SUMMARY

Unrequited love in a post-apocalyptic nightmare. The mutants have crossed the Rubicon. Leon Miller comes to the end of the road.

Redemption through violence.

EXCERPT

“Remember the little heart-to-heart we had down in the Slicks?” Treadlow asked, pausing to drag his cigarette, smoke riding shotgun for the words coming out of his mouth. “This gig ain’t that gig. I’ll help you get Horns back to Dunwoody, but that’s it. I’m done partnering with you, Millers. I mean it. You’re right on the ragged edge of flaking out. You’re that way all the time.”

“No problem, Lows,” Miller said, looking at the tracker. “You ready?”

Miller walked to the tent, pulled back the flap, and grabbed one of Horn’s ankles. The pilot’s skin was cold. He tried to pull the man’s dead weight out of the tent. He tried. Horn was heavier than he looked, heavier than Miller remembered.

“Get out of the fucking way,” Treadlow said, slapping the bounty hunter hard on the shoulder. Too hard. “Let me make it easier.”

The bounty hunter released his grip on the pilot’s ankle and backed away a step. Treadlow drew the big blade strapped to his chest and sliced open the dome of the tent, running the knife down and easily through the tube frame. The faded green tent split open like a melon. Inside was Horn’s stinking body.

Treadlow stared down at the pilot’s unconscious form. “Grab a handful of the motherfucker, Millers,” the tracker ordered.

“Wake him where he lies,” the bounty hunter said before jamming a needle into his own voice. “Fuck dragging his ass. All his shit’s right there.”

The tracker snorted. “You got a point. But what makes you think I can wake the fucker up? Horns ain’t a Leather Skin. I am good, Millers, but I can’t raise the dead.”

“Do your goddamned job,” the bounty hunter ordered. “Wake the son of a bitch up.”

Miller was getting sick of the tracker’s incessant arguing. The man’s contrariness was like a slow-speed drill grinding into his skull.

The tracker went to the cabinet and retrieved a bottle. He unscrewed its cap as he walked back. “Wake the fuck up, Horns.” Treadlow poured the booze over the pilot’s head.

Horn rolled away from the stream of liquor, mumbling curses, groaning loudly.

“The fucker’s a wreck,” Treadlow said as he suspended his dousing. “It looks like he shit himself. It sure as hell smells like it. He looks worse than his goddamned airplane after the Skin Bags got done with it.”

Miller knelt next to the pilot.  He grabbed a handful of hair and jerked Horn’s head around so he could see the pilot’s face. “Get dressed,” the bounty hunter said.

Treadlow laughed. He cackled.

Horn blubbered. His puffed face was streaked with dirt and puke. Snot ran from his nose. His hands were scratched and swollen. Snag stain was smeared over his mouth like a bad application of clown paint. The bounty hunter was surprised when the pilot struggled into a sitting position.

“I guess I can raise the dead,” Treadlow said.

“Give me,” Miller said, motioning for the bottle Treadlow still held in his hand. Breedbright Gin. The tracker handed it to the bounty hunter. Fishing two shooters out of his cheat pocket, Miller coaxed, “Open your mouth.” Horn’s jaw moved and his blue lips parted. Miller shoved the pills into the pilot’s mouth and handed him the bottle. “Drink.”

“Jesus,” the tracker said disgustedly as he walked away. “God to fucking Hell.”

Miller stood and watched Horn chug down the dope. He followed the tracker back to the larder cabinet and pulled on his combat harness. Treadlow lit a cigarette and stared at the bounty hunter, his eyes squinting through the smoke curling in front of his haggard face.

Miller cinched the harness tight and retrieved a shooter. He popped the painkiller into his mouth and reached for the nearly empty bottle of vodka.

“Goddamn, Millers,” Treadlow said. “Why don’t you just slide back over the edge and fucking stay there?”

Miller tasted the bitterness of the pill as it dissolved. His mouth watered, and he allowed his spit to mix with the dope, thinking it would help the drug hit him faster when he swallowed. The thought had become an Rx instruction.

“Horn’s a junkie,” Treadlow said. The tracker’s words came to the bounty hunter from another galaxy. “And you’re worse than Horns.”

Miller raised the bottle to his lips and filled his mouth with vodka. He swallowed and his lips stretched into a grimace. Without looking at the tracker, he said, “Horn’s weak.”

.