Savages by James Cook

Author:James Cook [Cook, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Published: 2015-09-27T04:00:00+00:00

EIGHTEEN

The leader may have been pretty, once. But three years of surviving in the wastelands had taken its toll.

She stared at us with hard brown eyes that held all the compassion of a starving crocodile. Her hands and feet were bound with zip ties, and she sat on a folding metal chair surrounded by Anderson’s men. I counted three guns aimed at her head.

“So tell me,” I said to Great Hawk. “What led to the shoot-out?”

“I asked this one to identify herself.” He pointed at the prisoner. “One of her men pointed a weapon in my direction. I fired a few warning shots. They took cover. She told us to leave or die. I told her there was no need for bloodshed and asked if we could talk. She did not respond. I asked again. Still nothing. McGee spotted one of them moving toward me in a flanking maneuver. I decided enough was enough. You know the rest.”

“Who the fuck are you?” the prisoner asked.

“Who we are isn’t important,” Anderson said. “What is important, to you at least, is how you answer our questions.”

The reptilian stare shifted toward the captain. “Go fuck yourself, you little shit. Do whatever you want to me. I’m not telling you a damn thing.”

Bjornson chuckled. “Don’t be too sure about that. We can be very convincing.”

Great Hawk shot him a look that wiped the smirk off his face. “Gag her,” he said. “We will search her men for clues. Then we will proceed with the interrogation.” He cast his gaze around the room, making eye contact with each man. “She is not to be harmed.”

We had less than five minutes before the horde arrived. Anderson left May and Taylor to guard the prisoner while the rest of us dragged the marauder’s bodies in from outside. The horde probably heard us, but made no sound. Not for the first time, I was grateful for the darkness.

The dead men wore sturdy clothes, some obviously homemade. They carried the usual assortment of tools and equipment common among nomadic survivors. The heavy objects like water, ammunition, crowbars, bolt cutters, and hooked rope ladders were distributed to lighten each man’s load, which spoke of possible military experience. The men’s faces and hands were dark and leathery from long days in the sun. Their weapons were standard Alliance AKs, pistols, and RGN grenades.

“Got a question,” I said to Gabe as we dragged a body through the door. “Why didn’t they use their grenades?”

“I’m guessing the grenades are too valuable. Good for trade. Probably didn’t want to waste them.”

“Yeah, but in a firefight …”

“I’m kidding.”

“Oh.”

“The fight happened at close range. A grenade doesn’t care who it kills. Or wounds.”

“Good point. Didn’t think of that.” I thought a moment, then asked, “How the hell do these assholes have so much ordnance?”

Gabe gave me an amused look. “You ever been inside a Cold War era ammunition depot?”

“No.”

“I have. There are warehouses, enormous warehouses, stacked floor to ceiling with nothing but bullets. Billions of them.

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