with a smile of contentment.

"Bastard," she said, watching him die.

"You killed my boy, you whore-slut gaudy bitch!" Norman Mote screamed, standing at the corner of the burning building, clutching an effigy of one of the mutie rattlers that looked as if it were made from pure silver. He staggered drunkenly, and his gray hair was tilted lopsidedly across his sweating temples.

Ryan didn't hesitate.

The 9 mm round that burst from the SIG-Sauer drilled a neat hole through the angry furrow between Mote's eyes. Like an empty suit of clothes, Norman Mote, Guardian of the Shrine, slumped dead, his body rolling against his dead son's legs.

"Where's bitch-queen?" Jak asked, looking around the corner of the alley.

"Probably heard the thunder of Doc's mortar," J.B. guessed. "Two from three isn't bad."

There was a note of real concern in Krysty's voice. "Wind's come right around. We have to move now, Ryan. Come on!"

J.B. led the way back along the end of Main Street, followed by Lori, tottering on her high heels, Doc holding her arm. Jak jogged behind them, followed by Krysty. Ryan, bringing up the rear, suddenly realized that Rick wasn't with them.

"Keep going, lover!" he yelled. "Freezie's vanished. We'll catch up when we can!"

Richard Ginsberg was in the alley, kneeling near the two corpses. For a moment Ryan thought of Joshua Mote's turquoise nugget around his neck, but it wasn't that. The scattergun that Rick had absently picked up after Rat's shooting lay in the dirt. The freezie was picking through the pile of paper. He heard footsteps and looked around.

"These are from my time, Ryan. Porno magazines. Kiddies and animals. So much of my society blasted to kingdom come and this filth remains! There's something real... Look out!"

Ryan Cawdor whirled, too late. Marianne Mote had come out of the side door of the nearest house, and she was holding a small silvered machine pistol, which was aimed at Ryan's chest almost point-blank.

Her makeup was blotched and smeared, and the dense smoke had darkened her doll-like complexion. Her dress was torn down the front, revealing the pallor of her thighs. She'd aged twenty years since Ryan had last seen her. But the venom was unsullied.

"Seen what you done, outlander. You won most all of the prizes. But you lose the last hand. And I win it."

"No." The overlooked, crouching Rick Ginsberg shot her through the back with both barrels of the shotgun.

Ryan winced at the expectation of her shooting him with a dying spasm, but her long-nailed fingers opened and the blaster dropped. Her hands waved frantically, as if she were gripped by one of her religious frenzies, and her mouth opened wide. A worm of thick, blood-roped spittle oozed out over her chin. Her legs gave way, and she collapsed beside her husband and son, making a surprisingly ladylike corpse.

"Thanks."

"What?" Rick looked like a man waking after a long sleep. He stared at the empty, smoking scatter-gun he was holding as if he'd never seen it before.

"I said thanks for that. She'd have chilled me for sure."