James Axler - Shatter Zone

So they understood wind resistance. Good. They aren’t as stupid as they look, Delphi thought.

The four men rode without saddles or bridles, using only blankets and ropes. Although they were heavily armed, no sunlight glinted off the weapons in their hands, the ax blades and one blaster were wrapped in cloth to prevent any reflection that might reveal their presence too soon.

That was also good, Delphi admitted, removing the cigarette to exhale slowly. They were smart, but cautious. And the four moved well, working together as a unit. Excellent.

Hopefully these four coldhearts would be the end of his search. The previous thirteen groups Delphi had tested all proved to be useless. They were always too eager, too bloodthirsty or too stupid. Delphi needed operatives who could be trusted. Soldiers to be where he could not be, and to do what he was not allowed to do. Although perhaps the more colorful term of mercenary was more accurate for their job description, though “mercie” was the current term. From mercenary to mercy, what a misnomer! The irony was delicious.

Suddenly a blaster shot rang out and Delphi saw the old woman fall to the ground, blood pouring from her shoulder. All four horsemen began to whoop a war cry as the rest fired their crossbows. The flight of arrows missed the woman as she stumbled into the truck, the shafts stabbing into the loose sand all around her.

Crossing his arms, Delphi frowned. Was she seeking refuge?

Then the woman reappeared with her own crossbow and fired. The arrow just missed the lead rider and struck the second horse just below a shoulder. It was only a glancing blow, nothing of importance. But the animal abruptly slowed and began to shake all over, foam dripping from its mouth. The convulsing horse stumbled, throwing its rider. The big man with a bald head hit the ground hard but came up rolling, completely undamaged. But minus his crossbow. With an expression of incredible fury, he reared up, brandishing a steel knife.

As the coldheart charged straight for the wrinklie, she struggled to reload the crossbow. But by now the others had arrived. Swinging their weps like clubs, they rode past the woman, knocking the crossbow from her hands and smashing her about the face.

Giving a startled cry, the woman dropped to the ground. The big man with the knife descended upon her and started to hack wildly. Blood sprayed at every stroke. Trapped beneath the coldheart, the struggling wrinklie began to shriek once more, then went completely still.

Circling the box canyon, the three riders joined their companion. Stepping away from his grisly work, the big man gave a cruel laugh, then lifted up the patched skirt of the aced wrinklie.

Horrified, Delphi furrowed his brow. Surely they weren’t going to rape the corpse!

Laughing, the man used the skirt to clean his gory knife, while the three riders trotted over to the fallen horse. The Appaloosa-colored mare lay motionless on the hot sand, its eyes wide in terror, foam flecking the black lips. There was no doubt that it was chilled. Turning away from the sight, the man with the knife spit on the aced wrinklie.

Just then, a spotted dog jumped out from the cab of the truck and raced toward him, moving incredibly fast on just three stubby legs. Crying out in surprise, the man dived out of the way. But the dog ignored him to stop alongside the corpse of its still master. The animal gave a little bark, as if waiting for a reply, then raised its massive head and snarled in bestial rage, baring sharp white teeth.

But the pause had been a mistake, and the riders feathered the dog with arrows. Mortally wounded, the bleeding animal limped toward the first man, yipping and barking. With his back to the grove of cactus plants, the man reached for his knife, but found the sheath empty. Lunging forward, the coldheart grabbed the dog by the throat and throttled it with his bare hands. The dying animal fought to the end, snapping its jaws and clawing for the hated enemy with its three stubby legs. But it couldn’t reach the man, and eventually the dog eased its attack to go limp. With a guttural curse, the man tossed the corpse away and went looking for his dropped knife.

From his hilltop refuge, Delphi watched as the three men dismounted from their horses to spread out and recover the used arrows. Armed once more, the tall man with the bald head stood guard while the others looted the interior of the truck. Apparently there wasn’t much of interest inside, but the four men shared the collection equally. One of them found a bag full of dried meat and started to take a bite when the smaller man with a ponytail shouted a warning and slapped it to the ground. As the others listened, he spoke harshly to them, and used a dirty handkerchief to retrieve the dropped jerky and put it back in the bag.

So that one knew about mutie rat meat, eh? Delphi chuckled and lighted a fresh cigarette. Better and better. Maybe these four would be acceptable after all.

Going over to the chilled horse, its former rider gently stroked the long neck, then walked over to the dog and began butchering it on the sand. One of the riders, a large man with a pronounced barrel chest, started a fire using the stack of tree limbs. As the dog was cut into joints, the barrel-chested man put the meat on a spit and began cooking.

Delphi watched with marked interest as one of them kept glancing at the grove of cactus plants, then finally loaded his crossbow and walked over to the edge of the prickly forest. From his high vantage point, Delphi could see the old man standing hidden inside the deadly grove, his thin shoulders shaking slightly from silent weeping. Ah, he had almost forgotten about the fruit harvester.

What will you do, old man? Hide and run away? Or try to avenge your fallen mate?

Tilting his head as if listening, the tall man raised the crossbow and fired. The wrinklie cried out and dropped to the ground. Resting the crossbow on a shoulder, the tall man turned his back on the grove and went to join the others.

“Now that was an excellent shot,” Delphi whispered. Maybe his search was at last done with these four killers. Then he frowned. No, damn it, the word was chill, or ace, in this place. Apparently nobody used the word kill anymore, and abstract terms such as murder were completely unknown.

Down in the box canyon, the coldhearts separated without discussion, each to his own task. The bald man reloaded the black-powder blaster and stood guard, while the tall man and the fellow with the ponytail dragged the aced woman by her skirt over to the dead horse. Then both of the norms started digging a hole large enough to hold the two bodies.

A dry breeze whipped the loose sand around his polished boots, as Delphi nodded in satisfaction. Excellent. They weren’t going to butcher the horse for meat because it had served them well—and they’d be sated by the dog—but they also understood that an exposed corpse would only spread the smell of death onto the wind and summon every mutie beast for miles. They were tough and smart. These four could kill strangers without hesitation, even helpless old men and women. Plus, they were loyal, but without being sentimental.

Raising his right hand, Delphi glanced at his palm and saw their names scroll along the nanotech monitor embedded into his pale flesh. John, Robert, Edward and Alan. The Rogan brothers.

Yes, these men would do fine.

The tumultuous sky above the U.S. Virgin Islands was a solid bank of moving gray clouds. The roiling heavens split asunder as sheet lighting flashed on the horizon, leaving an ionized trail of purple across the ravaged clouds. Huge waves rose to white crests and crashed onto the rocky shoreline of the tropical island with triphammer force.

Dotting the white-sand beaches were the rusted hulks of predark warships, their massive metal forms lolling sideways, the armored hulls split open like dying animals to expose the complex interiors to the savage pounding rains. The corroded remains of cannons and missiles lay in plain sight and thousands of small blue crabs moved freely among the wreckage, consuming anything organic that was to be found: bones, boots and uniforms. Fluttering in the harsh rain, the faded remains of a flag hung from the end of the mast of a yacht. The cloth was bleached white, the crumbling keel covered with barnacles, the smashed hull charred badly in spots from numerous lightning strikes.