by James Axler
Paxton, slow on the uptake, was only now clawing for his own sidearm, but Marinelli had let go of the wheel and was bringing up the sawed-off 12-gauge shotgun that was kept in a holster by the helm to discourage boarders.
“Mine’s bigger,” Ryan said, as he yanked the swivel blaster’s lanyard. The hammer dropped on the percussion cap.
The weapon roared and belched a cloud of smoke. The slowly expanding column of double-ought buckshot smashed through the cabin’s front bulkhead, clawing Marinelli from behind it and throwing her out of sight. The two-inch cannonball behind punched a neat hole through the already perforated panel to strike the boiler with a clang so resounding Ryan heard it over the ringing in his ears from the swivel blaster’s shot.
The effect was even better than he’d expected. The fast-moving one-pound ball ruptured the boiler. A giant cloud of steam suddenly billowed out both sides of the cabin and filled the little pilothouse. Scalded sailors shrieked in agony.
It was also worse than intended. Ryan had hoped to jack the boat himself and take it back to his friends. In a pinch, he thought there was at least a gambler’s chance he could sneak them past the Grand Fleet in her, given that Doria was one of theirs. Now that prospect didn’t look possible. With her boiler busted, and with the spoked steering wheel no longer visible and likely knocked to nuke and gone by the ball, the patrol boat was just another floater, stuck in the midst of a strontium swamp and a passel of hungry crocodiles.
A figure staggered forward out of the steam. It had its arms extended toward Ryan. He couldn’t tell whether it carried a weapon or not. He let go of the lanyard to whip out his SIG Sauer P226 and aim it at the apparition.
It was Paxton, or so Ryan guessed from the general size and shape. It was an unrecognizable red mass with the skin of its face and arms hanging down in flaps that swayed with its tottering steps.
Ryan fired once. The head snapped back. The flayed and parboiled body slumped to the deck. Ryan was ruthless to his enemies, but he wasn’t a sadist. The scalded ensign’s suffering wouldn’t buy him any advantage, and thanks to Tanya’s generosity Ryan had plenty of 9 mm ammo. Apparently the barony stockpiled it even though few blasters in the fleet could fire it.
Orange lights flashed through the thinning white steam. A bullet punched through the bow to Ryan’s left, outbound. Some of his former squaddies were firing at him from the afterdeck. They were firing blindly, but it wouldn’t last. A lucky shot could find him at any time.
Ryan swung the swivel blaster sideways and hunkered between it and the prow, using its hard metal mass and that of its brass column upright for cover. He also now had the steam, the bulky boiler, and what remained of the scorched and battered forward bulkhead for concealment. He kept his weapon held in front of him in both hands and waited.
He kept his head swiveling left and right, so that he didn’t get caught out, when two more figures came charging through the steam on either side of the cabin. The man on the left was firing shots from a longblaster, meaning that whether or not that bastard Jones was well-done from the boiler blast, one of his five-man, handpicked hit squad had the sense to make use of his weapon. At least two of the coldhearts survived and were still determined to carry out their real mission on behalf of Baron Tanya’s enemies.
Ryan double-tapped the man to his left—the one with the Winchester—before he’d gotten clear of the steam still pouring from the ruptured boiler. He fell on his face and slid forward along the deck. The carbine left his hands and skittered toward Ryan, slowly turning.
Even better. But the second chiller took the warning and hunkered down behind the portside brass pole by the helm and fired a handblaster at Ryan. The bullet struck the black iron barrel just to the side of its mounting hinge and screamed off at random across Dead Man’s Creek, leaving a streak of lead on the harder metal, surprisingly bright.
From somewhere off the starboard bow—currently Ryan’s left—came frenzied splashing and a series of agonized shrieks. Somebody, possibly the hapless leadsman Vasquez, had found a new life partner in the form of a Nile croc. In that, they were destined to spend the rest of his life together.
The second gunman popped out and fired another shot at Ryan. This one punched through the decking by his right boot. He fired a return shot through the thin wooden front panel just inboard of the upright, hoping to hit his hidden opponent. Or just give him something to think about.
Ryan fired another shot, this one aimed to whang off the brass pole just above the bulkhead level. Then he threw himself into a forward roll that ended next to the fallen repeater. Holstering his SIG, he scooped up the longblaster and worked the lever.
A fat .45 Colt cartridge promptly flipped out of the receiver, its brass casing glittering in the sun. It was a round wasted, but Ryan would rather that than pull the trigger to save his life and have the hammer click down on a spent round.
Of course, now he had to wonder how many cartridges were left. He took for granted it was fully loaded. Whatever he had been—or still was—CPO Jones was too seasoned to keep his mag anything but topped off. The man Ryan had shot had fired several rounds—three, Ryan recollected. Maybe four. And he’d just jacked one onto the deck and had it roll promptly out the scuppers, as the boat, having lost way, began to turn in the current carrying it back toward the Sippi. So count on the worst: six done, which left nine in the tubular magazine.
Ryan fired two quick shots through the front bulkhead, just to starboard of the main cannonball hole, and angled tight enough they should have intersected the assassin. But “should” and a half a bottle of Towse Lightning would get you a blowjob from the ugliest toothless slut in the Deathlands’ lowest gaudy.
He pulled yet another forward roll. This one brought him up to a crouch just aft of the starboard front brass upright with his hip pressed against the gunwale and his head in a swirl of steam that was too hot for comfort. He had the blaster to his shoulder as he came up.
Across the brass bead front sight he saw his assailant, standing up, with his right hand stuck out over the bulkhead pointing a Navy Colt, and his left wrapped around his midriff. Likely one or even more of Ryan’s guess-shots had found a home in his entrails. But he was hard-core and dedicated. Ryan fired his first shot as his blaster came to bear on the stooped form. The target was just under the exposed right armpit and designed to smash through lungs and heart. Rather than waiting to admire his perfectly placed shot he fired again.
The round hit the man in the neck on his way down.
Ryan turned to face aft and backed out of the steam. The day was getting hot and humid enough without needing the extra steam treatment. As he did so, he saw an orange glow come to sudden life through the steam that was still just thick enough to screen the aft half of the craft.
Flames began to dance eagerly up from somewhere. Despite the fact the boiler break had splashed the deck with water, they acted healthy and happy—and hungry. That suggested the firebox had been breached and spilled white-hot coals onto mostly dry wood belowdecks. For the boat, which was already a write-off from Ryan’s point of view, being on fire didn’t mean much. To Ryan it meant plenty. Because stashed down there in what passed for the boat’s hold were the powder stores for the swivel blaster and ammo for the occupants’ blasters. While the Doria didn’t carry enough black powder to cause a true detonation—that required several hundred pounds going off at once—she did have enough to break her in two and chill everybody aboard.
At least, everybody lucky aboard. The unlucky ones would be dumped in the water, maimed and half-cooked morsels for the crocs.
And speaking of the crocodiles, Ryan reckoned it was time to make their acquaintance. Keeping hold of the longblaster, whose length could come in handy fending off a welcoming committee in the form of carrion-infested teeth set in giant reptilian jaws, he dived over the rail.
Ryan plunged deep enough that his boots touched the soft mud bottom. Keeping his eye open, though there was enough silt in the water to make it m
urky, he pushed off. A moment later his head broke the surface. Still holding the longblaster in his left hand, he began swimming toward the stern where the rowboat lay. He was a strong swimmer, and even with his boots on kicked hard enough to drive himself despite the impediment the Winchester caused with his arm strokes. Because he wasn’t likely to outswim a crocodile that had targeted him, he focused on splashing as little as possible.
With his head above the water, he heard at least two more splashes. Two of whomever remained on board had decided to take their chances with water rather than face the certainty of fire.
Immediately ahead of Ryan a head bobbed above the waves. Its face was turned away and with its short hair slicked down to the skull he had no hope of guessing who it was. All he could tell was that it was somebody lighter-skinned than Jones. The person seemed to be thrashing, either because he couldn’t swim, or because panic had set in. Ryan didn’t especially care about identities, since his only concern now was whether anyone would still be fanatical enough to still try to chill him. He was focused on his survival and returning to his Krysty and his companions, and he was ready to chill anyone who looked like they were getting in his way.
All of those thoughts dissipated when the surface seethed, just beyond the bobbing head, and then the sideways-turned snout of a huge croc burst out in a geyser of spray. Long, strong jaws opened wide—and clamped down on the head. Ryan saw blood spurt, and then with another splash both the crocodile and its next meal disappeared.
Ryan looked uneasily around. No other crocs appeared nearby. Although as he’d just been uncomfortably reminded, they could swim underwater just fine. But the hints of lumpy brown hide seemed to be keeping their distance, after the one had decided to take easy prey. It was readily apparent that the crocs didn’t care to get too close to the boat, which was now burning briskly.
Encouraged by both the crocs’ standing off and the blaze aboard the boat, Ryan redoubled his efforts. He did not want to be in the creek when the powder magazine blew. Water transmitted shock waves way too efficiently, never mind the very real threat of getting smashed to bits by flying debris.
By chance the Doria had already rotated almost ninety degrees clockwise, and the boat was naturally lagging behind on its towline. That conveniently reduced the distance Ryan had to swim.
He grasped the gunwale of the boat with his right hand and deposited the Winchester inside with his left. The black powder casings inside were probably waterlogged and useless, but he could always whack the longblaster over some overly aggressive croc’s head or snout without too much regret. He began to haul himself in, deliberately despite the adrenaline singing in his veins that he had to get out of the crocodile-infested water now. He didn’t want to overturn his ride out of here.
The boat, built broad enough to confer some lateral stability, heeled toward him, then it settled abruptly back toward an even keel.
And Ryan found himself staring into the murder-filled eyes of Chief Petty Officer Jarvis Jones.
Chapter Twenty-Three
A clang like a giant bell resounded when the sledgehammer’s ten-pound head hit the railroad rail angled up along the portside front of the Mississippi Queen’s cabin. A shock ran through Krysty’s palms, up her bare arms and into her already aching shoulders.
“Right,” J.B. said from the top of the cabin. “Looks good now.”
“Yeah,” Nataly agreed from behind her. “Looks fine from this angle.”
Easing the business end of the sledgehammer back to the deck, Krysty took a moment to wipe sweat from her brow with the back of one hand. The blue handkerchief she’d tied around her hair was already soaked through from hard exertion in the humid morning heat.
As the biggest person on the job—the swampers, though willing and able workers, were not healthy—Santee would have seemed the logical choice for such power work. But he had a tendency to overswing, and knock the misaligned workpiece out of true the other way.
For some reason Krysty proved to be the best for this task. She was tall and strong for a woman, if a child next to the happy Indian in both departments. She had a pot of stamina, and she was frankly more coordinated than Santee at a task like this. “There’s not much to do,” Ermintrude observed. She had just hauled on board a four-foot section of bridge truss that would fill in some of the gaps between the rails armoring the cabin.
“Which is ace,” Arliss called from somewhere aft where he was helping fit another rail into place. “We’re down to the dregs of our wire.”
“Will it hold?” Ermintrude asked.
“For a spell,” J.B. said. “Bounce enough cannonballs off any piece, the wire’ll shear. That’s just a fact.”
“How long will it last?” Arliss called.
“Till it doesn’t anymore. That’s the best answer I can give.”
“Look north!” Suzan shouted from atop the cabin roof, seeing a white puff of steam from the north.
Working or not, J.B. made sure somebody kept watch at all times. With even Jak lending a hand with the work of armoring up the Diesel tug, sentry duty went to whoever currently needed a breather the worst.
Krysty looked. White smoke was billowing up from somewhere beyond the tall grass wall rising on the far bank. Not far away, either.
A bang reached her ears. It sounded like a cannon’s report, but it had a ringing undertone to it, too, that put her in mind of the sound she’d been making altogether too much of, whanging on rails this past hour.
“Oh, thank Gaia!” she exclaimed. “It’s Ryan!”
“What on Earth makes you jump to that conclusion, Krysty?” Mildred demanded from the shore, where she was tending to a teenage swamper who’d gotten his hand mashed by a rail. No bones broken, though. “That’s not your—uh—intuition kicking up, is it?”
Krysty laughed and shook her head. She felt her living strands of hair twining in among each other like happy snakes. If such a thing existed.
“Who else could cause that much mayhem?” she asked.
The smoke changed color, or rather was joined by dirtier-looking smoke.
“Wood fire, looks like,” J.B. observed.
Despite the press of work, everybody stood and watched. There wasn’t much to see, but almost at once came a flurry of blasterfire.
“What do you think it is?” a swamper woman asked.
“If I had to,” J.B. said, “I’d say somebody sent a patrol boat up a creek mebbe a quarter mile north of this one, and that it’s come to no good end.”
The blasterfire ceased. The gray-tinged smoke increased as the whiter stuff diminished. “Bet that was steam from a ruptured boiler,” J.B. said.
Mildred finished wrapping the kid’s wounded hand in a bandage of clean cloth she’d retrieved from her med kit. “Try not to mess it up any more, is the best advice I can give,” she told him. He thanked her and headed left to join his kin.
Krysty sighed and hefted the sledgehammer. She felt a constant stirring in her guts now that was either the effects of rads and heavy metal accumulation, or was her imagination letting her know what it thought those poisons were doing to her body. She felt fatigued all the time, too. Whatever was happening to the north was happening without her or any of her friends being able to do a single thing to affect it. But the work here had to get done, fast.
“Do you really think Ryan’s involved with that mess up there?” Mildred called to her.
A bright flash lit the sky beyond the tall grass. Another, bigger ball of smoke shot skyward. The tops of the grass actually bowed toward them with a shock wave, although it passed over the Queen. Or at least Krysty didn’t feel it from the deck. They heard the boom of a major explosion.
Brown eyes wide, Mildred stood watching the latest ball of smoke rise into the clear blue sky.
“Right,” she said. “Totally Ryan.”
* * *
THE SECOND THING Ryan noticed was that Jones had a knife in his teeth. The right side of his face was a raw, bloody mess. Apparently h
e’d gotten over the side without being chilled by the live steam leak, but he had not done so without cost.
Taking out the knife with his right hand, he put his left down in the bilges and catapulted himself right at Ryan.
Ryan simply let go of the side of the boat and slid back into the water.
His side of the vessel promptly whipped up, without his weight to counterbalance all of Jones’s being put on the other side at once. Ryan heard a satisfying thwack, as of a side-to-side bench hitting the enraged and heat-flayed face of the other man. Then he heard scrabbling, as if Jones was desperately trying to stop the boat from capsizing.
Don’t want to go back in the water, do you? Ryan thought. It couldn’t have felt good on his burns. And while Ryan didn’t know if crocs could taste blood in the water the way sharks did, he wouldn’t have bet any part of himself he liked they couldn’t.
Jones stopped the boat from flipping over toward him. Ryan reached up and grabbed the gunwale. Yanking the boat toward him, he heaved himself up and over the side.
The Doria exploded with a sky-busting bang. Shock waves set the rowboat to rocking perilously. Broken planks, chunks of metal and possibly body parts cartwheeled overhead and pelted the water around them. The two men ignored it all, intent only on chilling each other.
Jones was all the way in the boat on his hands and knees. Ryan used his momentum to throw a straight right palm-heel. The would-be assassin managed to jerk his face far enough aside to avoid taking it full on the chin, but the evasion meant the heel of Ryan’s hand grazed his right cheek and scraped along the bone hard. Jones gritted his teeth between peeled-back lips. But the agony of impact, salt and friction on his skinned flesh made him grunt.
His momentary distraction allowed Ryan to slam his right elbow down on Jones’s knife hand. Fingers opened and let go of the Ka-Bar-style blade.