The carnage intensified as the unidentified man continued his onslaught with the precision of an orchestra conductor, working through the hunger gang in a blur of precision.
If Lipton hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he would have thought he was watching a Hollywood movie, one that had been choreographed to shock and awe in a spray of red.
The last three of the Scabs rushed the man in unison, forming a skirmish line of teeth.
The swordsman took a long step forward to catch the trio midstride with a double swipe high on their bodies. Their eyes flared wide as their necks gaped open, spraying blood in a wide arc.
As quickly as he’d started, the man froze in place, holding his weapons in their follow-through position as he gazed at their gasping throats.
It took a ridiculously long time for the final three Scabs to topple over, their collective life-force running out in spurts. Each cannibal seemed content to accept its fate as gravity pulled their twitching corpses onto the pile of the cannibal slaughterhouse.
The swordsman released his pose, then stood in a defensive posture for a short minute, his eyes scanning the perimeter.
The prey had become the predator, searching for more victims.
There were none.
Just as an assembly line powers down after a productive day of work, he pulled his swords in and sheathed them in one fluid motion, tilting them at the ready for his next battle.
A gust of wind raked across Lipton’s face as he watched the strange warrior stand in victory. He couldn’t stop the words on his tongue from setting themselves free. “Holy shit! Who the hell is that?”
Horton didn’t hesitate. “The Nomad.”
“Where the hell did he come from?”
“Nobody knows.”
“I take it he’s some kind of vigilante?”
“That’s the rumor. Though he didn’t save me.”
Helena bolted to her feet, then scaled the windowsill and slid through the opening.
“Wait!” Horton said, making a grab for her, his hands coming up empty.
Helena tore across the front yard and into the street, taking a direct route to the Nomad.
Lipton thought she was going to attack the man who’d just taken out her clan, but that was not what happened.
Helena’s feet came to a stop, then she dropped to her knees in front of the stranger.
“What the hell is she doing?” Lipton asked, not believing what he was seeing.
“Looks like she’s praying.”
“What? Like he’s a god?”
“Apparently,” Horton said, as Lipton watched Helena grab the back of the Nomad’s hand and pull it close to her face. She kissed it before holding it to her forehead, bowing in reverence, as if she were some kind of wild peasant.
Nomad pulled his hand free from her grasp, leaving her begging for his touch with a stab of filthy hands and fingers.
She cried out, sounding as though she couldn’t decide on whether to grunt or snarl.
The Nomad continued to fend her off, taking a step back. He brought his head around and shot a look at Lipton’s position, holding it for a few beats.
The man’s face was obscured by the goggles and mask, but Lipton sensed he was looking directly at him.
The stare-down lasted another few moments before the Nomad turned and used a fast step to head away from Helena, his ankle-length cloak flapping in the breeze.
Helena got up and ran after the Nomad, once again trying to latch onto him.
“Shit, she’s going with him,” Horton said.
The Nomad whirled around and used a straight arm aimed at her chest to stop her, pressing her back to her knees.
“Apparently not,” Lipton said.
Nomad held up his index finger and stared at her for a few beats before turning away and resuming his trek.
This time Helena didn’t get up and run after him. Instead, she leaned forward in slow motion and fell face-first to the dirt, then rolled to her side and wrapped her arms around her stomach, writhing on the ground in a rocking motion.
“You don’t see that every day,” Lipton quipped.
“Something’s wrong,” Horton answered as he pressed to his feet in a grumble, then took an awkward step toward the window.
Lipton grabbed him with both hands, pulling him hard to the ground. “You can’t go out there. It’s not safe.”
“Let me go, Doc. I have to help her.”
“No. You don’t. Leave her be,” Lipton answered, watching the Nomad pick up speed, sprinting in a full gallop before disappearing from view between a pair of houses.
“Can’t blame the guy,” Lipton said. “I sure wouldn’t want her following me like a lost puppy.”
Helena remained in the dirt with her arms reaching out for the masked man for another minute before she stopped, got to her feet, and headed back toward them.
Lipton watched her head drop, her hair falling forward to cover up her face. “Looks like you have yourself a new pet, Horton. Just like you wanted. Gonna have to feed it, though. Failure is never an option with a meat eater like her.”
Horton didn’t respond, his gaze locked on Helena as if he were in a state of shock. Or disbelief.
Lipton released his hands from Horton, then wrapped his arms around his shivering body. “Now that that’s over with, what do you say we get dressed? I’ve got a serious case of shrinkage happening here.”
CHAPTER 26
Early the next morning, Stan Greco, AKA “Dice”, put his hands under the faucet and let a trickle of water wash over his skin. The water pressure was still low, same as the day before, forcing him to cup his hands together to gather enough water to splash his face.
Doc Lipton still hadn’t fixed the plumbing issue. Typical. Dice would need to remind him. Again typical. Only this time, Dice needed to finish waking up first, before he walked to Doc’s lab.
Dice always slept like a rock. Last night was no different, except for the passing out part. His mind was running in super slow motion. He could hear his thoughts echoing in the empty space that was his head, sounding muffled and distant, as if he was underwater.
“Ugh, I never should have had those last three shots,” he said, thinking of Doc’s legendary moonshine. Talk about a real ass kicker. At least he didn’t have a pounding headache. He’d had his share of those, both recently and long ago—before The Event.
He was ten years younger back then and able to party with a table full of local girls after his late-night shift at the Bellagio in Vegas. He could drink and screw for hours, then get up the next day and do it all over again.
His high-paying job of dealing cards was a great way to meet chicks. So was tending the craps table, everyone leaning over and needing his assistance. The scenery was everywhere, usually clad in a skimpy dress with plenty of cleavage, unlike the complete sausage fest that was Frost’s compound.
When Dice studied his reflection in the mirror, the face staring back told the whole story. The thin slits for eyelids. The bloodshot eyes behind them. The bruises on his neck. All of it was a dead giveaway for a man without a purpose—a true purpose, other than doing Fletcher’s bidding off the books.
“Come on, you pussy. Shake it off,” he mumbled in a gruff tone, splashing his face with more water.
What he needed was a reboot. And some coffee. Gallons of it. Yet, the camp had none. Coffee was extinct, just like the rest of the planet.
Doc Lipton could make just about anything, but he couldn’t grow coffee beans out of thin air. Nor could he synthesize caffeine. Two items that would be worth their weight in gold, if they still existed.
Maybe Dr. Edison across the No-Go Zone had solved the problem. Some type of new invention. Rumor had it Edison was at least as gifted as Lipton at making something out of nothing.
Even though Dice knew the odds of that were nil, it still didn’t stop him from dreaming about it—a giant, hot, steaming cup of joe. Something to warm the body on a frigid morning.