Hanging Judge

“The centipede’s venom must produce some kind of soporific effect,” Doc said.

“Like some sort of knockout dose,” Ryan suggested.

“Seems so,” Mildred said. “Pretty fast acting, though.”

“Muties,” Krysty stated simply.

“I guess.”

“How do you feel, kid?” Ryan asked. “You fit to fight?”

“Don’t really know,” Ricky said thoughtfully. Then he grinned at Ryan. “But I bet I can walk and carry my pack. That’s what you’re really asking, isn’t it, Ryan?”

Ryan grinned. “Reckon so.”

He leaned down and, gripping Ricky forearm to forearm, pulled him to his feet.

“And that’s what we need to do,” he said. “Move. For one thing, there’s no way of knowing whether some of those bastard centipedes might’ve missed out on the pork banquet and decided to come looking for us. Plus, while this gives us a nice handy route to try to get clear of this damn mutant thorn tangle, it’s also a natural highway for everything else big and bad.”

“Including our friends from the ville,” J.B. said.

Mildred and Krysty helped Ricky get his pack up and onto his back.

“Speaking of that unfortunate swine,” Doc said, looking speculatively back up the way they’d come, “I cannot help wondering...if the outsized centipedes’ bite produces instant unconsciousness, why did the hog continue to struggle and squeal for so long?”

“Don’t ask me,” Mildred said. “I’m barely a people doctor, in the way I so often need to be. I’m certainly not a bug doctor.”

“Dear lady, while those creatures are unquestionably arthropods, they are, equally unquestionably, not of the class of Arthropoda that constitutes the insects.”

She fixed him with a furious glare. “They have nasty, segmented chitinous bodies, too many legs and they bite,” she said. “They’re bugs.”

“Less talking,” Ryan admonished sternly. “More walking.”

“Yes, sir,” Mildred said.

* * *

“HOWFARDOES this thing go on, anyway?”

At the question, Krysty glanced back over her shoulder at Ricky, who bringing up the rear. He was staring up at the heights above the tangle of miniature canyons by which they made their way through the Wild.

“How would I know?” Ryan said from the lead. “Not like we got any reliable maps of this country.”

“Rumor in the last ville we stopped at before Jak’s adventure says the thicket’s expanding,” Krysty said. “Or trying to. The cook I talked to at the eatery said it keeps running up against the drought and acid-rain-prone belts of the Deathlands. So far, they’re winning. But it’s double big.”

“If we could take the roads we could be clear in a day,” Mildred grumbled. “Two, max.”

“We’d be hanging by the necks in front of Judge Santee’s courthouse before sunset the first day,” J.B. said.

“Aside from that.”

She glanced up again. The thorn vines showed no signs of thinning, either up the walls of the ravine or ahead, as far as the eye could see.

The route they were taking was fast only in comparison to creeping along snaky game trails through the Wild or trying to hack their way through by main force. It wasn’t a practical thing to do for very long, in any event. The ground underfoot was muddy and mucky, and it clutched at Mildred’s boots despite the grass roots holding it more or less together.

“Shit,” she murmured, mostly to herself.

“I know,” Krysty agreed sympathetically.

“I know it’s stupid,” Mildred said, still keeping her voice way down, “but still I can’t help wondering if we’d be having quite this much trouble if, well, you know....”

“How can you say that?” Krysty asked. “You know Ryan does all he can—all anyone can, and then some—to keep us alive!”

“Yeah, I know, Krysty. Sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

But I do, she thought, more miserable even than before. I was looking for someone or something to blame for us being in shit this deep. But it’s nobody’s fault. Except the asshole politicians and whitecoats who blew up the world and made this mess.

She heard Krysty sigh gustily.

“I’m sorry, Mildred. I shouldn’t have bitten your head off like that. The fact is, deep down—I wonder too, sometimes. And that’s why I reacted the way I did. Overreacted.”

“We all have our skills, but Ryan can do anything,” Mildred said. “At least, it feels like he can. Anything we’ve ever needed him to do to pull us through, he’s done.”

She shook her head, setting her beaded plaits to swinging.

“But, well—”

“He can’t do everything at once,” Krysty admitted. “And even he’d admit, Jak’s a better scout than he is. Just as J.B.’s handier with blaster-smithing. Though I wouldn’t try to pin down Ryan on the whole Jak thing just this particular instant—”

“Look out!” Ricky screeched from the rear of the procession. Belatedly he added the useful part. “Ryan, down!”

Chapter Eight (#ulink_4afe3e01-b45f-50cf-8afc-bdfce8e07d85)

“And the only possible sentence is death!” Marley Toogood finished, making his voice ring.

Though the day was dreary, with more low, gray clouds spewing a miserable drizzle, his heart soared. Something about being able to proclaim those words, loud and proud, to the assembled citizens of Second Chance and Judge Santee’s nascent empire, and hear the moans of despair and the increasingly desperate pleas for mercy from the four condemned men and women standing with nooses around their necks, just made a man’s heart naturally soar.

He heard the creak and grind as the hangman threw the lever. Four traps snapped open under four sets of feet.

“Oh, please, no, not my baby, too—”

The sound of necks snapping was like the ripple of blasterfire from a firing squad, which was also a satisfactory way to send off evildoers, Toogood thought. But it cost more money, even for black-powder blasters. And also the Judge was a traditional sort of man, with a strong fondness for the gallows as a symbolic statement of community principles.

And, of course, a way of making sure that anybody who disagreed with him too strongly on pretty much any subject at all sooner or later found himself swinging from one.

The crowd issued a joint sigh of sorts. Toogood looked around sharply. The sec men on duty monitoring the area didn’t seem to notice any particular offenders.

The louts get slack when Cutter Dan is out of the ville, he thought. Ah, well. We can hardly recruit men of higher caliber to do what is, after all, a menial chore.