DEATHLANDS : MUTANT - THE GATHERING

Chapter 1: A44 FX - Amy Childs

"Well I'll be fucked senseless by a doubled dicked mutie mule!".

From behind the safety of a sea of greenery Hector McFadden rubbed his eyes with dirty, tobacco stained fingers and looked out again at the small figure coming along the dirt track that wound up from the wooded valley below. His first thought was that he must be dreaming or still partially high from sniffing that rusty tin of glue he and his brother Eoin had found in a derelict factory last week, for what he saw seemed to be straight out of some drug or jolt induced erotic fantasy. A young girl, no more than about thirteen or fourteen was skipping towards him, humming happily to herself and stopping now and then to bend down and smell the odd daisy that struggled to poke its way out into its shady, leaf-vaulted habitat. She was dressed in a pair of white sneakers, purple shorts and a faded pink t-shirt that appeared to have the words 'Girl Power' emblazoned on the front. Hector had no idea what 'Girl Power' was and to be honest he didn't give a rats-arse.

Her hair was long and blonde and tied in two pony-tails that hung down over her as-yet not fully formed breasts. She carried a small pack on her back, but by the lack of it hampering her gait, it unlikely held a great fortune. There was a necklace of some kind hanging around her neck with a small pendant attached, though from the distance Hector couldn't tell what the necklace was made of, but he doubted it could be expensive – only a well-protected Baron's wife or a feeb wore jewelry these days, especially all alone and out in the middle of nowhere.

The one odd thing about her appearance was that she wore a pair of over-sized black leather gloves on her hands, which seemed to be in total contrast to the rest of her pastel, waif-like appearance, but since Hector could already feel himself beginning to stir south of his waist-line and dismissed the oddity in his rising state of sexual excitement.

Pulling back from the edge of the bushes he quickly crossed over the small clearing to where his older brother Eoin lay sleeping under a well-worn blanket with more stains on it than any that could be found in the gaudy houses they regularly frequented. His brother never snored - even with his numerously broken nose - but with his front two teeth missing every other exhalation or so sounded like an old-time steam train pulling into the station.

He needed to wake him up quickly lest the noise give away their position to the potential young bounty, so he nudged his brother's leg with the toe of his taped-up boot. Eoin opened his eyes, instinctively raising the barrel of the cheap replica World War II German Luger from under his blanket. The gun had no bullets in it, it was after all just a well-made kids toy, but only he and his brother knew it was a fake. Most of the time in the Deathlands when someone found themselves at the business end of any sort of firearm they tended to think it was the real deal and that there was at least one potential round in the chamber with their name written on it. Certainly nobody had ever got close enough to read the 'Made in China' stamped on the bottom of the hand-grip.

Hector held up a finger to his beard shrouded lips and his brother immediately understood the need to be quiet and listen. "Pay-dirt bro'. Teen girl. Hot as a rad-zone. Easy pickings!" His voice was just above a whisper.

"She on her own" asked Eoin, rubbing a hand over his eyes to get the sleep out of them.

"Far as I can see", said Hector.

A leering smile crept up Hector's face – it was matched by one that steadily appeared on Eoin's as he took the information in.

Tucking the Luger into his trousers, Eoin held out his hand for his brother to help him up off the floor and with a groan he pulled himself up. It was only when the brothers were standing that the difference in paternal genes could be seen, for whereas Hector was tall and gangly, his brother Eoin was atleast six inches shorter, broader and more thickset, his muscular arms covered with crude tattoos of very improbable proportioned women. Hector also sported considerable left-over facial scar tissue from a severe case of chicken-pox as a child. But despite the sizable difference, the receding ginger hair, bushy brows and green eyes clearly marked them out as kin. Their mother never talked to them much about their fathers, probably due to not being sure which customer had sired the bastards in the first place, but she had instilled in them a fierce family loyalty, that more than made up for any differing fatherly genes.