Merkabah Rider: The Mensch With No Name by Edward M. Erdelac Read Free Book Online Page A

center of the pool,
smashing the sandstone bowl beneath. The water was seeping back into the earth.
    The
Rider looked frantically about for some kind of container.
    Hash
was already at his side, two canteens dangling from his arms, ripping the
stopper off one. The breed rushed down into the retreating pool and sank the
canteen. The Colonel and Purdee appeared. Half of the Colonel’s face was
bristling with splinters. So was Gersh’s entire back, which was exposed and
blackened, his coat having been mostly shredded.
    Another boom.
    “Get
back!” Purdee shouted, running again for cover as the high whistle started up
again overhead.
    The
Colonel and the rest scattered, but Hash was stooping in the pool, still trying
to gather the precious water.
    “Hash!” Gersh bellowed.
    The
Rider restrained him as best he could. It took all his weight to drive him back
from the broken pit.
    The
scream of the falling shell overwhelmed them as before, and there was a flash
and an explosion that broke the earth.
    Hash
was simply gone.
    They
crawled into the picket hovel, and found Baines there with his shotgun. The big
man curled up in a corner and sobbed like a boy.
    The
Rider cast one arm over his burned and bleeding shoulder and looked to Baines.
    “Bill?”
Baines asked hopefully.
    The
Rider shook his head.
    There
were six of them now, and they were separated. Sheardown was in the saloon.
Purdee and the Colonel had taken refuge in one of the stone huts across from
the decimated tanks.
    “He
was like my father,” Gersh said once, miserably.
    He
had sat up and was snuffling by the time the sunlight sifted through the
pickets, making crosshatches of day and shadow on the sand floor.
    Sheardown
ducked in. He was blackened and covered in crusted gore, but unhurt.
    “Anybody
hurt here?”
    “Look
to the boy,” the Rider said.
    Sheardown
had his bag, and he knelt beside the young giant and began to dab at his seared
skin.
    “You’re
alright,” he said, amazement in his voice. “I saw you when the first shell hit.
It landed almost beside you. I figured you for the grinder, but you look like
you leaned against a hot stove, is all.”
    Gersh
said nothing.
    “They
killed Bill,” Baines said after having been quiet for some time. “And not only
that, they killed everybody that’s ever gonna come to Varruga Tanks. Every
cattle outfit, every buckboard, every poor thirsty bastard who ever comes
across the desert.”
    “Maybe
they can put up some signs along the trail,” Sheardown suggested.
    “Who’s
gonna do that?” Baines smirked. “We ain’t gonna get outta here.”
    “Well,
I guess we have to,” said the Rider.
    “Bullshit.
You said yourself they come to kill you, and they’ll kill all of us anyway.
With that gun they can just blast this place to pieces one shack at a time. All
we can do is sit here and die.”
    “Rider!” came a voice, echoing across the stillness. It was
Mazzamauriello. He was calling from afar.
    “If
you’re alive, come out!”
    The
Rider rose slowly, thoughtfully.
    “They’ll
blow you to bits!” Gersh warned, sitting up.
    “If
I don’t show myself they’ll just assume I’m dead and kill everyone else.”
    “Let
him go,” Sheardown said quietly. “It won’t make a difference.”
    The
Rider went out of the picket shack and out into the sun. It was getting hot,
and he could smell the scraps of flesh on the ground. Flies were buzzing.
    He
clambered up onto the overturned salt wagon and turned toward the ridge,
extending his arms. Maybe they would obliterate him with an artillery round,
but he suspected they wouldn’t.
    “I’m
here!” he called.
    “You
did the right thing to stay and wait for us, Rider! Many more would have died
had you led us on a chase!”
    “I’m
the only one left!” the Rider called. “Come and take me!”
    “No no no ,” called Mazzamauriello, amused. “You’re not
alone yet! But you’re going to be the last one to die, Rider! I promise you!”
    The
Rider