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He squatted on his heels, frustrated and angry to the
point of murder. Benny tried again. At the moment of penetration he froze; no
matter how in pain he was from the iron ache, he froze. He couldn't.
“All the fucking times you made me do it,” he
screamed, his fist lashed out, smashing into the ground near her face. Once, the
training of the collar almost killed him. Months ago, hell, it was two years,
now. Cindy had said no, that time at the Manse, and made it stick with the
training collar. She owned him. As long as he was alive, the bitch and her kind
owned him.
Benny's head sagged. He passed a hand over his face
and groaned.
It was as much, probably more if he cared to admit it,
the teachings of his mother and Grampa Wya. “Women are born to life,” he
quoted Grampa Waya in a soft voice, “men but to die.” Somewhere in the back
of his mind, he could hear Grampa Wya cackle a laugh and agree. Man was
made to sacrifice everything for the sake of hearth and home, the
old man whispered, a smile in his voice, First-Man sinned in paradise, not
First-woman. Then, wry, She's too sneaky.
Sara whickered softly, calling to the old man. Benny
gave her a haggard smile, and she bobbed her head at him.
Woman. They're sneaky, all right. Too dammed right.
Benny pulled a wry face. They protected themselves by pretending to be weak.
“But weak they ain't.” He stared down into Cindy's startled blue eyes. He
stilled, lost in thought, lost in time, in another place.
The mares shied, but not too much, from a stranger in
their midst. They knew him, knew he liked them, but Sara rumbled a warning to
take a care. Still, the man rode well, often helped feed them and was gentle
with them, so they didn't worry enough to alert Sara and Benny to his presence.
The massive Lugar 2000 in his rock steady,
black-gloved fist with it's laser sighting and silencer extension told another
story. Mike Donnelly pressed the muzzle against the soft spot at the top of
Benny's spine.
“Be real still, kid.”
He scowled, a puzzled look on his face when all the
kid did was rock on his heels and mutter under his breath. He glanced over the
naked woman. Cindy glared at him and gave a slight shake of her head.
Her eyes shifted back to Benny's impassive face. His
eye was glazed, the lid drooped over it until only a thin sliver of blood-shot
white showed.
Mike felt in his pocket for what had become standard
equipment in the job. He nodded at Cindy and pulled out a thin black case. The
red stud on the remote flashed and he smiled. Donnelly gave a loving caress to
the light.
Benny felt it, a faint tremor in the back of his mind.
His hand crept up, around the back of his head to the scar there. He smelled
sweat and cologne the man used, and turned his head just far enough to see the
black shape of a gun. He swallowed at a lump in his throat and rose to laugh in
Mike's face.
“Hey, it's master-blaster cop Donnelly,” Benny’s
throat swelled with the bitter taste of defeat. He spread his hands and nudged
the now still rattler with his boot.
“You ain’t what I’d call an invited guest, but
I’m cool. Want a bite to eat?”
The eyes flicked down and Benny struck. That Mike
Donnelly was Sweet-Bottom's brother was all that gentled Benny's punch. The man
went down and rolled. Benny's foot snapped the gun from his hands and thumped
into Mike's ribs hard enough to jar the breath from him. Legs spread, Benny
stood over him, face impassive.
Donnelley glared up, his hands itching to drive a
killing blow into Benny's exposed groin. Benny gave him a sad grin.
“I am sorry, man,” Benny told him. The stone blade
moved in his hand, trembled, but ready. “I love her. I would die for her, so I
had to leave. But I can't trust you not to follow.”
He leaned down, the sharpened edge whispered at Mike's
throat, and Mike pressed the stud.
Benny's legs cramped and threw him back. In the grip
of invisible fire he screamed but no sound came from his mouth, only the dull
thud of heels drumming the ground.
Her head came up. Sara felt the pain in her Benny. Her
eyes centered on the couched figure of the man, his hand stretched out towards
Benny. Teeth bared, she darted at the man, unshod hoofs pounding a rhythm of
hate on the rocky soil.
Mike dodged out of her way, the hoofs flashed past his
head. He jerked a back-up from a leg holster. The semi-automatic spat three
times, the sound rolled against the mountain and died.
Driven back by the gouging force of the slugs, she
went to her knees. Eyes puzzled, Sara looked at Mike. She sagged down, onto her
side.
Still enthralled to the pain, Benny managed to claw
his way to the old mare. She thrashed and grunted, trying to get up, to take
Benny to the Quiet Place and safety. The mountains. The mountains . . . just
over the horizon . . . where the Old Woman waited, calling them . . . home. She
could smell it, the raw edge of snow, and sleet, and freezing rain. The soft cry
of a hawk hunting meadow mice . . .
He lay a hand on her bleeding neck, and she stilled,
her eyes filled with trust for Benny. He was a taste of home to her; he was love
in her heart.
The soft brown eyes edged with gold, they quivered at
his touch.
Get on me. Feel the cold sweet winds bite your
face, Dark-Rider. Get on me. We have to run . . . be free . . .
Run free.
The luster of the eyes faded, the ruined lungs ceased.
Benny threw back his head and howled. He fell on the
mare and dry heaves racked his body.
Stunned, Mike stood over them. He looked at the remote
on the ground and shuddered. The Kramer Hex slid into the shoulder holster. Mike
stared at Benny.
Cindy worked loose the bonds on her hands and tore out
the cold and soaked gag. “Give me the remote,” she hissed at Mike.
He scowled at her. And had no more choice than Benny.
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
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