Rot & Ruin (Rot & Ruin, #1)(113)

ground. Benny stared at the man, at the knife that was buried nearly to the hilt between his shoulder blades. The handle was black and ribbed, and the inch of blade that showed was equally

black and double-edged.

Benny felt his brain twist around backward. He knew that knife!

Then a scream cut through the air as something massive leaped over the dying man’s body and crashed full force into the knot of bounty hunters. The horse was not one of the bulky draft

horses that had broken free from the camp.

It was Apache!

And riding the big buckskin was a bloody man, whose clothing hung in rags, whose eyes were dark and wild, and who slashed at the bounty hunters with a glittering sword.

Tom!





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“TOM!” BENNY YELLED, NOT KNOWING IF WHAT HE WAS SEEING WAS real or if he had just gone completely crazy. How was it even possible?

Apache reared up and kicked one bounty hunter in the chest, and the man flew backward, as if he’d taken a double load of buckshot. Another man rushed the horse from the side and tried to

pull Tom from the saddle. Tom’s sword flashed downward, and the man fell shrieking beneath the horse’s hooves.

“Christ!” bellowed Charlie. “That’s Tom Imura. Kill him!”

He brought his gun up, but Benny came up out of the mud and once more drove his shoulder into the big man. Charlie wasn’t ready for it this time, and the impact knocked them both to the

ground. Charlie’s shot punched a hole through the shoulder of Texas Jon McGoran. As the bullet slammed Texas Jon backward, his fingers jerked the trigger of his pump shotgun, and the spray

caught Wild Bill Fairchild full in the face.

Benny had no chance against Charlie in any kind of a fight, but he could at least keep him from shooting Tom, so Benny lunged at Charlie’s arm and bit his wrist. Charlie howled in pain,

dropped the gun, but then used that hand to punch Benny in the face. Benny felt his nose crack. He kneed Charlie in the thigh twice and then flung himself away from a second and more

powerful punch that would have easily broken his neck.

He scrambled to his feet and spun around looking for Nix. She was twenty feet away, and the Hammer was holding her like a shield as Tom advanced on him. The rain faded to a drizzle and then

stopped, although thunder rumbled through the heavens and lightning flashed in the west.

“Drop that sword, Tom, or I’ll snap this little girl’s neck,” the Hammer promised. He meant it, too. He had his whole arm looped around her throat and held her so that her feet were

inches above the ground.

The other bounty hunters were recovering from the initial shock of seeing Tom Imura, returning from the dead as a living, breathing, fighting man. They pulled their guns and pointed them at

him.

Tom reined Apache to a stop. The buckskin still wore the remnants of his carpet coat, although it looked like it had been gnawed on by every zom from here to the state line.

“You don’t want to do that, Marion,” said Tom in a voice that was surprisingly calm. “Put the girl down.”

“Kiss my hairy butt, Tom. You drop that sword or so help me, I’ll pull her head clean off.”

Tom flicked his wrist so that the blood that streaked the sword was whipped off. It splashed Joey Duk across the face.

“Benny,” Tom said, “are you okay?”

Benny got to his feet, his head spinning from the punch to the nose. “Yeah,” he said breathlessly.

“That’s going to cost you.” Charlie growled as he also got to his feet. His gun was muddy and useless, but he didn’t need one. Tom was surrounded by nearly twenty bounty hunters.

Tom slowly raised his sword until the tip of the blade was pointed directly at the Motor City Hammer. “I’m going to give you one last chance, Marion. Let Nix go.”

The Hammer laughed, and so did the other men. “Or what?” He sneered. “You’re outnumbered and outgunned, Tom. What the hell do you think you’re gonna do?”

“Me?” Tom looked faintly amused. “Hell, I’m not going to do anything. But you will let her go.”

“Says who?”

“Says me!” A voice snarled out of the darkness, and there was a heavy whoosh as a long metal pole cut through the air, and a flash of silver as a wickedly sharp bayonet blade cut through

the back of the Motor City Hammer’s left leg. His Achilles tendon parted with an explosion of blood, and he screamed—as high and shrill as a little girl—and fell. He literally threw Nix

from him, and she staggered toward Benny, who rushed to catch her.

Everyone turned as a pale figure jumped forward into the firelight, her snow-white hair swirling as she landed and pivoted and slashed again with her spear. The air was suddenly filled with

a new rainfall, but these drops were a red so dark that it was almost black. The Hammer clamped both of his hands around his throat. His eyes went wide and were instantly filled with the

dreadful certainty that no matter who won this night’s conflict—Charlie Pink-eye or Tom Imura—he, Marion Hammer, would own no piece of either victory or defeat, and that he would play no

part in whatever future was being written here. He tried to speak, to say something, to articulate the terror and need in his heart, but that bull throat of his was no longer constructed for