Hanging Judge. James Axler
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“OURLIFESUCKS,” Mildred said.
Even though Ryan, Krysty, J.B. and Doc were bearing the brunt of Ricky’s deadweight as they carried him, his blasters and backpack down the cut, the physician’s short legs made it hard to keep up with her friends. She was busy holding up Ricky’s arm to examine it, without raising it as high as his heart, to try to keep the mutie centipede’s venom as localized as possible. But she still had to examine the wound, because in a case like this seconds could count.
If it wasn’t too late already. She felt her face flush and the sweat roll down her back—not just from all the frenzied exertion in a humidity-drenched atmosphere that was starting to heat up despite the clouds and rain, but at the prospect of losing another member of her small and tight-knit family.
From behind came sounds too terrible to describe as the huge black jaws of the swarming centipedes devoured the hapless monster hog.
“Is the lad still alive?” Doc asked anxiously.
“So far,” Mildred answered. “Still breathing, still got a pulse. Both pretty strong.”
Ricky’s arm was completely relaxed in her grasp. The other hung loosely, hand dragging in the tiny stream underfoot as they splashed downhill.
“He just seems to be unconscious,” she stated.
“All right,” Ryan said. “I think we can stop here.”
The other companions did so with minimal awkwardness. Mildred glanced up to find herself and her friends at the bottom of a ravine. The walls were maybe fifty or sixty feet high and steep red clay. They were crowned with the dense tangles of the Wild.
The bottom, though, widened considerably from what they’d first come down. They had reached a small canyon, of sorts. There was enough room to get out of the stream, which had widened and deepened considerably from other gullies feeding into it, as the runlet they had followed did.
Gratefully, Ryan and the others set Ricky on a relatively flat, grassy bank. The rain had stopped completely, though the sky was still the color of bullets overhead. Mildred relinquished her grasp on the poisoned boy’s arm long enough for the others to extricate him from his backpack and slung rifle. Then they rolled him onto his back, and she knelt at once beside him.
Ryan came and hunkered across him from Mildred. “What have we got?” he asked.
She thumbed open the half-closed lids of Ricky’s brown eyes. “No dilation of the pupils. Strong, steady respiration, same as before. Pulse still strong. Temperature seems normal.”
She took her fingers from his neck and stretched his wounded arm out from his side. Then, bending close, she examined the bite.
“Huh,” she said. “No signs of inflammation except a little bit around the actual puncture wounds. No discoloration.”
She looked up at Ryan. The others had gathered around, as well, in a circle of concern.
Except the Armorer. She frowned in sudden irritation with the man. The kid was his apprentice, so to speak, and he couldn’t even be bothered—
Then she caught him in the corner of her eye. He was standing to the side, his Smith & Wesson shotgun in his hands, keeping a lookout while the others focused on their injured friend. It wasn’t lack of concern for Ricky that kept him apart. It was concern for his companions.
“Mildred, what is it?” Krysty asked in alarm. “Is he—”
She shook her head. “I think he’s fine,” she said. “Like I say, he just seems to be out cold.”
“What about the venom?” Ryan asked.
“Beats me,” she said. “I gotta warn you, I’m not a toxicologist. But there are certainly none of the gross signs of hemolytic toxin present. Nor of neurotoxins, though I’m on way shakier ground here. At least, not the sorts that cause death or serious nerve damage.”
“His eyelids are fluttering,” Doc said, bending over with his hands on his skinny thighs.
“Does that mean he just fainted?” Ryan asked.
“Don’t be too hard on him, Ryan,” Krysty said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “I’d be triple upset if one those things bit me.”
“I’m pretty sure there’s more to it than that,” Mildred said. The supine boy was beginning to stir. He moved his head slightly. “He didn’t seem freaked out or anything. Not enough that he was going to faint from fear. He seemed mostly taken by surprise and then—boom. Out like a light.”
Ricky’s lips moved. No sound came out. His jaw worked.
“Let’s get him some water,” Mildred said, reaching for a canteen.
“Are you sure that is wise, in his state?” Doc asked.
“No,” she replied, unscrewing the lid. “Like I said, I’m not a poison specialist. And neither are you, you old coot. I don’t see any reason to let him get dehydrated, here. Help me hold his head up so we don’t choke him, Krysty.”
With the redhead’s help Mildred trickled a few drops of water into Ricky’s barely open lips. He coughed, spit, shook his head vigorously. His eyes shot open.
“What?” he demanded. He looked wildly up at the others. “What are you all staring at?”
“Seems like it’d be pretty obvious,” J.B. said from the side.
“What? Oh. Sorry.” Ricky sat suddenly upright. “Nuestra Señora, that thing bit me!”
“Yes, it did,” Ryan said. “And you keeled right over like you’d been shot.”
“I—I did? Wait—where are we, anyway? What happened?”
“Someplace safe,” Krysty told him.
“Safe enough,” Ryan said. “For the moment.”
“What did you feel?” Mildred asked.
Ricky asked for more water. Mildred held the canteen up to his lips for a swallow, then let him take hold of it and drink some more.
“Well, it stung like a bast—like fire,” he said when he’d drained half the container. “It kind of gave me a jolt. And I felt like there was something else, like an edge to it, almost. Like when you get stung by an ant, you can tell you’ve been poisoned, if only a little, you know?”
“Yeah,” Mildred said. “Go on.”
“Well, my arm started to go numb. And I started feeling really cold. My stomach got woozy, my head started to spin, my vision seemed to get dark around the edges. Then, well, next thing I remember was waking up here on the grass.”
Ryan stood up. “Reckon he’s gonna live?” he asked Mildred.
“Afraid so,” she said.
“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