All eyes that weren’t already on Tre went to him. “I said let her go.”
“Or?”
“Or you’ll regret it.”
The dark-haired tough smiled. Here was a gift, another person to dominate, and another opportunity to instill fear. He pointed to a couple of toadies. “Miller, Baker, take him.”
As the two toadies came rushing toward him, Tre brought the staff up across his chest. The one named Miller had long hair, a big jaw, and a powerful body. Had he been able to get his gigantic paws on Tre, the fight would have been over in no time. But a quick blow from the right end of the staff broke all his teeth and sent him reeling away with both hands clutching a bloody mouth.
Meanwhile, the other end of the metal tube dipped, swiveled, and was waiting for Baker when he ran into it. He uttered a gasp of pain, grabbed his crotch, and fell to his knees.
Like all crowds, this one was fickle. As the bystanders roared their approval, Tre saw a combination of shock and anger on the gang leader’s face. And he saw something else as well. The youth with the dark hair was wearing a pistol in a cross-draw holster. That meant he was a citizen and would have the local authorities on his side. “Okay,” the city boy said, “rope him.”
Tre saw the loop of rope coming, sidestepped it, and twisted both halves of the rod in opposite directions. The center sleeve fell away and the staff was transformed into a pair of fighting sticks. Tre held them at the ready as he stepped forward. A tough rushed him, took a blow to the head, and fell. A second later, one of the gang members landed on Tre’s back and was trying to choke him when both rods struck his head. The weight fell away.
Then, as if in slow motion, Tre saw the gang leader go for his gun. He heard someone scream and sensed that people were trying to get clear of the area behind him, fearful that they would catch a bullet. The city boy’s decision to use the pistol left Tre with no choice but to bring the tubes up, press the buttons hidden beneath the remaining sleeves, and fire both weapons.
The three-foot-long gun barrels were loaded with .410 shotgun shells, and at close range the effect was devastating. His opponent’s face disappeared in a spray of bone and blood.
A second later Tre felt something hit his head, a hole seemed to open under his feet, and darkness pulled him down. The fight was over.
Chapter Five
The sky was the color of old pewter as Luther Voss climbed the stairs that led up to the crudely made gallows and looked out over the slum called Shantytown, a tawdry settlement that abutted the southernmost portion of his land—”his land” being defined as whatever real estate Voss could take and hold. Because in post apocalyptic America there were no elected governments, legal documents, or courts to enforce them. Justice, as the dead thief had learned, was defined by the people with the most guns. The rope made a creaking sound as a cold wind pushed against the body. “Cut him down,” Voss ordered, and stood to one side.
The food lord’s second in command was a man named Hawkins. Like all the members of Voss’s private army, Hawkins was dressed cowboy-style in a long duster, jeans, and high-heeled boots. His coat was open so that he could access the weapons he wore, one of which was a very sharp knife. It made short work of the rope, and there was a thump as the body landed on the wooden platform.
With that out of the way, Voss stepped forward. A breeze caught his long, mostly brown hair and whipped it around. He could feel the wind pressing against his back and see the way it ripped and tore at the fragile shacks arrayed in front of him. Having started at the south end of the settlement, his “boys,” as Voss referred to them, had driven hundreds of squatters into the area in front of the gallows.
As Voss looked down at them, he saw haunted eyes, drawn faces, and ragged clothes. There were children too. Most were smaller than they should have been, had runny noses, or were clearly ill. Malnutrition wasn’t the only enemy in Shantytown. There hadn’t been any inoculations in more than a generation, and sanitation was next to nonexistent. That meant the maze of shacks was a breeding ground for flu, cholera, and dysentery. Voss raised a bullhorn and turned it on. “I won’t say good morning because it sure as hell isn’t.” It was a joke, but none of the squatters laughed. They stared up at Voss with hollow eyes.
“All right,” Voss said, “here’s the deal. My name is Luther Voss. I own the farms located to the north of this settlement and I need more land. That’s why you have to leave. Once you’re gone, my boys will burn these shacks to the ground. So don’t come back.”
The crowd had been silent up to that point, but now they began to react. There was a rumble of protest as a man with a full beard stepped forward. He was dressed in filthy overalls and armed with a shotgun. “He’s right where we want him!” the man exclaimed loudly. “Let’s hang the bastard.”
There was a flash of movement followed by a loud bang as Hawkins drew a pistol and shot the man in the forehead. He fell over backward and mud splashed as he hit. A woman and two children came forward to sob over the body. “Sorry about that,” Voss said mildly, “but he was stupid. Look at the wagons located to either side of the platform.”
The squatters looked. What they saw were tarps, which when whipped aside revealed crew-served machine guns—both aimed at them. “That’s right,” Voss said. “You can swarm the platform, but most of you will die. And for what? A tar-paper shack? And a muddy grave? That would be stupid. So rather than commit suicide, come to work for me.”
The crowd was silent and Voss could see the uncertainty on many of their faces. “Think about it,” Voss continued. “If you come to work for me, you will receive new clothes, a basic set of household items, and an apartment in a building that has electricity and running water. You will also receive medical care and a better life for your children.
“In return,” Voss continued, “you will help me grow food. I will sell most of it, but there will be plenty left over for you and for your families. And, as a result of your efforts, other people will have more to eat as well, something you can feel good about when you put your head down at night.”
Voss scanned the faces in front of him. He had them, or a lot of them at any rate, and it was time to close the sale. “You have thirty minutes in which to gather your belongings and leave. Those of you who want to work for me should line up on the highway for a two-mile walk to Farm 3. The rest of you can go where you will so long as it isn’t on my land. Any attempt to interfere with my employees will be met with deadly force. That will be all.”
Having finished his presentation, Voss jumped to the ground. His horse, a gigantic mount named Odin, stood patiently while Voss put a foot in a stirrup and swung up into the saddle. Then, with Hawkins and two mercenaries to guard him, Voss rode out into the slum.
The crowd had dispersed by then, and with only half an hour to work with, the residents of Shantytown were rushing to rescue their meager possessions before the entire community went up in flames. As Odin carried Voss through muddy streets, he was appalled by the squalid conditions. Most of the homes were little more than crude huts, but each had a small garden. Pitiful things, really… fenced off with whatever scraps of wood and wire the owners had been able to scavenge. Feces, offal, and garbage lay everywhere. Here, he thought, is proof of how base they are. If they had any initiative, if they were willing to work, they could live as I do. Instead they choose to dwell here like pigs in a sty.