Copyright 1999, Lyka. This story may be copied for personal use so long as the author's credits are kept, but may not be posted, archived elsewhere, otherwise distributed or sold without the author's permission.

Somewhere outside the old police station the God's Hammers have taken over, a still- functioning clock tolls the time: nine PM.

Dirk slumps against the cold plaster wall of the small jail cell, his head on his knees, the worn denim pressing into his bruised face. He's still wearing the Hell Rat black leather jacket with the snarling, demonic rat hand-painted on the back; the Hammers didn't bother to take it from him.

He showed the Hammers nothing but sullen defiance, but now, alone and unwatched in the cell, his guts are twisted into a cold knot of terror and despair, and he can feel tears dampening the denim. His long brown hair curtains his face in darkness as he sits like that, and the memories are free to come.

The Hell Rats were partying, slamming and dancing to the strains of the neometal pouring out of their generator-fed audio system when the squadron of God's Hammers -- those noble, self-appointed guardians of morality -- overpowered the sentries and burst in on them, forty strong.

Dirk had heard of other Hammer attacks elsewhere -- who hadn't? -- on members of the tribes, beating them up, taking them prisoner, then handing the survivors over to the police. But this deep in the Abandoned Zone they thought they'd be safe enough to hold a party with minimal precautions.

This time, the Hammers aren't just going to beat them up and turn them in.

He joined the Hell Rats two months ago -- jobless, broke, on the run from the draft for the Saudi Arabia war, with no place to go. That cold, rainy evening, wandering into one of the underground nightclubs with a two-dollar cover charge, he'd spotted three men and a woman standing against one wall listening to the band, wearing Rat jackets.

He knew who they were, what the jackets meant. With no other options, he went to them and asked for their help.

Later that night, for the first time in his life, Dirk learned what it was like not to be alone.

Everybody's seen the news stories about what goes on in the tribes: orgies, devil-worship, human sacrifice. Since he came out here, Dirk has seen none of it. What he has heard, from the other Rats he lived with, is another set of stories: there's an inner circle that calls itself the Coven, and its members can shapeshift, talk to animals, do seriously weird shit.

Sheena, as she calls herself, was one of his first friends among the Rats, one of the trio he met at the nightclub. She's also a Coven member. He has no idea who she was before she joined the tribe.

He asked her about it. "No, we don't slit cats' throats or anything like that," she sneered. "People who buy that shit don't have real power and never will."

She wouldn't confirm or deny the other stories.

"If I told you the truth," she said, "you wouldn't believe me. How about you join and find out instead?"

He'd refused. Ostensibly because he wasn't ready, but really because he was nervous about what could happen. What if he got caught by the paramilitary sweeps or the vigilantes? If they found out he was Coven, they'd shoot him then and there, or pile more charges on top of dodging the draft -- more serious charges, like every child disappearance and church-burning for the last three months.

And, too, lingering in his psyche is the fear of Hell

. He shifts his butt on the hard cement floor. He isn't sure how long ago this police station was abandoned, along with the rest of this section of the city -- five years ago, maybe. The cops would have been among the last to flee

. The power still works intermittently -- that's why the bell tolled -- but all regular services to this area have ceased. That's what an Abandoned Zone is.

He knows what's going to happen to him.

Once they'd returned to the station with their prisoners, the Hammers singled out Ron as the leader. The captives were dragged out to a small courtyard, where the Hammers had already piled some salvaged wood and kindling around a rusting metal lamppost. They tied Ron to it and doused him and the wood with gasoline.

He showed them nothing but defiance to the end, spitting in the face of the big, fat Hammer who held the lighter.

When it was done, while the smoke was still drifting up into the afternoon sky, they dragged the remaining prisoners back to the jail cells, promising them all the same fate.

Dirk had all he could handle not to give in to the histrionic pleas of the Hammers' pet reverend. The reverend shouted, badgered, even wept for his "damned" soul, tears running down his hysterical face.

Given a choice between certain death (and a chance of eternal hellfire) and a chance of life, he might have been wise to accept.

But converting meant accepting a god that tolerated being served by such as the Hammers. A deity His own so-called Holy Bible proudly portrayed as jealous, vindictive and bloodthirsty beyond any demon imaginable.

If he embraces that god, he'll have to cut off his ability to think and reason for himself what's right and what's wrong, to give up what little pride and control over his own mind he has. He may be a coward, he thinks bitterly, but he still has some pride.

Maybe he can just pretend to convert.

But . . . always assuming the Hammers really do turn him over to the cops instead of killing him, and that he ever gets out of prison or the draft alive, he'll never again have the guts to do what he'd done. What will be left of him?

Not enough, he decides again.

Probably the Hammers will kill him anyway. Or he'll die in Saudi Arabia.

So now he's made it certain. He tries not to think about what it must feel like to be burned alive.

And to think he bullshitted himself about not being afraid to die -- terror wells up in his throat as he hears heavy footsteps thumping down the corridor toward the cell, two pairs of them.

He has a brief, horrible flash of a burned corpse he saw in a horror movie before they appear at the cell door. That's what he'll look like when it's over.

One's taller than the other, with blond crewcut hair and a bony face. The other is stouter and darker. He doesn't remember them from the raid, but their faces as they look at him are rock-hard, contemptuous. They're both wearing fatigues.

The taller one unlocks the door, and they come in, and there's a pair of handcuffs jingling in the stout one's hand. He struggles with his terror, keeping his jaw clenched, refusing to speak or plead, as the tall one quickly, efficiently pins his wrists behind his back and the other one handcuffs him. "Come on!" growls the stout one, and that's all they say to him.

They shove him out into the narrow corridor; he staggers a moment, then catches himself. Only the emergency lights are working, little yellow bulbs set in the walls, casting a dim, shadowy light on the cement floor. They must have been ordered not to speak to him, because they don't taunt him or take the time to hit him some more. There's barely enough room in the hallway for three of them abreast.

It's not easy to keep from screaming, but he couldn't speak even if he wanted to. He fights down the tears that want to well in his eyes as they march him toward the end of the hallway that leads out into the courtyard, past other, empty cells.

-- And then something moves in the shadows of an open doorway on the right as they reach it.

Dirk has no chance to see what it is before a dark shape moves with blurry speed, the faint light flashes off glinting metal, and the right-hand Hammer utters a choked, bubbling gasp and slumps, yanking Dirk's handcuffed right wrist as he goes down. As he struggles to stay on his feet, he gets a slightly more informative glimpse -- a dark, slim figure holding a stained Arkansas toothpick that's nearly two feet long, just starting to rise.

Then the other man falls heavily against him, knocking him sprawling to the floor, as another figure steps out from behind, pulling out another knife from the Hammer's back.

There hasn't even been a chance to cry out. The whole thing was silent except for the scuffling of sneakers on the cement.

Getting up without hands is a difficult project. Dirk has just rolled and gotten his knees under him when a voice hisses "Keep quiet."

He looks up, sees the first figure is a skinny young woman, maybe two or three years older than himself, her hair long, blonde, pulled back in a ponytail tied with a piece of leather thong, accentuating her sharp face. She's dressed in black pants and T-shirt, a handgun of some sort stuck in one pocket.

She bends over one of the corpses and wipes the huge knife on it, while the other -- it's an equally young man with long, shaggy brown hair like Dirk's own, dressed like the woman but built heavier -- looks up and down the corridor, sliding his own hunting knife into a sheath at his belt. Like her, he has a handgun, but stuck through his belt. He steps over to help Dirk up.

"Get the keys, Corey," the woman says.

"Corey?" Dirk whispers, recognizing him. Now he sees the Hell Rat headband over his hair, though he's not wearing the usual tribal uniform. He hadn't been sure any of the Hell Rats at the party had gotten away.

"Yeah, it's me," Corey says, and Dirk can glimpse his tight grin. Corey crouches over the stout guy's corpse and rifles through the pockets. He comes up with the keys, steps behind him and unlocks the cuffs, then pockets them.

Dirk rubs his aching wrists, not quite daring to hope yet.

"This is Jo," Corey says, waving a hand at the woman, and a fierce, feral grin transforms her face. "She's one of the Wolves -- her pack name is Jo Three-Toes."

The Wolves have a fetish for naming themselves after historic or fictional wolves, once they've earned the right. Dirk is suitably impressed. He's heard of pitched battles between the Wolves and the Hammers, but never fully believed them until tonight. From what he knows of them, Jo must have been in more than one raid like this to earn a pack name.

"You know where Ron is?" she asks him.

He hesitates, then: "He's dead. They burned him at the stake."

Her shoulders slump; she looks like she's been struck a physical blow. "Oh, shit."

"Like I suspected," Corey mutters. "The bastards just couldn't wait . . ."

A burst of gunfire somewhere in the complex interrupts him. It's followed by more. Jo Three-Toes looks away toward the sounds, her face hardening.

"You two better get," she says. "I still have work to do."

Corey grins. "Come on," he says to Dirk. "I know the way to our cars." Jo Three-Toes slips into the doorway they used for the ambush; Dirk can hear the fading sound of her sneakers for a few seconds. The gunshots are getting louder and more frequent.

Dirk follows Corey back up the corridor, and they break into a sprint. They pass only empty cells and a thought comes to Dirk: "Where're the other prisoners?"

Corey glances back over his shoulder, and Dirk can hear him snort. "Other corridors, of course -- they didn't want to put you all too close together --" He goes silent as they near the door at the end of the corridor.

The gunfire outside is reaching a crescendo, but no sound at all comes from the other side of the door. Corey gestures Dirk to flatten himself against the wall. He obeys, and then Corey grabs the knob, finds it unlocked and flings it open.

Dirk catches a quick glimpse of a startled God's Hammer inside, beside a desk, lifting his gun, and then the shooting starts. The Hammer's shot bangs out, an incredible boom in the small space, but missing them, ricocheting down the hall behind them, as Corey jerks his own piece up and fires twice. Two red spots appear on the Hammer's shirt, high up on his bulging belly, as he slumps to the floor.

They step in together, alert for more Hammers. There aren't any.

The Hammer is lying on the floor in front of the desk, on his side, clutching his gut. He's dropped his gun, a .45; it's lying six feet away from him. Corey nods at it, and Dirk's mind starts working again: he picks it up while Corey keeps an eye on the Hammer.

The Hammer stares up at them, shock-glazed eyes starting to clear. He's not a young man, maybe late thirties, early forties. His gasping seems to fill the whole room.

"Quite a surprise, huh, cross-kisser?" Corey taunts him, spitting out the epithet. "Bet you're not used to the 'Commie devil-worshippers' shooting back."

He's enjoying this, thinks Dirk, feeling a qualm. But the Hammer's expression is changing from shock into something stony-hard, inhuman in its hate -- like the Hammers' faces in the raid. Dirk expected to see fear, maybe even pleading there, and it shakes him somewhere deep inside. It's something other, and less human, than simple defiance of his killers, and it makes it easier to hate him back.

Then he recognizes him, and every bruise he has aches afresh at the memory, sending a bolt of hot rage through him.

The words come out before he knows it. "He was one of the guys who beat me up. He helped tie Ron to the stake, too."

Corey looks at him, then back at the Hammer, ugly things happening in his eyes. "Was he? Hmm . . . . Do you know how to shoot that thing?"

Dirk blinks, nods.

"He's yours, then."

Dirk's stomach lurches. He stares at the Hammer, who glares back at him, blood now seeping through the clutching hand at his belly. "I don't know if I can."

"It's up to you," Corey says. "But if you don't, I will. He wouldn't think twice about wasting you."

The man glares at Corey, then at Dirk. "Goddamn faggot devil-worshipper . . ." he grates, but is interrupted by a cough. Then, "You'll burn in hell!"

"And you'll go to heaven," Dirk says, his eyes locked on the Hammer's. Something about that demonically hating gaze compels him to stare back, hate back. "To your devil-god who tells you to hunt down and kill everyone who doesn't follow him . . . ."

The Hammer snarls. Then his bloodstained hand moves, leaving his stomach to leap to his hip, reaching for something there. Dirk's arm goes up in a reflex action; he doesn't really aim, just points and shoots. The Hammer jerks from the impact, his head exploding horribly even as Corey's gun goes off, the body slumping back with finality. It's all over that quickly.

The echoes are still dying as Corey goes to the shattered corpse and turns it onto its back with one foot. He reaches down toward its hip, finding something there, pulling out a little pistol. He stands up, his eyes locked with Dirk's as he holds up the gun.

"That the first time you killed someone?"

"Yeah." Dirk's stomach heaves viciously like it's trying to get out of his body. He's careful not to look at the corpse now. "Uh, Corey . . . I'm going to puke."

"Do it and let's get out of this shithole." As Dirk finishes and wipes his mouth, he hears Corey chuckle. The gunfire outside has died down now.

They take the route to the front doors at a run, passing offices and checkpoints. There are no more living Hammers to oppose them, only the occasional corpse they have to run around or leap over.

They duck through the long-shattered glass doors, stepping out into the cool night air of the parking lot. The Hammers managed to rig some kind of electricity to the lights here, which shine on a gaggle of tribe members crouched behind three functional cars, some holding rifles. Dirk can make out the bandannas of three Hell Rats, the shaggy collars of two Wolves. One Rat waves at them, motioning toward the cars.

Corey leads him toward the cars at a run, and they're only five feet away when a shot rings out. A heavy shock wave of pain hits Dirk's right leg, rocketing through his whole body, and he stumbles as Corey shouts "Dirk!" and grabs him. The others are firing at the building now, except for one Wolf, who takes the risk of exposing himself as he runs to the side of the car nearest Corey and Dirk to open a rear door for them, then helps hustle Dirk into it.

Somehow, with their help, Dirk manages to pull himself into the back seat. He turns to look outside as another Wolf shouts and points not at the police station but at a nearby abandoned building. The Wolf lifts his rifle and fires a return shot, and then he and two Rats are racing toward it.

More Wolves and Rats are running into the parking lot. The counter-raid is almost over. He wonders if any Hammers are left alive.

Then others are climbing into the car, and he realizes Corey is getting into the back seat beside him, talking to him. "You still with us?" Corey is saying.

"Yeah," he manages. His right leg is screaming with pain. The bullet struck his lower thigh.

"Hang on -- we'll get you treated." Another guy is already climbing into the driver's seat.

Moments later, Dirk is aware of Jo climbing into the passenger's seat in front, clutching something. She holds it up for them to see: a metal bracelet, blackened with soot.

"Ron's?" Corey asks. She nods but says nothing. Her eyes are red as she looks numbly at the bracelet, then drops it in her lap.

"Let's go," she says in a flat, emotionless voice.

The driver, a Rat who Dirk doesn't know, nods and starts the engine.

No one else says a word until they're well away from the old complex, driving through the Abandoned Zone, dodging piles of debris, rubble-strewn lots and empty buildings on either side.

The thought crosses Dirk's mind that he should feel guilt for killing the God's Hammer, relief at his escape . . . but all he really feels is shell-shocked, exhausted numbness. His wounded leg throbs fiercely, and the car's bouncing over potholes and occasional rubble doesn't help.

Then Jo Three-Toes heaves a sigh, turns around and looks at him. "Sheena told me about you."

Dirk stares back, just waiting for it.

"She invited you to join us two weeks ago, but you weren't ready. Now I'll repeat the offer: I'm a Coven member myself. Do you want to join the Coven?"

There it is. The second chance.