Richard Harding - The Outrider 01 - Premier Volume.pdf - Richard Harding - allforjesus2001

Tine AFTER THE APOCALYPSE Hard to believe, but once the burn victims were

gone and those who were going to go crazy had lost their minds, the ones that

remained, the hardiest survivors, began to rebuild. Slowly, life had been

reborn. Men stopped living in their caves and burrows and they began to adapt,

to fit their lives to their new world. They built shelters, they planted what

crops they could, but they still lacked the courage to walk over the hill, to

trail down the road to see what lay just over the horizon. Bonner had been

the first. The first to get an old Dodge motor running well enough to venture

out into the world. He had traveled, cautiously at first, through the

continent finding groups of survivors-not many but enough to convince him that

his work was worth doing. Slowly he began linking the bands together, building

a network, trading information for supplies. Others had joined him. Leather

came riding out of the dawn one morning and said he had been all the way to

New York. Gradually people had come to trust the Outriders, they were the

closest thing to heroes the new world had. Bonner began to coax the survivors

out of their little enclaves- they were like nervous puppies-trying to get the

bands to join together, to unite, to rebuild. It wouldn't be the old America,

but it would have been a land that might have been free of fear and that would

have been a good enough start for Bonner. THE OUTRIDER; Volume One: Premier

Volume by Richard Harding Bonner's eyes opened and he lay still, staring into

the darkness, giving himself a moment to accustom himself to the night.

Gently, he slipped off the weight of the woman who lay in the crook of his

shoulder, her long hair trailing across his chest. She did not stir. He swung

out of the bed and pulled on a pair of pants and quickly laced his holster to

his hip. In the faint light, the handles of the three knives he carried

gleamed dully. Noiselessly, he crossed the room and stood by the door. On the

other side of the door he heard the tentative step of a man, walking so slowly

and placing his feet so carefully, that it was plain that he was approaching

Bonner's lair stealthily. Bonner wondered who was being so stupid. Outside

the man paused. A second later, the door-frame shattered and Bonner caught a

quick glimpse of a man, a big man, plunging into the room. Bonner was on him

in a flash, throwing his weight at the intruder, scything his legs out from

under him. The man fell heavily, and wheezed as the full strength of Bonner's

foot slammed into the space between his shoulder blades. The wind was knocked

from his lungs and he gasped for breath, his head spinning. He was not so

disoriented, though, that he did not feel one of Bonner's knives lying with

menacing weight at the nape of his neck, where the spine met the skull. The

girl was sitting up in bed, spotlighted by the light shining through the door.

Her dark hair fell down her shoulders and curled around her breasts. Her eyes

were wide with surprise, her mouth open, but she emitted no sound. "Fuck,

Bonner, Christ..." gasped the man. "Who are you?" "It's me, man,

Hatchet." "Hatchet?" Bonner should have known. Only someone like Hatchet

would have been so dumb... "Yeah man, Christ, will you get that fucking blade

out of my neck." Bonner put a touch more pressure on the knife. "What are you

doing here?" "Leather sent me. I got a message from Leather..." Hatchet was

the kind of person who lied even when telling the truth would have served him

better. Bonner didn't believe him for a second. He also knew that Hatchet was

no coward, he wasn't smart enough to figure out fear. "Leather? What does he

want with me?" "Shit, man, let me up and I'll tell you." "Tell me now."

"Come on, Bonner..." Bonner dug the tip of the blade into Hatchet's neck. A

tiny spot of blood appeared in the ripple of the skin. "Okay, okay, shit...

Dara's alive." "You're lying to me. Hatchet." Bonner's jaw had tightened and

he had raised his voice for the first time since Hatchet ploughed through the

door. Hatchet couldn't see Bonner's face, but he could feel his fury through

the shaft of the blade. "No, its for real. Honest." "Prove it." "I can

prove it, but I have to get up." "Where's your gun?" "I lost it when you

jumped me." "Where's your spare?" "Ain't got one." The knife dug a tiny bit

more into Hatchet's thick neck. "It's in my belt. I.'m lying on it for

Chrissake." "Get it, slowly..." That was just what Hatchet wanted to hear.

If he was fast enough he might be able to roll away from Bonner and get off a

shot. Maybe two. Before Hatchet made his move, Bonner spoke.

"Hatchet?" "Yeah?" "Before you do anything stupid, I want you to take a look

at the bed." Slowly, Hatchet raised his eyes. The woman still knelt on the

bed, still naked, but she looked back at him along the twin barrels of a

shotgun, the stock pressed into the firm flesh of her shoulder, her finger

resting lightly on the two triggers. "Very pretty, Bonner. Really nice." "Now

get your gun." He pulled the gun from his belt and laid it on the floor next

to him. The girl sprang from the bed and picked up the gun, allowing Hatchet a

quick sideways glimpse at her smooth lithe legs and tight buttocks. "All the

comforts of home," said Hatchet. "Get up, slowly," ordered Bonner. The girl

returned to bed, watching as Hatchet crept to his knees, then gradually

straightened himself. H? held his arms away from his sides. "Good. In there."

Bonner gestured toward a doorway on the far side of the room. To the woman he

said: "Go back to bed." Without taking his eyes off Hatchet, Bonner lit the

kerosene lamp that sat on the table between them. As the golden light filled

the room. Hatchet could see that they were in a large space almost empty of

furniture. A big room always favored a man with a gun. And Hatchet had a gun,

tucked up under his left armpit, hidden by his leather jacket. Hatchet settled

himself in a rickety wooden chair. Maybe Bonner wasn't as smart as they said,

or he had gotten soft since his outriding days. Back then he didn't have to

depend on a naked broad with a shotgun. If it hadn't been for her, Bonner

would be dead now. Hatchet looked around the room. "Christ, Bonner, I heard

you were making a fortune smuggling. This place is pig-shit. You ought to see

how we live in the Capital. Leather runs the whole thing, we got slaves and

women... You ought to come join us..." Bonner ignored him. "So, where's the

proof?" Hatchet did not have any proof. The way he figured it, he didn't need

any. "Okay," he said, "I'm going to reach inside my jacket and I'm going to

pull out a letter. It's from her..."I'm going to pull out a forty-five and

blow your fucking head off, he thought. Then take out the pussy in the next

room-maybe have a little fun first-then head home to Leather and the ten

thousand gold ones, the price Leather had put on Bonner's head. Hatchet

thrust his hand into his jacket, grasped the handle of his revolver and

whipped it from its nest. As he did so, four inches of blade, thrown like

lightning, slammed into his thick breast bone. Bonner was on his feet.

Hatchet had slumped to the floor, a fine trickle of blood running from his

mouth. His breathing was short and labored. Bonner stood over him. "Hatchet,

listen to me..." Hatchet's eye's swiv-elled in their sockets. "Is Dara alive?

Nod if she is." Through a blaze of pain and shock. Hatchet had more than

enough life left in him to hate Bonner. Fuck you, he tried to say. "Hatchet,

the way it is now you are going to live for a while, maybe three hours, maybe

four... maybe till this time tomorrow. You tell me what I want to know and

I'll finish it quick and easy, right now. If not, I'll walk, and you'll end up

drowning in your own blood." Bonner looked at Hatchet a long minute. Just how

dumb can one man be, he wondered. "Now, is she alive?" Hatchet nodded:

yes. "Is she with Leather?" Hatchet nodded again: yes. "At the

Capital?" Another nod: yes. "Nice going. Hatchet," said Bonner almost

tenderly, "maybe you're not so dumb after all." Bonner leaned heavily on the

black handle of the knife and felt the blade slip sideways, puncturing the

cardial sac and slicing deep into the left ventricle of Hatchet's heart. As

the black wave of death washed over him. Hatchet thought his last thought: I

hope Leather cuts your balls off. He gave a spastic kick and

died. Unceremoniously, Bonner placed his foot on Hatchet's stomach and yanked

the deeply embedded knife from the man's body. He snatched off Hatchet's

bandana, cleaned the blade, then slid it back into the holster resting on his

hip. Two other knives rested there and the three black bone handles gleamed,

as if smiling at the job done and waiting alertly for another chance to

strike. The force behind Bonner's throw had been born of pure hate and,

inwardly, he cursed himself for it. He could not afford to get worked up, not

where Leatherman was concerned. He had to trust his in- stincts but keep anger

out of things. Anger made you sloppy. Leather wanted Bonner and he knew that

there was only one piece of bait that would bring Bonner running into the

Slavestates-Dara. In the Slavestates, Leatherman was the law. Bonner could not

believe Dara was alive-that was the answer to his wildest dreams. That she was

in Leather's hands was the darkest of his nightmares. Maybe it was a trap,

maybe Dara was dead. But maybe not, maybe she was rotting in that shell of a

city that used to be Washington that Leather now called his capital. The

thought raised Bonner's anger again and reminded him that there were old

scores too long unsettled. Like a hungry mad shark Bonner swept out of the

depths to snatch at the bait. He was headed East. Chapter 2 The girl was

asleep when Bonner hefted Hatchet's dead weight onto his back and started for

the door. Along with the corpse, Bonner carried his three knives and the

cut-down stockless, Winchester pump that was pre-bomb if it was a day. It was

reliable and it could saturate an area with shot like a hailstorm. The gun was

slung over his back too, resting in a worn leather holster. Slowly he made

his -way down the stairs and dumped Hatchet's body in the street and hoped

that he wouldn't be there when he got back. Parked in front of the old

building that Bonner called home, was a car, a Toyota, pre-bomb by a good ten

years. Bonner knew every piece of machinery that remained in the ruins of

Chicago and he didn't know that one. It must be Hatchet's. He paused to

examine it and approved. It had been modified by inelegant but skillful hands.

They had stripped away anything that reduced the vehicle's speed-all the fancy

stuff that Mr. USA wanted in a car back in the days when everybody had

one. Bonner peered into the gas tank and laughed to himself. Leather hadn't

given Hatchet enough gas to make it back-because he knew that Hatchet wasn't

coming back so why waste the gas? Sometimes Leather had a funny sense of

humor. The streets were dark and littered with the refuse that nobody ever

bothered to pick up. There was no law in Chicago and that was fine with the

residents. Bonner picked his way through the streets, ready at any moment to

pull the Winchester from his back. There were always a couple of street-men

around looking to steal whatever you had and they didn't care a hell of a lot

if you got hurt. You carried a gun. It was a fact of life. The shotgun the

girl held on Hatchet was hers; it would have been like carrying a purse or a

wallet in the old days. Bonner knew his way through the dark streets, but

even if he had not, he would have been able to reach his destination by sound

alone. There was a bar in Chicago, called Dorca's-Dorca being a bear-sized old

smuggler who decided to settled down-and that was where you went for a drink,

a girl, information. It never closed and it was always just this side of a

riot. Dorca made sure though that things never got too much out of hand. But

he was tolerant. "Hell," he would say, "these boys deserve a little

relaxation." "These boys" were Chicago's elite citizens. Chicago was still

the center of the country-only no one called it a country anymore-now it was

known as the continent. Where the United States of America-the place forever

eradicated by the bomb- had been there were sow four or five little kingdoms

and all of them were bad places ruled by worse men. Leather called himself the

President of the Slavestates, and he was about as bad as you can get. The

survivors that lived there stayed because they were too scared to get out.

They figured that it was safer to put up with the troubles where they

were-even if that meant enslavement to thugs like Leather and Hatchet- than to

risk crossing the wastelands to get away. But, if you had the guts to go, you

headed for Chicago. Chicago was an open city and the men that lived there

were the only daredevils or free spirits or whatever you want to call them

that still lived on the continent. In the old days you would have called them

criminals. But hell, thought Bonner, everybody these days was a criminal, or a

corpse or a coward. It was in Chicago-or what was left of it-that you found

the smugglers and the border raiders and the road guides and the runaways. If

you made it to Chicago you were pretty safe from the enemies you might have

left behind. If the. Lightning Squad from the Snowstates or the storm-troopers

from Leather's Slavestates came looking for you, they would have to face every

gun in Chicago. Over the years the stormers and the squadsmen and the Devils

from down in the Hotstates, realized that if they didn't get you before you

crossed the city line they weren't going to get you at all. The permanent

residents, the regulars at Dorca's, figured that if you had made it that far,

you deserved to stay. Staying alive once you got there, well, that was a

different story. If you were smart and tough and had strong nerves and didn't

have too many qualms about taking somebody else's property or life you might

make a smuggler. All you had to know was where stuff had been hidden before

the bomb-and it might be deep in the Slavestates or in the middle of the

desert in the Hotstates-go get it, and blast your way back to Chicago. If you

came back with liquor, meat, ammunition or, best of all, gasoline, you could

sell it in the city and make a fortune. You got your money up front in gold or

silver only, but then you had to worry about keeping it. There were smugglers

who had fought storm-troopers or squadsmen for a thousand miles only to lose

their haul to some joker with an ancient Smith & Wesson they happened to meet

on the streets of Chicago. If you were dumb and liked to fight you could

settle for being a raider. All you had to do was get a bunch of boys together,

make sure they had enough ammunition and then wander into one of the States

and have a look around to see what was worth stealing. Smugglers knew what

they were going after and they had a fair idea of where it was; raiders didn't

care, they would bring back anything they thought might be worth something,

even people. Sometimes they brought back women and settled down to make

serious money just pimping. Bonner was a smuggler and he was the best. Back

when he was an Outrider-when there had been Outriders-he had covered every

inch of the continent. He knew which roads could still be travelled, where

bridges still stood, where people still lived. There weren't many people left

and there were probably fewer now so all the stuff that had been stockpiled

before the big war was still there, all you had to know was where. If anyone

knew, it was Bonner. He missed the old Outriding days, but they were gone for

good now. Today, it was kill or be killed. Steal or be stolen from. Leather

had been an Outrider too and the first one to realize that he had the power to

take a piece of the whole continent for himself. Leather had been the first to

kill; the first to steal... As Bonner pushed open the door of Dorca's he saw

a dozen faces he recognized and didn't trust. "Hey, Bonner," a wiry man with

lank black hair called out. "Evening, Comer," said Bonner, making for the

bar. Dorca's was crowded and the air was thick with smoke, bad tobacco that

had been going around ever since Lawson and his raiders had brought in a ton

of the stuff from down south somewhere. "Bonner," shouted Comer again, "there

was a guy in here looking for you. Guess who it was?" Bonner looked at Comer

with contempt. Comer was a street-worker who had made raider and finally set

himself up as pimp. He was rich because his prices were low. "It was Hatchet!

Fucking Hatchet!" screamed Comer. "He said he'd be coming back here when he

had found you." "He'll be along," said Bonner. Dorca sat at his usual place

at the end of the bar, keeping an eye on things. Resting against his knees was

an old mahogany table leg, once the comer of some proud Chicagoan's pool

table. The table leg, when used with Dorca's own brand of finesse, usually

managed to keep order. "You're up late, Bonner." "Going on a job,

Dorca." Dorca's great wide face split in a happy grin. Bonner was Dorca's

best supplier. Always quality stuff and the price was high but fair. "What you

going after?" "A little of this, a little of that." Bonner smiled. "Sure,

Bonner, sure. You know my standing order..." "Yeah." Bonner smiled. Dorca

would take any amount of liquor or food that Bonner could bring in. But more

than anything, Dorca wanted sugar: honey, candy, raw cane, it didn't matter.

Once Bonner had found chocolate, a whole half pound, and had given it to Dorca

as a gift. The big man had looked as if he was going to cry when Bonner gave

it to him. He had taken the bar in his hand as if it had been gold or a holy

relic. "Hershey's..." He had said that word as if it had been a prayer. There

wasn't anything Dorca didn't know about the different kinds of candy that had

existed before the bomb, he was a confec- tionery historian. The wrappers were

all over the bar, in frames, like works of art. Once Bonner gave him that

candy bar, Dorca was his friend for life. It had been a good investment,

Bonner thought, because Dorca knew everything and everyone in Chicago. Where

they were going, what they were going for... But he never asked Bonner and

Bonner never told him. "What can I do for you?" "Dorca, any idea where Seth

is?" "Headed south a couple of days ago... Bad candy country the south. It

all melted years ago." "Too bad," said Bonner. "Besides, that fucking

Richard Harding - The Outrider 01 - Premier Volume.pdf

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