Thrusting the pitted maw of his blaster into the slim crack, Doc fired the LeMat. A piercing scream answered the ploy, the bleeding arm was withdrawn and they closed the doors in perfect harmony. But they noticed a minor flaw.

"Dark night, we have no way to lock them in!" J.B. said, his cigar drooping as he brushed the smooth bra.s.s plate around the st.u.r.dy handles.

"Then find something!" Doc shouted, shoving his arm through the looped door handles. Almost instantly, the bra.s.s shuddered from a violent blow, and high-pitched keens came from inside the building. The door shook again.

"And find one fast!" Doc grunted, digging his heels into the loose sand, "because our captives are most displeased with their new home and desire to leave posthaste!"

Across the parking lot, another fiery blast ripped apart the overturned truck, sending pieces sky high.

J.B. sprinted around the corner and returned with a length of chain from the winch of the Hummer.

Shoving the stout links through the handles, he and Doc carefully exchanged positions and tightened the chain before wrapping the length through the handles as many times as it could. The screaming and spitting was increasing inside the library, and the sounds of a.s.sorted destruction could be dimly heard over the continuing explosions of the trucks.

"Success," Doc panted, stepping away. The doors shook and rattled, the loose ends of the chains dancing madly, but the library was sealed. No number of muties would force their way through that much military steel.

Losing his hat, J.B. tried to speak and staggered to his knees. Doc grabbed the man to keep him from toppling over and saw that he was badly flushed, his eyes dilated, his breathing labored. This was a chemical reaction!

Straightening J.B.'s clothes, Doc found a bleached spot on his friend's shirt, the fabric rotting away even as he watched. Ripping off the garment and casting it away exposed a spreading purple splotch on the Armorer's arm, the flesh inextricably turning a deadly necrotic black. Frantically rummaging through his coat, Doc found a butane lighter and, playing the tiny flame over the blade of his pocketknife, he then slashed the area open. A few drops of red blood rose to the surface, along with a greenish icher.

Squeezing the wound produced little more, so Doc began to suck the incision as hard as he could, turning to spit when a horrible sizzling filled his mouth and his tongue went numb. Great G.o.d in heaven, did these things spit poison or acid? Again and again, Doc repeated the procedure until only clean blood was coming from the cut, the discoloration already significantly diminished. Laying the comatose man on the ground, Doc dropped wearily next to him, feeling totally exhausted. Plus, there was a terrible aftertaste that didn't seem to be lessening. Oh, no.

He hawked and spit repeatedly, but the world was starting to get blurry for him, as if a dense ocean fog were creeping over the landscape. The fire in the trucks seemed distant, surreal, like a movie on a badly tuned television, and the man sluggishly realized he had accidentally swallowed some of the poison.

Summoning his last vestige of strength, Doc stuffed fumbling fingers down his throat, trying to make himself vomit. But the universe started to spin faster and faster until he slumped over unconscious.

Meanwhile, tiny hands squeezed out of the library windows, clawing at the granite walls, trying to enlarge the narrow slits to get free.

Chapter Sixteen.

The dirty daylight streaming through the barred window of the cell was beginning to fade, and Krysty was still struggling against the chains. The links were solid steel, welded to a ma.s.sive ring set in the tiled floor. The guards had been painfully thorough in searching her for weapons and lock picks, but oddly none of them tried to a.s.sault her. Aside from the occasional quick grope, she hadn't been harmed in any way. Yet.

The woman bitterly cursed the frightened child in the crowd. Krysty had felt sorry for the babe and removed her hood to cover his eyes from the torture. But the instant her face was exposed, the crowd started gasping and pointing. One man dashed off shouting for the guards, and an elderly couple tossed their own clothing over Krysty to mask her head, but it was too late by then. Knowing she was trapped, Krysty pushed into public view to try to draw attention away from Ryan. If he was free, there was hope of his rescuing her and their finding the med kit for Dean. Hopefully, the boy was still alive.

As the tainted light from the cloudy sky faded, she was thankful for the odd bluish illumination that came from the lanterns on the table. It smelled like moonshine, almost pure alcohol. The cell was a bare room of cinder-block walls. The paint was peeling off in strips from moisture, and there was a definite stink of mildew.

A former storage room, it was oddly on the third floor. Dungeons were usually in the bas.e.m.e.nt. The only furniture was a table with leather straps, the wood darkly stained, a padded bench with straps for the obvious function of forced s.e.x and a small wooden stool with a hole in the center and a bucket underneath. The furnishings were crude and simple, but the door was of rusty metal hung in a metal frame with four hinges. A formidable barrier.

As if waiting for her to make this appraisal, the door swung open and in strode a tall, muscular man flanked by two sec men holding bolt-action blasters. The tall man was painfully handsome, his features finely chiseled. His ornate uniform was spotlessly clean, and twin blasters rode at his hips, the handles turned inward for a cross draw.

"Leave us," the man ordered with a gesture.

The sec men snapped their rifles to their chests in a salute and departed, closing the door behind them.

Krysty saw all this peripherally, as she could only stare at the tall man's hair. She had noticed it seemed to be moving a lot more than anybody else's on the outside platform, but now she could see the truth. Hishair was the same fiery color as her own, exactly the same color. Slightly more than shoulder length, it constantly moved and flowed as if stirred by secret winds, even now in a locked room with no ventilation. Her own hair coiled tightly to her head in response, and cold flooded her stomach as Krysty realized he could be kin. A distant cousin perhaps. Or even her unknown father. Krysty could actually feel him standing close, the same way she used to be able to sense her mother in another room.

"Yes," the man said, as if reading her thoughts.

"And do you know how long I have been searching for you?"

"For me?" she asked incredulously.

"You specifically? No, although if I had known you existed, I would have traveled the Deathlands to find kin. I was referring to how long I have been searching every redhead I could find to locate another one of us."

His sharp emphasis of the last word wasn't lost on Krysty. And deep inside, the woman was forced to admit she would have done the same. In a world of norms, where all muties were looked upon as a filthy evil, to find blood kin was her deepest wish.

"But I'm being rude, my dear," he said with a slight bow. "Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Baron Gunther Strichland, master of Alphaville."

Krysty said nothing in return.

"And you are...?" he prompted with a beguiling smile.

"n.o.body of importance," she muttered, testing the chains.

In blinding speed, Strichland drew a blaster and fired. Krysty flinched as the round burned past her face and embedded in the cinder-block wall.

"What was that again, please?" the baron said with a smile, twirling the blaster by the trigger guard.

He was insane. Good, that gave her an edge. "Krysty Wroth."

"Of?"

She shrugged. "The Deathlands. Nowhere. Everywhere."

"Ah, a wanderer." Gunther lifted a leg and rested it on the corner of the table. He appeared to have something wrong with his left leg. "And now you have come home to me. I was starting to think I was the only one of my kind, doomed, to breed with the norms, casting my superior genes into the stagnant pool of their monkey blood."

"We're all the same," Krysty said, trying to keep a calm expression.

The baron laughed. "Are we? Do they heal like us? Have the same control of their muscles as we? Can they sense things in other places? Oncoming danger? Have you ever seen one of them getting a haircut?"

Rising, he spit the words like a curse, his hatred contorting his handsome features. In spite of herself, Krysty flinched at the memory of the companions giving each other a trim. It had been horrible. The slightest tug on her hair was painful, combing was agony and cutting was worse than getting shot. Her hair was as alive as her fingers and toes, not just dead protein filaments.

"Yes," Gunther said softly, standing very close. "I can see you have, and the sight affected you the same as it did me."

Krysty didn't reply, estimating the range of her chains and the distance to the stool. Any weapons were preferable to none.

"Can you lift things with your hair?" the baron asked unexpectedly. "My mother could, and I could as a child, but that has left me with age."

Her hair went still as Krysty stared at the man. He seemed in the prime of health, certainly no more than thirty years.

"I'm sixty-three," he said. "Our kind age very gracefully. Or, at least, I do."

The mystery of her own parentage suddenly welled within her as an unstoppable force. "Who was your father?" she asked desperately.

Snarling furiously, Gunther slapped her across the face. Krysty swung her head to avoid the blow but not fast enough, his jeweled rings raking her cheek like knives.

"That question won't be asked again. Do you understand me!" he screamed, drawing a golden dagger from his belt and waving the blade about. "Your sight isn't needed to give birth to a son. Nor your hair!"

With his free hand, Gunther slapped her again, then slammed his fist into her stomach. Caught by surprise, Krysty doubled over, gasping for breath. "Do you understand?" he asked, his voice silky soft as he stroked her crimson hair with the flat of the blade.

Shivering from the touch, Krysty did understand and tried her best to cower, to appear helpless and whipped. This was a threat that n.o.body else had ever made.

Encouraged by the silence, the man fondled her for a while with his free hand. Her skin crawled from the touch, but she gave a little gasp of pleasure, her sight riveted to the handles of his blasters only inches away from her chained hands. Just a little closer, fool...

"Yes, oh yes," she murmured. But as Krysty raised her smiling face to the madman, her true feelings were betrayed by her hair, which fanned out in a wild corona of unbridled hatred.

With a snarl, Gunther stepped back quickly. "So, I see you are indeed kin and will never submit willingly. No matter. A baroness would be desirable, but not necessary. I was even willing to use the new med kit to ease the pain of childbirth. But so be it, b.i.t.c.h. Guards!" the man shouted abruptly.

The door slammed open and sec men rushed into the room, weapons at the ready.

"Yes, Baron?" A bearded private saluted.

Strichland rested a leg on the table again. "Kill all of the other prisoners. I have no need for them anymore." "At once, your liege."

Then he rapped the wood with his knuckles. "And replace this table with a birthing bed. I'll mount this b.i.t.c.h until she becomes pregnant, and then she'll give birth still strapped to the bed, and die some day when she can no longer give birth."

He turned to face the woman. "Your cooperation isn't necessary or desired. Fight me, scream and rage.

It will fuel my son, make him strong! A true heir to rule my ville after me!"

The first guard seemed puzzled. "But, Baron, I thought that Leonard-"

"Will be regent until my son is of age, then he'll step down willingly." The lies came so easily to him, they almost seemed the truth. Leonard's death had been sealed the moment Gunther found this woman. "I have already taken steps to ensure that no one ever rules this ville without my blood in their veins."

The baron gestured. "Get the bed. I wish to start immediately on my dynasty."

Krysty strained against the chains, and for a moment debated calling on Gaia for strength and breaking free to kill these men before exhaustion claimed her. But for all she knew, he could be a match for her.

Conflicting emotions raged within the woman, and she hesitantly eased her stance. The proper chance would come some other time.

Misreading the acceptance as surrender, Gunther smiled l.u.s.tfully. "Obey my whims and life can be very good. How good, you have no idea."

"Mercy!" she cried, throwing herself against the chains and rubbing against the man, her manacled hands clawing at his clothing. "Mercy, please!"

With a snarl, he punched the prisoner in the chest and backed away, grabbing for his blasters. The ivory-handled pistols were still in their oiled holsters, but one was angled halfway out.

Krysty blinked innocently and smiled sweetly like a virgin on her wedding day.

"You are dangerous," the baron snarled through clenched teeth. "Iron, pure iron. A most worthy mate."

"Guards! Bring in the bed for her to see. But come no closer than this stool."

"Yes, Baron."

"And no food," the redheaded man added thoughtfully. "After a few days, she will be too weak to try such tricks again, and there will be no trouble binding her to the birthing frame. Will there, my sweet bride?"

Pivoting on a heel, Krysty kicked at the man's throat, the chains stopping the silvered toe of her Western boot a fraction of an inch from the vulnerable flesh.

Strichland laughed as she slumped to the cinder-block wall, gathering the chains around her for protection. "I'll return in a week, my dear bride," he said, sneering, and turned to leave, the sec men smartly holding the door open for him.

Craning her neck to see, Krysty got only a brief glimpse of the corridor outside. More cinder-block walls and lots more guards. Hopefully, they were only an escort for the baron and not a permanent detail to guard the prisoners.

Strichland turned to speak, when the window shattered and the man's shoulder exploded blood as he spun wildly, dropping to the floor.

The sec men had only a split second to register the fact, when a black dot appeared on the forehead of the private with a beard and he toppled over, exhaling deeply. The second man dived for the door, but spewed a geyser of red as his throat was removed. He landed sprawling, twitched once and went still.

Stretching out her boot, Krysty snagged the baron's cloak and carefully dragged the body closer.

Kicking him over, she grabbed a blaster, then searched his clothing. A ring of keys was found in his pants, and in seconds she was free.

First checking the corridor, she then closed the door and went to the window. A tiny figure waved on top of the building across the market square, then pointed to the north. Knowing Ryan could see her clearly through the scope of his Steyr rifle, she mouthed, "Med kit here."

The figure nodded and moved into the shadows once more.

Grabbing the baron by his frilly collar, Krysty hauled him to his feet and slapped him twice before he responded with a moan.

"Where is the med kit?" she demanded, pressing the barrel of the blaster into the ghastly wound.

The baron writhed in pain, and she eased the pressure.

"Don't die yet, cousin. Where's the med kit?" she repeated, clicking back the hammer.

"My...office," he gasped. "Down...hall..."

"Let's go," she said, throwing him toward the door.

In the hallway, some sec men were walking their way, so Krysty ducked behind the baron and shot them both dead. A third stepped into view from around the corner, blaster in hand, when the hallway window shattered and the man crashed against the wall, then sagged to the floor in a b.l.o.o.d.y heap.

"Any more around?" Krysty demanded harshly.

"That's all..." he gasped, reaching for his wound. "I wanted...privacy with you..."

"Now you got it," she stated, slapping his hand away with the blaster while tightening her grip on the collar. Get him in submission and confused. He was a danger like none ever faced, and her only hope was intimidation through pain.

Jerking the baron about, she slammed him against the wall, then forced the bleeding man down the hallway until reaching an ordinary-looking door. "Here..." he wheezed, his face deathly pale.

Twisting the blaster into his side, Krysty made the man open the door himself, then shoved him through in case there was a reception committee of sec men.

The office was empty.

Kicking the door shut, Krysty slammed the pistol against his temple, and the baron crumpled to the floor. Quickly searching the office, she found the med kit on a gla.s.s shelf of a mirrored wall. The rest of the shelves were filled with a.s.sorted weapons, including her own .38 revolver. She checked the load and tucked the dead sec man's blaster into her belt as a spare. The weight on her hip was rea.s.suring. A teakwood box was filled with grisly trophies, and she tossed it aside. But from the rest of the armory, Krysty took a boxy MAC-11 submachine gun with an acoustical sound suppressor, and a sleek 9 mm Skorpion rapid-fire blaster. She had no preference among the weapons. These were simply the blasters with the most ammo clips stacked alongside. Krysty checked the clip on the Ingram MAC-11 and worked the bolt, when a dark shape rose into view reflected in the mirror.

Spinning, she fired the MAC-11 as the baron charged past her, crashing into the gla.s.s shelves.