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Authors: Craig Sargent
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as if it might lose some of the
vast feast that was still squeezing through its clogged digestive system.
As he started down the next hill, Stone saw a roadblock ahead. A wide barricade of wood and car hulks, cinder blocks—you name
it, it was in his way. Everything, including literally a few kitchen sinks. He had to slam on the brakes hard, as the blockade
was only about seventy yards down the hill. The bike came to rest about thirty feet from the wall of junk. Stone put his hand
up on the trigger of the 50-caliber as he saw shapes running behind the eight-foot-or-so-high barricade of all the debris
that would make a trashman ecstatic.
Suddenly Stone saw figures jumping down from the barrier, and coming out from around the sides. There were dozens of them—and
every ugly son-of-a-bitching one of them was wearing a baseball uniform, a cap, and carrying a bat. If they were a baseball
team they looked like they’d been playing with human heads, for their uniforms were splattered in blood, tom and tattered
as if a few knives and bullets had gone through them. And the bats that they held menacingly in their hands looked a little
worse for wear, with long cracks, splinters along their sides—and coated red from handle to head. Stone was glad he hadn’t
seen any of the “games.”
“Hold it right there, mister,” a huge fat lug of a fellow bellowed out from atop the pile of debris. He held a long bat in
one hand and slapped it into the palm of the other as though he was just looking for something or someone he could pound into
a pulp, into pâté for the evening’s appetizer. “What team you play for?” the man asked, pulling his filthy cap, an old Yankee
one if Stone’s eyes weren’t failing him, up from his eyes.
“Free agent,” Stone smirked back. “Don’t play for no team, just trying to get through here.”
“No one gets through here—unless they answer the riddle,” the man shouted. Suddenly he jumped all the way down from the top,
a good eight feet, and landed with a thud on the cement highway that they had effectively sealed off from passage.
“And what riddle is that?” Stone asked, letting his finger edge even closer to the trigger of the .50-caliber.
“Who won the American League batting championship in 1977?” the man asked with a dark look. Stone hadn’t the slightest idea.
“Daffy Duck,” he snorted back as the pit bull whined behind him, edging its furred head around his shoulder to see what was
causing the delay in travel arrangements.
“Wrong, asshole,” the blood-splattered Yankee-uniformed leader of the gang spat back with a smile on his face, since he knew
they were about to end up with one mean-looking motorcycle and a whole shitload of weapons. None who had been unfortunate
enough to pass this way had left. “Now, you can just get off that there motorcycle and walk away quick, and I’ll let you live,”
the man lied, “as sure as my name is Squid Ruth, the Babe’s grandson himself.” Since the asshole’s eyes were twitching around
in his boil-ridden face, and foam was collecting at the corners of his mouth as he edged forward slapping the bat harder and
harder, Stone somehow doubted they were going to let him walk away. And when he saw the streams of Yankee-outfitted bandits
coming around each side of the barricade, every one of them swinging a bat, Stone saw that it was time to start doing some
hitting of his own.
“Down, dog!” he screamed, praying that the overmacho mutt wouldn’t jump off. On the ground the two of them would be dead.
That’s why Stone had built himself a warwagon. He just prayed that the sucker worked. As the headman suddenly came charging
straight in on him, Stone squeezed hard on the trigger. The .50-caliber snorted out a mouthful of finger-size slugs that dissected
the whole front of Ruth’s grandson as if he was a pig in a butchering yard. The rib cage exploded out like lathing in a
vast feast that was still squeezing through its clogged digestive system.
As he started down the next hill, Stone saw a roadblock ahead. A wide barricade of wood and car hulks, cinder blocks—you name
it, it was in his way. Everything, including literally a few kitchen sinks. He had to slam on the brakes hard, as the blockade
was only about seventy yards down the hill. The bike came to rest about thirty feet from the wall of junk. Stone put his hand
up on the trigger of the 50-caliber as he saw shapes running behind the eight-foot-or-so-high barricade of all the debris
that would make a trashman ecstatic.
Suddenly Stone saw figures jumping down from the barrier, and coming out from around the sides. There were dozens of them—and
every ugly son-of-a-bitching one of them was wearing a baseball uniform, a cap, and carrying a bat. If they were a baseball
team they looked like they’d been playing with human heads, for their uniforms were splattered in blood, tom and tattered
as if a few knives and bullets had gone through them. And the bats that they held menacingly in their hands looked a little
worse for wear, with long cracks, splinters along their sides—and coated red from handle to head. Stone was glad he hadn’t
seen any of the “games.”
“Hold it right there, mister,” a huge fat lug of a fellow bellowed out from atop the pile of debris. He held a long bat in
one hand and slapped it into the palm of the other as though he was just looking for something or someone he could pound into
a pulp, into pâté for the evening’s appetizer. “What team you play for?” the man asked, pulling his filthy cap, an old Yankee
one if Stone’s eyes weren’t failing him, up from his eyes.
“Free agent,” Stone smirked back. “Don’t play for no team, just trying to get through here.”
“No one gets through here—unless they answer the riddle,” the man shouted. Suddenly he jumped all the way down from the top,
a good eight feet, and landed with a thud on the cement highway that they had effectively sealed off from passage.
“And what riddle is that?” Stone asked, letting his finger edge even closer to the trigger of the .50-caliber.
“Who won the American League batting championship in 1977?” the man asked with a dark look. Stone hadn’t the slightest idea.
“Daffy Duck,” he snorted back as the pit bull whined behind him, edging its furred head around his shoulder to see what was
causing the delay in travel arrangements.
“Wrong, asshole,” the blood-splattered Yankee-uniformed leader of the gang spat back with a smile on his face, since he knew
they were about to end up with one mean-looking motorcycle and a whole shitload of weapons. None who had been unfortunate
enough to pass this way had left. “Now, you can just get off that there motorcycle and walk away quick, and I’ll let you live,”
the man lied, “as sure as my name is Squid Ruth, the Babe’s grandson himself.” Since the asshole’s eyes were twitching around
in his boil-ridden face, and foam was collecting at the corners of his mouth as he edged forward slapping the bat harder and
harder, Stone somehow doubted they were going to let him walk away. And when he saw the streams of Yankee-outfitted bandits
coming around each side of the barricade, every one of them swinging a bat, Stone saw that it was time to start doing some
hitting of his own.
“Down, dog!” he screamed, praying that the overmacho mutt wouldn’t jump off. On the ground the two of them would be dead.
That’s why Stone had built himself a warwagon. He just prayed that the sucker worked. As the headman suddenly came charging
straight in on him, Stone squeezed hard on the trigger. The .50-caliber snorted out a mouthful of finger-size slugs that dissected
the whole front of Ruth’s grandson as if he was a pig in a butchering yard. The rib cage exploded out like lathing in a
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