Free Surviving the Dead (Book 7): The Killing Line by James N. Cook Page B

lift ceased before ordering his men to dismount and board the platform.
    Another shout, more cracking whips, and up they went. At the top, they led their horses down a steep ramp and emerged into the central square. In the center of the square was a tall platform topped by a torture rack and a gallows. Crows and buzzards crawled across its surface, occasionally dipping their heads to snap up dispersed bits of bloody meat.
    “Must have been an execution recently,” Carter said.
    Heinrich grunted and surveyed the interior of Parabellum, eyes scanning rooftops and windows and doorways. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Same muddy streets, same bustle of hard-looking men and women crowding the square, same hum of voices bartering and arguing and cursing and laughing, same wretched slaves scurrying from one place to another, same haphazard, low-slung buildings built of wood cut from the surrounding forest, and above it all, the same palpable sense of danger in the air. Lantern light burned through shuttered, glassless windows, tired-looking whores stood on the porches and balconies offering their wares to passersby, and peddlers of every stripe pushed carts along the edges of buildings where the mud was shallowest. Heinrich smelled shit and blood and fire and cooking food. Discordant hums of despair and revelry competed for dominance in the permeating atmosphere of smoke and cold.
    All was as it should be.
    A man in a guard shack near the end of the entrance ramp emerged and approached Heinrich. When he drew close, the two men exchanged a nod of greeting.
    “Wasn’t expecting you back so soon,” the man said. He was a giant, standing nearly seven feet tall and easily weighing close to four hundred pounds. His face was broad and cruel, a mohawk of bright red hair streaked his scalp, and a dark orange beard hung in braids down to his chest. His voice sounded like wagon wheels crunching over old bones, and he was dressed in pre-Outbreak biker attire of black leather, metal studs, hidden weapons, and a pair of tanker’s boots that had stomped enough people to death to fill a graveyard.
    “I missed your pretty face, Ferguson.”
    The big man laughed. Heinrich was reminded of rocks tumbling down a mountainside.
    “Heard tell you were in Kansas a few weeks ago. Must have found something good to hump it all the way back here.”
    “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
    An amused grunt. “Fine. Be mysterious. Not like I won’t get a cut anyway.” Ferguson turned and looked up at the men operating the cranes. “They’re on the level. Let ‘em in. And move your asses, I want this caravan inside before nightfall.”
    The men shouted acknowledgment and set to with urgency. A foreman cursed them for their laziness and demanded they work faster.
    “Come on. The Khan will want to see you.”
    Heinrich motioned for Carter to follow, then glanced at Maru. “You’re in charge. Get the men settled, remind them to stay alert, and tell them no more than three drinks tonight. First round is on me.”
    “Right, Chief. Any women?”
    Heinrich began walking away, following Ferguson. “They’re rich men, now. They can buy their own women.”
    “Right, Chief.”
     
    *****
     
    Necrus Khan sat in a chair upholstered with goose down and human flesh. Heinrich and Carter sat across from him in similar chairs. A desk carved from a single, massive oak tree squatted between them, ornately carved with depictions of damned souls writhing in agony, unspeakable acts of torture, naked bodies in every sexual position imaginable, and at the top of each corner, a human skull. Only the skulls were not carvings, but the remains of four of the Khan’s enemies. The room smelled like a week-old corpse. The walls were stained wood boards festooned with shelves covered with more skulls, organs, and genitalia suspended in fluid-filled jars. There were mounted animal heads, skins, furs, and an assortment of demented carvings. At the back of the room, incongruous