Free Storm Breakers by James Axler Page B

planet hit J. B. Dix in the ass with authority. It whacked his shoulders a moment later. And last the back of his head cracked against dirt as hard as the fist that had put him on it.
    “Your asses are mine,” he croaked through puffy lips. He tasted blood, which pretty well had to be his own. Since he hadn’t managed to bite anybody, or hit them hard enough to splatter. Leastways, not on him.
    His answer was a boot in the short ribs. Steel-toed, by the feel.
    At least nothing was broken. Yet.
    But the day was young.
    Actually, the day was dying in an explosion of clouds in the sky over the parched, cracked, table-flat land to the west, whose reds and hellish oranges and general clotted-mustard undertones suggested the possibility they presaged acid rain, rather than just sunset. Spring crickets were creaking like unlubricated joints. It was the fight that was relatively new.
    There were maybe six of them, five men and a fireplug-shaped woman with one ear named Betty Lou. J.B. judged she was the one who had put the boot in.
    J.B. was the type who tended not to count the odds when he started something, which meant that he was experienced in fighting when badly outnumbered.
    “Think you’re good enough to jump us and push out Ace, do you, punk?” a man asked in a voice that made the question itself sound friendly.
    A shape loomed over J.B. His glasses had fallen off, and he was too nearsighted to make out much more detail than that. But his experience on the losing end of past gang stomps served him well: he recognized a boot being raised to, yes, stomp him good.
    If people were just looking to rowdy a body up some, the best response was to curl up in a tight ball and try to take most of the punishment in parts that could absorb it best as a general rule. But these rowdies weren’t well-known to J.B., to the extent anybody was after several days on the road, even his boss, Rance Weeden. They seemed triple-serious in their intent to do grievous bodily harm. So J.B. rolled to the side. The boot came down onto the hard, cracked, dried yellow mud. He promptly rolled back, grabbed the boot toe and heel in his strong hands and twisted.
    The boot, which had a cracked and worn waffle sole separating from stiff and grimy uppers, ended a long, lean leg cased in jeans that seemed to consist mostly of the grease and road dust that imbued them. So it came as no surprise that instead of a hoarse but female shout, the counterattack drew a masculine bellow of pain and fury.
    The guy was agile. He twisted with J.B.’s hands, so that the sudden torsion didn’t snap his ankle. It did mean the man planted his face on the ground with an ax-hitting-wood sound.
    A kick hit J.B. right by the kidneys—close enough to sting. He rolled with that, up onto all fours, then bounced up. He was resilient, anyway, and all wire-wound armature and spring steel.
    He put up his fists in boxing stance. “I warned you,” he said, spitting out a mouthful of bloody saliva.
    A blow clipped him on the back of his head. The world whirled. Then the bastard hit him again, this time in the shoulder and the side of his face.
    Okay, he thought. Now I’m fucked.
    The real stomping commenced. The unfriendly parties were enthusiastically putting the boot in. This time J.B. would’ve been glad to curl up in a ball, which he couldn’t, by way of the savage bootstorm.
    He felt ribs crack. A toe to the jaw loosened teeth. At least he had sense to keep his hands balled into loose half-fists. They were his livelihood. If they got broken, Trader would have no reason in hell to keep him on his crew.
    “So, what’s the story?”
    As if from a great distance J.B. heard the words. They barely penetrated the roaring in his ears.
    He heard a meaty thunk that wasn’t associated with any impact to his person he could identify. Have I lost feeling someplace? he wondered in near-panic. Is my spine busted?
    He realized light was falling on his upturned face. It was an orange and