"Now they know we're armed and have ammo," he said, holstering the piece, "that should hold down the chilling."

The crack of a whip made Doc stop in the street, a hand going to his swordstick. "Mother of God," he muttered.

Near a kindergarten jungle gym, now a coop full of cackling chickens, a line of people tossed shafts of grain on a millstone. The great slab of granite rotated along on top of another, grinding the wheat into flour. Four thick poles embedded in the top stone were being pushed along by a dozen people in chains, their backs bent to the arduous task. An overseer watched their progress and touched up their speed with the flick of his bullwhip.

"Slaves," Doc said, starting forward.

Ryan stopped him with a grip of iron. "We don't have the time or the firepower," he said harshly. "First we take care of ourselves, then we'll see what can be done about the slaves. Forget it for now."

Radiating fury, Doc glared at Ryan, a vein in his forehead pulsating steadily. He knew the one-eyed man had never been a slave of another. A captive, yes. Forced to work and kill for some baron's amusement, yes. But never a slave, and so he couldn't really know the emotions welling within him. Slowly, the old man relaxed his stance. "Yes, you are correct," Doc rumbled. "It is not a matter to be taken care of today."

Ryan nodded and continued walking.

Leaving the marketplace in their wake, the companions reached a strip mall from predark days. The display windows were long gone, replaced with wooden boards, but it was still a mall. The supermarket was now a tavern, the bank a gaudy house. Some local toughs lounged outside, chatting to a young woman with an old face. Upon seeing Ryan walking their way, the men took their leave.

"Hey, miss!" J.B. called to the woman. "Over here!"

Dressed in the loose, revealing clothes of her trade, the blonde ambled toward them and opened her blouse, exposing small but pert breasts.

"Whatcha want, stud?" she asked coyly. "I'll do ya right here for some of that brass I saw you flashing. Or we can go to my tent if you're shy. I'm Dancing Feather, the hottest slut here, no matter what that bitch at the Red Bear tavern says."

"That's not what we want," Ryan said, withdrawing a single 9 mm round and bouncing it in his palm. "Tell us about this place. Who's in charge?"

The whore beamed a smile and closed her blouse, stealing a quick jealous glance at Krysty and Mildred.

"Old man Polk is the baron here," she said, sidling closer and reaching out for the bullet. "He's okay. Finds us enough to eat each winter, don't allow no rape in public. But ya better hop when he says frog, or you'll serve the wheel. Any sec man can load that in his blaster and fire it."

So that's where the slaves at the grinding stone came from-local criminals slow to obey. Ryan withdrew his hand. "More."

Placing hands on hips, she glared in hostility, then burst into laughter. "Okay, fair dealing. This is Flat Rock ville, and unless you're a stupe, that's obvious." She jerked her head toward a squarish boulder in the middle of the ville located near an empty flagpole and a World War II howitzer in remarkably good condition.

"Get a lot of strangers?" Krysty asked.

"I sure do!" Feather grinned, wiggling her hips suggestively, then ceasing the act since it was getting her nowhere. "Yeah, sometimes outlanders arrive, but not very many these days of the mutie in the water. Big nasty thing, lots of teeth and-"

"Not interested," Ryan interrupted. "Is there a stable where can we buy horses?"

"Buy a horse?" Feather gasped. "You that rich?"

Ryan said nothing.

She shrugged. It wasn't her business. "Go down the street, past the burned-down church. Then follow your nose."

Ryan tossed her the bullet. "Thanks."

Tucking the round someplace safe, the slut watched them walk away. The bullet would buy her a week of sleeping under a roof and all the stale bread she could eat. And just for talking. Outlanders were idiots. Then she reconsidered that. Mebbe they really did have enough jack to buy horses. They certainly gave up a brass easy enough.

Heading across the town, the companions passed numerous folks in the street, many of them carrying long poles tipped with curved blades or heavy nets laced with dull copper wiring.

"Gator hunters," J.B. guessed.

Shifting the duffel bag on his shoulder, Jak snorted. "Too late."

Beyond a hole in the ground filled with rubble and stained glass, Ryan found their goal. The stable was a former gas station, the horses corralled in the service bays, water troughs where the fuel pumps used to be located. The office was now living quarters, ratty furniture resting on bricks instead of legs. Iron grates covered the window, and curtains made from shag carpet had been hung to afford some level of privacy.

Ryan knocked on a metal sign bearing the logo of a winged horse. "Customers!" he called out. "Anybody home?"

Out of a back room walked a man with a protruding belly, his clothes covered with food stains, a throwing ax in his hand.

"Oh, just outlanders." He grimaced. "No jobs here. Got a stable boy for the mucking. Try the farms north of here."

"We're here to buy," Ryan said, lifting a fistful of rounds from his pocket. The action also showed the SIG-Sauer resting on his hip. The demeanor of the stable owner changed on the spot.

"Well, well! Why didn't you say so?" he gushed, tossing aside the ax and rushing over to push up the garage doors. They rose with a squeal of tortured metal, and he stepped inside. "Want a horse, do you? Fat Tom got the best in the world."

"Highly doubtful," Mildred commented, wrinkling her nose at the smell of used hay and fish-oil lanterns.

A scrawny stable boy sat in the corner, polishing a saddle with spit and a wad of congealed grease. Mounds of dirty hay covered the stained concrete, and split rails sectioned the repair shop into a double row of small stalls. Horses of various colors stood in each, nibbling hay, and watching the humans with fearful expressions. Obviously, they were beaten into submission and not won over with kindness. Ryan immediately classified the stable owner as a coward. There was no other reason to beat animals who delighted in working for humans. Men with horses had conquered most of the old world, because they enjoyed being together.

"Not bad," J.B. said diplomatically, thinking he wouldn't want to store shit here. "How many do you have?"

"Ten," Tom said proudly, picking his ear. "But one's a swayback we'll be eating this winter, and two are colts not strong enough to carry a baby."

Walking among the animals, Ryan studied them carefully. Good legs and withers. No sign of split hooves or mange. Their coats were rough, with burrs caught in the tails. The horses needed a serious currying, but otherwise were in good health.

"We'll take them," Ryan decided.

"Which two? Or did you want three, mebbe?"

Her cascade of fiery hair gently waving, Krysty held out a hand and stroked one of the nervous beasts. The animal instantly calmed and nuzzled her palm affectionately. "We're buying all seven."

Fat Tom roared in laughter, his belly bouncing. "Not even Baron Polk has that much jack! I need some for working the fields. You gonna feed my family this winter? Thought not."

"Trade you," J.B. said, dropping the duffel bag to the ground.

The stable owner stroked his greasy chin. "Your redhead doesn't look like she has

the coughing sickness. Of course, I'd want to inspect her cunny first before taking

a ride, but if she's any good, I'd trade you two horses for an hour with her."

"That's fifty-nine minutes longer than you would be breathing," Krysty said, low and cold, her blaster partially drawn.

The man cackled and slapped a knee. "Good un! She's a fireblast, that one.

Redheads, God love 'em."

"Try again," Ryan stated in a voice of granite.

"Well, I'll trade four horses for that fancy scattergun, four eyes."

"In your dreams." J.B. frowned.

Fat Tom shrugged. "Just talking. No offense meant."

Sensing the bargaining was getting serious, Ryan lowered his backpack to the floor and withdrew an oily blanket. Unwrapping the bundle, he hauled into view a AK-47 without a stock.

"Nuke me," the man whispered, reaching for the weapon and drawing his hands away before touching it. "That a rapid fire?"

"Eight hundred rounds a minute."

He snorted. "Ain't that much ammo in the whole world!"

Ryan didn't contradict the man. "We have two clips, one with ten live rounds, the other empty. Plus, fifty spent rounds you can reload. The stock is gone, but you

can whittle a new one."

"Ten rounds for a rapid fire. That's one trigger click. No deal." Then he added, "Besides, got a blaster. Made it myself."

Ryan had spotted the weapon hanging on the wall when they first entered. It was made of corroded iron pipes bound together with rusty barbed wire and leather straps. He doubted if the shotgun would work more than once without blowing apart. Suddenly, he knew the local was lying for some reason, and staffed his position to keep a watch on the garage doors.

J.B. dropped the heavy duffel bag. "Well, you haven't got one of these."

Squinting suspiciously, Fat Tom watched as J.B. opened the drawstrings and lifted out the roll of hide.

"Aw, I don't need a coat," Tom sniffed. "Never gets bad cold down here."

With a flip, J.B. unrolled the skin, sending it across the floor of the stable almost reaching the door. "It's not a jacket, you fat fool," he stated. "This is the hide of the gator from the swamp. That's a hundred pairs of boots, plus gun belts and some jackets."

"No, it can't be." Tom touched the wide expanse of hoary skin in disbelief. "You chilled Frankenstein."

"Just a gator," Jak corrected.

"A dead gator." Licking his lips, the stable owner looked at the companions. "Well now, that is a lot of strong leather. Yeah, sure, I'll trade you seven horses for ole Frank."

"Plus tack," Krysty added, the chestnut mare licking her palm. She had already decided on which horse she would ride.

"Of course, of course," he muttered, fingering the hide. Even marked with scars, burns and bullet holes, the durable skin was still beautiful, and flexible. He could probably make bulletproof vests from the stuff and sell them to barons for a fortune. Ammo, food and sluts till he died.

"Anything you want," the man said, beaming. "Saddles and reins. Blankets, too. I wouldn't want to cheat you on the trade. Fair deal Tom, that's me. Ask anybody above the soil."

With instincts honed in a hundred trades, Ryan knew that was too much, too fast. The hide had to be worth a hell of a lot more than they thought possible. "Eight," he corrected, testing the limits of the deal. "Plus tack, plus feed."

"But there's only seven of you!"

"And we'll need one to haul supplies."

"Oh, use the boy," Tom countered hotly. "He's young and strong, why burden a horse? They're expensive."

The stable boy was cowering, and new shadows appeared on the wall from people standing in the doorway.

"Incoming," Ryan said with a smile.

Tom scratched his head. "What's that mean, huh?"

"I know," J.B. answered, pulling the Uzi in front of him.

Doc crossed his arms and rested a hand on the LeMat. "Could be friendlies," he hedged.

There came the click-clack of a blaster, and Ryan spun, shooting from the hip just as the man with the shotgun fired. A sprinkling of buckshot took Ryan in the shoulder as he dived for cover. Fat Tom started pleading as the stocky man in the doorway fired again, blowing the plump man off the floor.

"Three, two, one," Ryan said, standing.

In unison, the companions unleashed a volley of lead. Torn to pieces, the attacker fell into the trough, the scattergun breaking in two as it hit the ground. A line of holes in the trough began to leak water. Then a flurry of arrows hissed into the stable, thudding into the split rails, posts and walls.

"There's more," Krysty announced, snapping off shots. Nearby, Fat Tom lay dead on the floor, his guts splattered over the wall and dribbling onto his shocked face.

Crouched behind a bale of hay, J.B. shoved the Uzi over the top and fired a short spray. A man cried out, but it sounded fake.

"It's the assholes from the tavern," Ryan said, clearing a jam.

"Bitch Feather," Jak snarled.

"No, this is my fault," Ryan stated harshly. "I wasn't paying attention for once. Not a blaster in sight here, and we come waltzing in with an arsenal. Of course somebody is going to try and chill us."

An ax flew between the horses and slammed into the floor, biting inches into the wood, missing Doc's hand by a hair. He withdrew quickly.

"They will try," Doc corrected, watching the doorway that led to the living quarters. A figure darted into view, and he snapped off a shot from the LeMat, catching the man in the throat. Clutching his shredded flesh, the man stumbled and fell, quietly bleeding to death in the doorway.

The horses were whinnying in fear, making it hard to hear movements outside. "You there, boy," Krysty demanded, crawling on her belly. "Where's the back door?"

"Ain't got one," the boy whimpered, huddled in the corner. "Just the front."

"Ladder to the hayloft?"