Savage Armada

by James Axler

  Going to the hole in the fence, she saw a pathway of churned earth wandering through the piles of rubbish and rusted metal going all the way to the edge of the mesa. The treetops spread before her like an arboreal garden, disappearing into the morning mists and onward to a lone mountain in the far distance.

  "Saved every land mine we could," J.B. said, sprinkling dirt in front of the door to hide any footprints. "But most of the ones we dug up were just rusted lumps. Useless."

  "On my hands and knees, stabbing the dirt with a knife," Doc rumbled lugubriously. "I felt like a pig hunting truffles."

  "Only mushrooms don't detonate and remove your face," Mildred countered, tying a bandanna around her head in lieu of a hat. The climbing sun was already raising the temperature to uncomfortable levels. "Not even in the Deathlands."

  "Best way to clear a path," Ryan stated walking past the rotting fence and continuing along the churned section of ground. "Nobody got chilled. That's what matters."

  Gathering at the side of the mesa, the companions looked over the land below for any possible dangers before proceeding down the ten-foot drop. The ground was steeply sloped, and slick with spongy moss. But they reached the floor of the jungle without serious mishap.

  The wide trees rose above them now, dark shadows thick within their twisted branches. Thousands of leafy vines going from tree to tree blocked their view of the sky, changing the dawn into dusk. Yet colorful flowers were everywhere, making the air almost sickly sweet with thick perfume. Insects buzzed amid the foliage or crawled along the jungle carpeting. The vibrant jungle was alive with subtle noises, and it bothered the companions. It seemed unnatural to have their surroundings buzzing with so much life.

  Only a few yards away, the battered hulk of an armored bank truck rose from the lush greenery, its dissolving body covered with vines and dripping with moss. The faint vestiges of a predark road were visible under the vehicle. Carefully placing each boot as if it might break through into a yawning chasm, Ryan walked closer, noticing that the tires were gone, only bare rims on the axles, and the seats inside were just a naked collection of coiled springs. Everything organic had been eaten long ago by the myriad insects, and immutable time itself.

  "Might be how our dead whitecoat got here," Dean suggested.

  "Or her killers," Ryan countered, his eye sweeping the foliage for any possible dangers. There was a blur of motion, and he stood with a hissing snake clenched helpless in his fist.

  "Coral snake. We must be near the beach," Ryan said calmly, and whipped the creature against the side of the truck. Its spine audibly cracked from the blow, and the deadly killer went limp.

  "Won't have to hunt for lunch," he said, rolling up the snake and tucking it into a pocket.

  "The ruins are straight ahead," J.B. announced, checking the compass, his Uzi resting on his shoulder.

  Maneuvering past the truck, Ryan brushed vines and banyan flowers out of his way with the barrel of the SIG-Sauer until reaching a wall of fronds, prickly weeds and bizarre plants with thick stems and slick with moisture. Drawing the panga from its sheath, he experimentally hacked at the dense greenery blocking the way and the plants easily parted at the touch of the razor-sharp knife.

  "I'll break trail," Ryan said, holstering his blaster. "Let's go."

  "You feeling up to this?" Mildred asked the redhead softly. "We could wait a day or so."

  Her crimson hair moving like waves on a beach, Krysty smiled. "I'm fine," she said. "Never better."

  Mildred said nothing, but privately decided to keep a close watch on the woman. She had the feeling that the electric charge had taken more out of Krysty than she wanted to admit.

  Overhead, lightning flashed across the purple clouds, leaving fiery orange streaks in its wake.

  Loosening the collar of his frilly shirt, Doc stayed in place until the others passed by, then he took the aft position, a gnarled hand on the grip of the deadly LeMat.

  Raising his powerful arm, Ryan stepped forward and swung again with the panga. More vines fell. Tirelessly he slashed at the weeds and bushes, and was soon moving in a steady rhythm of hack, step, hack. A sweat stain spread across his back, and Ryan jerked his head to shake the perspiration from his bad eye.

  Looking behind, Dean noted that the mesa was already gone from view. They would have to return quickly, or else the jungle would reclaim the path they were cutting and it'd become impossible to find the gateway again. Then he saw J.B. slash at a banyan tree with his knife, cutting a deep notch into the bark to mark the way. That would soon also heal, but not as fast as the weeds. Maybe a week or so before it was gone. More than enough.

  As the day progressed, the leafy vines thinned enough to let in the sunlight, and the temperature immediately rose to intolerable levels. Panting from the humidity, Krysty stuffed her bearskin coat into her backpack, J.B. did the same with his leather jacket. Soon rivulets of salty sweat flowed down their necks, turning shirts dark and pants nearly black.

  Time passed slowly, the companions saying little as they closely watched the jungle. Crossing the muddy bed of a small creek, Ryan angled around a towering pile of crumbling bricks that could have been anything in another time. In the cool shade, he paused to sip the tepid water from his canteen, then continued onward. The work was grueling, the weeds clinging to the blade of the knife, the swaying vines sometimes as hard as wood, and the impact would jar Ryan to the bone. But the man never slowed, moving with an iron strength that had kept him alive in a hundred battles.

  Suddenly something large darted through the treetops, moving at incredible speed. Krysty tracked it with the muzzle of her revolver until it was gone from sight.

  "Monkeys?" Doc asked, a strong finger holding down the trigger of his Civil War blaster, his other hand poised to start fanning the hammer.

  "Primate of some kind," Mildred answered hesitantly, the ZKR target pistol held in both hands. "But I wouldn't want to bet the ranch on what kind."

  The companions strained to hear or see anything more, the background noises of the tropical rain forest a never ending murmur. The muted call of a distant bird, the patter of moisture dribbling down the vines onto the flowers, the rustle of the huge leaves, the hum of a flying insect. They waited, but whatever had passed by was gone for the moment.

  "Keep moving, it's gone," Ryan said, bolstering his piece and starting to cut trail once more. But now he held the panga in his left hand, the right resting on the gun belt above the grip of the SIG-Sauer.

  "Going to need fresh water soon," Mildred panted, checking her canteen. "We have enough for two, three days."

  "No prob," Jak stated. A knife appeared from within his sleeve, and, grabbing a fat green vine he cut through. Clear fluid gushed from the severed stem, soon slowing to a trickle, then a steady flow of drops.

  Mildred sniffed the fluid, then allowed a drop to land on the back of her hand. When there was no pain, she scratched her skin with a thumbnail and let another drop flow over the tiny wound.

  "Doesn't stink, or sting," she said and lapped a little from her cupped palm. "Oh God, that's good."

  The teenager shrugged. "Done before. Bayou, jungle, same thing."

  As the companions trudged on, they cut the fat vines and caught the initial flow into their canteens until the containers were full, then drank directly from the gushing vines.

  "Gaia, I needed that," Krysty said with a sigh, releasing a vine, the end dripping onto the ground below. Insects scurried over top of one another to gather the precious fluid, and a violent battle erupted into being beneath the tramping boots of the towering humans.

  "Tasted kind of sweet," Dean commented, wiping his mouth on a forearm. "Really good."

  "Lots of food, clean water," J.B. said, wiping the inside his fedora with a damp handkerchief. "We could do worse for a home than this if we can't leave."

  Concentrating at his work, Ryan didn't reply. His shirt was drenched, but his arm never slowed in its machinelike destruction of the limbs and bushes.
Lots of food growing wild always meant lots of predators eating the animals that ate the plants. He could think of no reason why this tropical island should be any different from a desert or the forests of the Shens. Just because they hadn't been attacked by an animal yet didn't mean they weren't close by.

  The vines got fewer, the weeds thinner, easier to chop, and unexpectedly Ryan stepped out of the dense growth onto a grassy field.

  "There they are," he said, lowering his throbbing arm. His fingers felt loose, the corded muscles in his arms moving under his bronzed skin, and the edge of the panga dripped green sap as if it were fresh mutie blood.

  The rest of the companions walked from the greenery and spread out to savor the cool wafting over the grassy savanna. The flat field extended in every direction, only a few individual trees scattered about to break the monotony. There was a faint hint of salt in the air, and they drank in the refreshing breeze.

  Directly ahead, just beyond a few low ground swells, stood the shining towers of a predark city, monoliths of glass and steel rising majestically above the rolling fields. The windows were all milky white from accumulated dirt and the sheer passage of time. But the buildings appeared intact, without nuke or fire damage.

  "There's going to be more than just copper pipe to loot there," Dean said happily, then the smile faded away to be replaced by his usual serious countenance. "Canned food, new shoes, all sorts of stuff."

  "We shall find out soon enough, lad," Doc said, smiling, as the group started to head that way.

  But within a few yards, Ryan raised a clenched fist and the companions froze in midstep. They looked around for any possible danger and saw nothing but the grass and the distant ruins.

  Ryan took another step forward, and the rad counter on his shirt began to click again. He walked a few yards more toward the rains, and the clicking became louder and faster.

  "Fireblast," he cursed, returning to the others until the noise slowed to the usual background tick, as steady as a human heartbeat. "It's hotter than Washington Hole. That was probably the glow we saw at night."

  Grimacing, J.B. checked his own rad counter. The results were the same. "Not torchlight, but rad glow reflected off the glass. Aw, hell."

  "Mebbe there's just a rad pit between us and the city," Krysty suggested. "We could try circling around."

  Ryan shook his head. "Not with readings like this. That whole end of the island is a death zone."

  "The jungle is too thick to search," Doc rambled, twirling his stick thoughtfully.

  "Take us years to even check a small section," Mildred agreed.

  "Which leaves east or west," J.B. said, reaching into his backpack. Finding the longeyes, he extended the brass to its full length. Found in an antique shop, the ancient device still worked perfectly.

  Finding a piece of wood on the ground, Ryan used it to clean the sticky sap off the panga before sheathing the blade.

  "Okay," the Armorer said, sweeping the horizon. "I can see waves hitting breakers to our right, and some sort of rusted railroad bridge going to what seems to be another island on our left."

  "Bridges," Jak growled, curling a lip. "Not trust."

  "With good reason," Mildred agreed, remembering those terrible days in West Virginia. "I say we follow the shore and hope to find something useful— a wreck, maybe. Or a fishing ville."

  "No, we'll head for the bridge," J,B. said, passing the telescope to Ryan. "Check it out."

  The warrior adjusted the length to focus, and a faint smile came and went on his scarred face. "Bridge it is," he stated, collapsing the telescope.

  "Ville on the other side?" Krysty asked, staring that way.

  "Something is on the other side, that's for damn sure," he said, starting to walk. "There are a couple of big cats, cougars maybe, tied to leashes in front like guard dogs."

  "Indeed," Doc said, the salty breeze rustling his long silver locks. "Then it most sincerely behooves us to discover exactly what these feline Cerebusi are protecting."

  "Cerebus guarded the gates of hell," Mildred corrected.

  Striding along, Doc frowned. "Too true. But let us hope for better than that, dear lady."

  STIRRING FROM its nest, the mutie scampered into view and stared dumbfounded. The food was leaving! This had never happened before in its long memory. Always they came to the dead place, started moving slow, then toppled over ready to be gathered.

  Wiggling his hairy body from the cool darkness of the hole under the tree, the mutie started after the two-legs, staying far behind them, darting from tree to bush. But always ready to charge at the first hint of them slowing down as the invisible sickness took them.

  No food had ever escaped before! Nor would this.

  Chapter Four

  The companions were still a good distance from the bridge when the cats rose to their legs and started to growl.

  Stopping about fifty yards away, Ryan calmly studied the animals and the bridge behind them.

  The structure stretched across a channel of choppy water, with open sea on either end. The bridge itself was a box trestle, the design used for railroad tracks. However, the surface was paved, the asphalt badly cracked and dotted with deep potholes. The strutted girders were dark with corrosion, but still looked strong. Small patches of black paint still showed through the decades of rust.

  "Acid rain probably helps it stay clean," Krysty commented. "I've seen it wash rust clean off steel."

  "Flesh, too," Jak added without humor.

  Beyond the bridge were the gutted remains of a roadway, sections of concrete visible through the windblown dirt. It meandered off out of sight into the hills of pine and bushes.

  Wary of crumbling land, Ryan moved to the edge of the island and glanced into the channel. It had to have been low tide, as the shoreline mark was a good fifty feet above the surface of the choppy water, the bare rock sides of the yawning passage exposed. Schools of rainbow-colored fish darted about in the clear water, and a short way off, a glistening coral reef was heavy with the sleek shells of clams, while fat crabs scuttled about in a shallow tide pool. Whatever else, food was abundant here.

  "How odd," Doc stated softly. "Those are cougars, not exactly a tropical cat. I would have more expected panthers or cheetahs."

  Staring hostilely at the companions, the snarling cats were straining at the leash, padding back and forth in their desire to attack the norms. One turned its head to chew on the confining rope and released it immediately, spitting and sneezing, its pink tongue lashing madly.

  "Wondered why not chew through," Jak said thoughtfully. "Now know. Chem on rope. Smart."

  Ryan could see that each cougar possessed two tails, both lashing about in restrained hatred. But aside from that minor deviation, they seemed quite normal otherwise. Just big. And with lots of scars disturbing their sleek tan fur.

  "Think they're here to keep out people or muties?" Dean asked, glancing back toward the steaming jungle.

  "Only muties we've seen are those condors," Krysty said. "And they'd just fly over."

  "Must be people, then," J.B. agreed, tilting back his hat for better visibility.

  "People without blasters," Ryan said, holstering his SIG-Sauer and easing the longblaster off his shoulder. He hated to waste two live rounds on chilling chained animals, but there was clearly no way past the huge cats and onto the bridge without getting within reach of those deadly claws.

  Taking a stance, he aimed the longblaster, adjusting the focus on the crosshairs to bring their faces into wire sharpness, when the beasts snapped their attention away from the companions and started to hiss, their tails motionless, fur bristling.

  "Not us," Krysty said. "We're much to far away, unless they understand what a blaster can do."

  "Could be," Mildred mused, moving away from the channel. If there was trouble, she didn't want to be trapped with a fifty-foot drop onto rocks at her back.

  Just then the hair on the back of Ryan's neck started to stir. With battle instincts honed in a
hundred fights, the man spun from the waist and fired the long-blaster.

  A hundred yards away, the giant spider on the ridge gave no reaction as the 7.62 mm round hit its bulbous body. It continued to scuttle down the slope, its eight hairy legs blurs of speed.

  "Nuke me," Jak said, and fired the .357 Magnum Colt from his hip.

  The booming handblaster blew a lance of flame from its pitted muzzle. There was a ripple in the yellow-and-black-striped fur over the massive torso, nothing more.

  Dean raised his own blaster, but didn't fire; the distance was too great yet for the semiautomatic pistol. But the spider was closing in fast. There was no way to tell where its weird multifaceted eyes were looking, but the boy knew the friends were its goal. The angle of attack was too perfect. The companions were caught between the rocky channel and the cats, with the spider closing the third side of the triangle trap. Dean shot a glance at the ground, wondering if the thing did this often.

  "Hurry, form a firing line, my friends!" Doc rumbled, and dropped to a knee, gripping the LeMat in both hands.

  Jak and Dean went down alongside the man, Mildred and Krysty standing behind them, forming a wall of blasters. J.B. passed Mildred the shotgun, and switched the Uzi from single shot to full-auto.

  "If we've got to jump," he said grimly, "stay away from the coral. It'll slice you apart like barbed wire."

  "Jump, my ass. Get ready to run!" Ryan countered, and fired the Steyr twice.

  The discharges echoed across the grassland, and the ropes tied to the stanchions of the bridge snapped. Instantly the freed cougars sprang forward, sprinted across the landscape with their legs pumping, backs arcing to propel them with frightening speed directly at the spider.

  The insect immediately changed course and went toward the approaching animals, its mandibles loudly snapping like distant blasterfire. Staying motionless, the companions anxiously watched as the muties collided.