A cloud of blue smoke and the acrid smell of cordite hung over the battlefield. The twisted, broken bodies of the fallen lay strewn about in awkward tangles of limbs and spilled guts. Their unnatural poses attested to the sudden violence of their deaths. A few, faint cries of the dying drifted up to join the pall that hung above them.

The 'leps had dismounted and their leader, a hideous bum victim called Roy stood in the center of it all looking around him. Most of the bodies were Devils. There were a few Lashmen. There were too many Radleps, and that annoyed him.

A Devil whimpered and crawled a few feet across the pavement.

"Jackson," rasped Roy, pointing at the bleeding

Devil, "take care of him. Take care of 'em all."

The 'lep nodded and casually pumped a slug into the wounded Devil's head. The Devil stopped moving. Jackson wandered from body to body and kicked each one. The few that he found still alive, he killed.

The Devils that had survived watched glassy-eyed. They stood around, looking slightly disoriented, like the survivors of some huge natural disaster. Roy walked over to one of them.

"Who's in command?"

"Huh?" said the Devil.

"Who's in charge of this unit?"

The Devil stared back at the burn victim as if the lep was speaking in a foreign language.

"The man is talking to you," said a 'lep who was standing nearby.

"Who's your commander?"

"Oh." said the Devil, as if the words suddenly made sense. "Him," he said, pointing to the mushed-up corpse of Skippy.

"Okay," said the 'lep, "you're commanding the Devils now."

"Oh," said the Devil, "okay."

"Get your men together—" Roy gestured at the Devils who were standing around "—and organize the slaves. We're moving out."

One Devil managed to recover his senses faster than the rest. "Now ain't that just like a fuckin' freak Radlep," he said nastily. "You walk in here like you own the place and start giving orders. No sir, I ain't no doom freak bum victim. I don't take orders from no fuckin' 'leps. Got it?"

"Yeah," said Roy, turning his glittering lizard eyes on him. "I got it." Then Roy turned to Jackson. "Shoot him."

"Huh?" said the Devil. There was a crack from the big handgun that Jackson carried and a piece of the Devil's skull spiralled away gracefully into the afternoon air.

"Anybody else?" asked Roy.

The Devils were silent. The new Devil leader turned to his tattered force. "Okay, you heard the man, let's get them slaves and get the hell out of here."

Six or seven Radleps held the Mean Brother at bay, each with their rifle leveled at his broad chest. The giant stood tense, trying to figure how many of these hideous creatures he could kill before they took him out. Even his great strength gave him no hope. He could see that if he moved an inch he would be dead. Despite his size and his single-minded determination to do damage to his enemies, the Mean Brother was not a stupid man. He knew that it would be better to let them think they had him now and hope for a chance to strike at his captors at a later date.

Roy wandered over and examined his captive closely.

"Big fucker, ain't you?" he said through his cracked and scarred lips.

"You want him greased, boss?" asked one of the 'leps. The Radleps knew well that many of their brother freaks had died at the huge hands of the Mean Brothers. Killing one, shooting one down like an animal, would be a very sweet revenge for them.

"Nawwww," screeched Roy. "Let's take him along. Old man Farkas might be able to use him. If not, there's always some kinda fun we can have with a big fuck like that."

"I say kill the freak now," said one of the leps.

"Since when does anyone do what you say, sport?" demanded Roy.

"Sorry, boss."

"Get some chain. And fix the ugly good and tight. If he escapes it's your ass."

"Yes, boss."

Chaining a Mean Brother is no easy task. But the Brother was almost docile as a double, then a triple length of heavy chain was wound round his wrists and then looped around his neck. The 'leps loaded him into the back of one of the trucks and attached the chain to a heavy metal strut that supported the steel sides of the truck cab. Four 'leps climbed into the back with him keeping their rifles trained on his broad chest.

The Mean Brother had been chained once before in his life and he didn't like it. It was all he could do to keep his volcanic temper in check as he was bound and shackled. As he lay on the floor of the truck he gently tested the strength of the chains. He was pretty sure he could pry them apart given the time but he knew that once free the 'leps that surrounded him would cut him down in a matter of seconds. He thought that there might be a chance that they would become distracted or doze or more or less lose interest in him but he doubted it. These were Radleps and they were mad. If they had been Devils or Stormers they might have opened a chink in their armor and the Mean would have exploited it for all it was worth. He would have killed them all.

He had one hope remaining. Bonner was out there and so was his brother. If they knew he was alive they would come for him. The Mean Brother knew that eventually that they would come for him because he knew that his friends would want to know if he lived or died. If his body wasn't at the battlefield then the Mean Brother knew it was only a matter of time before they showed up. Then his enemies would pay. With that comforting thought in his head, the Mean Brother fell asleep.

The remaining slaves were loaded into the other truck, the Devils and the Radleps mounted their motorcycles and within a few minutes the column was moving again.

A few miles behind them Bonner and the Lash followed, determined to track the column to its destination. Unknown to the 'leps they had been observed by the two Lashmen scouts all through the afternoon and, when they had seen enough they returned to their column to report.

"There are a fuck of a lot of 'em," said one.

"We knew that," said Floyd irritably.

"Too many to attack again," said Bonner.

"Well," said Floyd, "once they get to Farkas' there are only going to be more of them."

"Any sign of the other Mean Brother," asked Bonner.

"Yep," said one of the scouts, "they got him. They got him trussed up good. He don't move except that he's got a dozen 'leps around him. If the big boy is thinking of making a break he's dead meat." The scout punctuated his statement with a wide slash of spit expertly ejected onto the dusty ground.

"Your brother is alive," Bonner said to the remaining Mean Brother, "and we're gonna get him back."

"I'd like to know how," said Rufus.

"We're gonna attack the slave farm," said Bonner simply. ' "Swell," said Rufus

"They won't be expecting it," said Floyd, "like the man said."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

The Lashmen moved out and kept their distance well back from the 'lep and Devil column. A relay of scouts kept the enemy in sight, returning every so often to the slower moving column to report on progress. When the Devil column stopped for the night, so did Bonner's men. He passed an order:

"No fires."

It was a wise move. He knew that Radleps couldn't help but look for trouble—and they weren't heavy sleepers. Some men swore that they didn't sleep at all. The pain of their horrible, burnt bodies kept them awake night after night until they turned in their agony and sleeplessness into that most feared brand of Radlep: the Psycho 'lep.

The Psychos would wander around their campsites at night searching for spies and marauders that might be lying back just over the horizon. Let a Psycho know you were around and there was no telling how much trouble you would be buying yourself.

The night was passed in miserable silence. No hot food, no fire to keep the exhausted Lashmen warm. Each man lay huddled with his memories of the bloody day, the screams of their brothers lost to Devil and 'lep fire and their fear for the future. The only thing that kept them warm was their hate, their iron-willed determination to meet their enemies again. And triumph.

Rufus, however, wasn't thinking any of this. He was thinking of his own brand of warmth. Emily was asleep on the far side of the camp.

"All curled up," he whispered to himself. "All curled up in a little ball . . ."He licked his lips and thought of Emily's clear blue eyes and red lips. "And them long, long legs . . ." None of the Lashmen would admit it but they always went for tall women.

"She's so warm and I'm so cold," he hissed to himself. He rolled over on his back and looked at the starry sky. "So what the fuck am I doing here?" he asked himself.

Stealthily he pushed aside his dirty blanket and wandered away from the camp. He knew there were a couple of sentries posted around. He wanted to find one.

Looming up out of the darkness came a tiny figure.

Rufus could hear the clip as a round was put into a chamber.

"Who the fuck is that?" demanded a voice.

"Rufus. Who's that?"

"Henry." "Hey, Hank," said Rufus affably, "your watch is up."

"You're early."

"So?" "First fuckin' time in history you been early for watch."

"Couldn't sleep. Count your blessings."

"Believe me, I am." "Who else is around?" "Solly."

"Where?" "How the fuck should I know? It's dark."

"You gotta fine brain there. Henry." "Fuck you," said Henry by way of good night Rufus strolled around in the dark for a few minutes just to see if he could find the other sentry. He couldn't but it didn't worry him much.

"Fuck him," he muttered. Rufus thought of the young girl that he was about to get close to. Right¦ then nothing else mattered. He circled around the camp, sensing rather than seeing the sleeping bodies on his left. He had taken the precaution of memorizing where Emily lay before all the light had been lost. He was pretty sure he could find her. He also remembered where her protectors, Bonner and the remaining Mean Brother, slept. He was going to have to take her very quietly.

Something awoke Emily a split second before Rufus' dirty paw closed over her soft mouth. In the darkness she could see nothing although her eyes opened wide in fear.

"Now you be good," whispered Rufus. "You be a good little girlie."

Emily thrashed and tried to scream. Rufus' strong arm grasped her about the shoulders, pinioning her in a tangle of blankets. He thrust his rough hand down the front of her soft denim shirt and closed it over the warm, silken mound of her small breast.

"Nice, oooh nice," said Rufus hoarsely. He pushed his hand down further, over the tight stomach. He could feel her belly muscles clenching and unclenching as she sobbed behind his hand. 

"Now come on, honey," he whispered, "don't be like that, you'll enjoy it . . ." He forced his hand further down, passed the waistband of her homespun trousers. He fumbled with the buttons that ran from the belt buckle to the crotch. He yanked them open, pulling a button off in the process.

With one hand still bruising her lips, Rufus fumbled with the belt of his own pants, all the while Floyd walked back to Bonner. "The only reason I didn't kill the fuck is that he's a good gun and we're gonna need him. Sorry about the little pussy. It won't happen again."

"You know what will happen if he tries anything again," came Bonner's voice from the dark.

"You won't have to, tall man. I'll do it."

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