Tainted Cascade Read Online Free Page A

all manner of ills, from the black cough to the shakes, along with a dozen other ailments that had once ravaged the world since skydark.
    Petrov liked the food in the tavern, so he didn’t do biz in the ville. This was his haven, a safe place to run if trouble came snapping at the heels of his crew, the Pig Iron Gang.
    It was cool inside Heaven—the walls were made of stone. The rafters in the ceiling were black with age and the smell of the accumulated fumes of the fish-oil lanterns was reminiscent of a smokehouse.
    Over by the window, a young woman was sitting at a battered piano playing remarkably well, a large group of outlanders and travelers listening with rapt attention. Some of them had never heard of such a thing as a piano before. Dozens of other folks were eating fish stew, gambling or drinking shine. A few of the ville oldsters were caging smokes from travelers in exchange for fantastic stories about the muties in the woods, or even better, the hot sluts upstairs. Those were always popular, and the more details, the better.
    Positioned near the wooden stairs leading to the second floor, five gaudy sluts were eating bread and smoking cigs. Their assorted dresses were some velvety material cut and stitched together from the safety curtains of a ruined movie theater; the material couldn’t be set on fire. Amazing stuff. The low-cut blouses and short skirts displayed an amazing amount of flesh, and on a regular basis, a man would shuffle over to talk some biz. Then the man and woman would go upstairs for fifteen minutes or so and come back down. Smiling wide, the man would be buckling his belt.
    One large gaudy slut named Post seemed to be a particular favorite this night and was constantly chosen by customers to go upstairs.
    â€œHow does she know what they want?” Rose asked in idle curiosity. “Isn’t she deaf?”
    â€œBitch can read lips,” Petrov answered, then added, “She also has the best tits I ever seen.”
    Across the tavern, Post smiled at the compliment, then pulled down her blouse for a moment to flash the man a peek at both of her highly prized assets.
    â€œPretty nuking good,” Charlie agreed, gnawing on a heel of stale bread. But nobody was sure if he meant the slut or the food.
    Most of the bottles along the wall behind the counter were made of plastic and filled with water. After one too many bar fights, McGinty had decided not to risk his stock by putting it on display. The real shine was kept safe under the counter, right alongside a working predark scattergun, a pump-action monster called a Neostead that held eight fat cartridges. All of them were homemade these days, the black powder purchased from a traveling trader, and then the base was packed with bits of broken glass, small rocks and bent nails. The combination opened the belly of a person like stomping on a fish.
    â€œAnother round!” Petrov bellowed, waving his empty plastic tumbler.
    An old woman wearing an apron shuffled out from behind the bar, carrying a clay jug with a cork in the top. The waitress was an oldster, barely able to walk anymore because of the misery called the bends, her back hunching over to make her almost appear to be a mutie. But she was a gene-pure norm and once had sold a night in her bed for a round of live brass. Now, the former beauty ferried dirty dishes and slept in thecorner near the fireplace, kept warm by the glowing embers and her lost dreams of youth.
    â€œI hear tell you’re called the Pig Iron Gang,” the waitress said, pouring drinks into the glasses and mugs. “How come?”
    â€œShut up,” Petrov snarled, not willing to admit that he had no idea what pig iron was, he just liked the sound.
    With a shrug, the waitress turned and went away, looking for more empty glasses to fill, her long day only just starting.
    â€œEnjoy the shine, this is the last round,” Petrov said, sipping the acidic brew. “And we’ll be