by Axler, James
Chapter Ten
Reaching the shoals of the island, the companions climbed wearily over the exposed tangles of tree roots and finally reached dry land. Going inland, they found pine trees growing thick along the shoreline, the ground covered with needles. Drained, the friends dropped to the soft carpeting and fell asleep almost immediately. Ryan found himself to be the last one awake, and dragged over a rock to sit on as he took first guard duty. Hours later, Krysty awoke and relieved him at the post. Choosing a spot, Ryan lay down and finally allowed himself to succumb to exhaustion. This had been a long and hectic day.
RYAN AWOKE to the smell of coffee and roasting meat. Sitting upright, he pushed aside the blanket covering him and stared at the boxes and crates dotting the campsite.
A fire was crackling in a pit, and the carpet of needles had been cleared away from any possible flying embers. J.B. was stirring something in a pan that sizzled, and the coffeepot bubbled softly, emitting the most tantalizing aroma. On guard duty, Mildred was sitting with her back to a pine tree, blaster in hand. There was no sign of the others.
"We got our supplies back," J.B. said in greeting, using a knife to flip over some meat in the pan. "The beetles retrieved most of the stuff from the bottom of the lake. They even found Doc's swordstick and my hat."
"Damn nice of them. How bad is it?" Ryan asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee. The smell alone invigorated the man. He understood how predark folks could get hooked on the brew.
Using a sock to protect his hand, J.B. took the iron pan off the fire and slid a steak onto a tin plate from an Army mess kit. "Good and bad," he remarked, passing over the food. "The ammo is fine. The boxes are airtight, and the brass was only underwater a short while. No problem there. We got back four more grens and two Claymore mines. We found a freshwater spring inland a couple of hundred paces from here. Have to boil it first to be sure, but it reads clean."
"And," Ryan prompted, cutting into the meat. It was tough but edible. He guessed it was some of the gator from yesterday.
"Everything else is gone, including the last rocket launcher. We barely have enough food for another day. A lot of the MRE packs got opened when the raft was torn apart, and more floated away. I think the beetles stole some, but probably because they were pretty. Not for the food. They have enough meat to feed a whole ville for a month. The can of fuel is gone, as well as all of the medical supplies, bedrolls, rope and the tent canvas. That is our only pan. So if you want hot food with the steak, you have to wait till it's washed."
"This'll do," Ryan answered with a full mouth. Hunger was the best sauce.
"On the other hand," J.B. added, gesturing with his head, "that huge roll of leather over there is the gator. They skinned the huge bastard and gave us the hide."
"Guess it's a reward for helping them." Ryan grinned, wiping his mouth on his hand. "Make nice boots."
"Weighs a ton."
"So I would guess, but we can't leave it. That would insult the chief." Ryan laid the plate aside. "Just stuff it in the big duffel bag with some salt to keep the smell down. When we're a couple of miles from here, we'll throw it away."
"Speaking of awful smells," Mildred said, tossing a bar of soap on the ground at his boots, "you'll find the spring a hundred feet to the north."
Ryan tucked the bar into a shirt pocket. Breakfast had disguised the odors for a while, but now the stink of the swamp muck, mixed with dried gator blood and sweat, was returning strong. "Anybody else there?"
"Everybody washed earlier. It's all yours."
Taking his weapons, Ryan moved through the pine trees, easily finding the spring. Clear water bubbled from the ground, forming a still pool, and Ryan checked the area. The water was crystal clear, and nothing could get within ten feet of him without being seen first. Stripping, the one-eyed man washed his clothes to get out the stink of the swamp, then hung them over some bushes to dry in the sunlight. Next, he grabbed a handful of pine needles and rubbed them vigorously into his combat boots to remove the sour smell of sweat and sulfur.
Making sure his blasters were within easy reach, Ryan submerged his tired body in the pool and scrubbed himself clean using the tiny bar of soap from an MRE pack and some more pine needles. He was surprised at the amount of grime that came out of his hair, and on impulse decide to shave using his knife. When finished, Ryan felt enormously refreshed and lay on the bank of the spring to let the warm breezes dry him off.
There was a rustle in the bushes, and he drew the blaster with lightning speed as Krysty walked into view.
"Hi, lover," she said, smiling. "Nice view."
Immediately, Ryan felt himself stirring under her frank gaze. "You missed breakfast," he said, clicking the safety back on.
She sat and kicked off her boots. "Had mine earlier. Doc and I have been on recce. Dean spotted some smoke drifting over the trees, and we followed it to a ville about five miles away. Good walls. No rads. Seems okay."
His interest shifted to their mission. "Any chance of getting a wag there?"
Krysty stroked his cheek, tracing a fingertip along the jagged scar. The man wore his life on his body, the network of healed wounds telling more than anything else could. He was a stone-cold killer when necessary, and yet would share food with strangers—when there was extra. No starry-eyed dreamer who lived on wishes, he was the ultimate pragmatist, and yet many times during their travels they helped save villes he might never see again. Ryan only wanted to live in peace, but constantly shook the world until its teeth rattled. Krysty considered him the only real man she had ever known.
"Ask me that again later," the redhead whispered, slowly unbuttoning her shirt.
THE SUN WAS HIGH when the companions left the pine island and headed for the mainland. They were carrying all of the remaining supplies, along with the gift from the beetle warriors. A narrow land bridge crossed the inlet, and soon they were walking through fields of scrub grass. Broken stone walls sectioned the landscape, showing that the area used to be farms at one time. Mountains rose in the far distance, the rocky crags seeming to support the ominous dark clouds filling the sky.
A beaten path wound through the grassy fields and windswept arroyos. Soon the companions reached a flattened dirt road leading toward the high stockade of a ville. The outer wall was made of logs and stones, rising to twice a man's height, the top bristly with sharp sticks and a few strands of rusty barbed wire.
Sec men armed with homemade blasters stood guard at the open gateway, the man and woman watching the companions closely as they approached. The guards were tense about the open display of blasters, but they said nothing as Ryan and the others walked into the ville.
"They must get a lot of outlanders," Krysty surmised.
Ryan frowned. "Or the guards are fools."
Inside the walls, they found a bustling community built from the remains of a predark city. The houses and buildings were arranged in orderly rows, the streets clean hard-packed dirt. A gallows stood by itself, though no rope dangled from the killing bar. People walked about carrying baskets and buckets. The aroma of frying fish was in the air, along with the smell of horses.
"Whoever built this place knew what they were doing," Mildred said in admiration. "See how far apart the lavs are from the public water well? No cholera here."
"Good defenses," Ryan agreed, gesturing to tall towers made from felled trees. Sec men stood guard holding crossbows, with strange curved axes hanging from thongs at their hips.
"Throwing axes," Jak noted while straightening his collar, being very careful of the razor blades hidden within the fabric. "Mighty hard learn, kill good."
Doing a recce, the companions entered the ville commons and watched a potter spinning bowls from red clay, a horde of children staring in fascination at the process. A fat woman was selling beer from a tub, while a white-hair tailor mended the shirt still on a burly man and a barber cut hair.
"Civilization," Mildred said, sighing. "Such as it is."
"Better than that j
unkyard ville," Dean stated.
"True enough."
Ryan worked the slide on his SIG-Sauer, ejecting a live round. The brass spun in the air and he caught the bullet, returning it to the clip.
"Now they know we're armed and have ammo," he said, holstering the piece, "that should hold down the chilling."
The crack of a whip made Doc stop in the street, a hand going to his swordstick. "Mother of God," he muttered.
Near a kindergarten jungle gym, now a coop full of cackling chickens, a line of people tossed shafts of grain on a millstone. The great slab of granite rotated along on top of another, grinding the wheat into flour. Four thick poles embedded in the top stone were being pushed along by a dozen people in chains, their backs bent to the arduous task. An overseer watched their progress and touched up their speed with the flick of his bullwhip.
"Slaves," Doc said, starting forward.
Ryan stopped him with a grip of iron. "We don't have the time or the firepower," he said harshly. "First we take care of ourselves, then we'll see what can be done about the slaves. Forget it for now."
Radiating fury, Doc glared at Ryan, a vein in his forehead pulsating steadily. He knew the one-eyed man had never been a slave of another. A captive, yes. Forced to work and kill for some baron's amusement, yes. But never a slave, and so he couldn't really know the emotions welling within him. Slowly, the old man relaxed his stance. "Yes, you are correct," Doc rumbled. "It is not a matter to be taken care of today."
Ryan nodded and continued walking.
Leaving the marketplace in their wake, the companions reached a strip mall from predark days. The display windows were long gone, replaced with wooden boards, but it was still a mall. The supermarket was now a tavern, the bank a gaudy house. Some local toughs lounged outside, chatting to a young woman with an old face. Upon seeing Ryan walking their way, the men took their leave.
"Hey, miss!" J.B. called to the woman. "Over here!"
Dressed in the loose, revealing clothes of her trade, the blonde ambled toward them and opened her blouse, exposing small but pert breasts.
"Whatcha want, stud?" she asked coyly. "I'll do ya right here for some of that brass I saw you flashing. Or we can go to my tent if you're shy. I'm Dancing Feather, the hottest slut here, no matter what that bitch at the Red Bear tavern says."
"That's not what we want," Ryan said, withdrawing a single 9 mm round and bouncing it in his palm. "Tell us about this place. Who's in charge?"
The whore beamed a smile and closed her blouse, stealing a quick jealous glance at Krysty and Mildred.
"Old man Polk is the baron here," she said, sidling closer and reaching out for the bullet. "He's okay. Finds us enough to eat each winter, don't allow no rape in public. But ya better hop when he says frog, or you'll serve the wheel. Any sec man can load that in his blaster and fire it."
So that's where the slaves at the grinding stone came from—local criminals slow to obey. Ryan withdrew his hand. "More."
Placing hands on hips, she glared in hostility, then burst into laughter. "Okay, fair dealing. This is Flat Rock ville, and unless you're a stupe, that's obvious." She jerked her head toward a squarish boulder in the middle of the ville located near an empty flagpole and a World War II howitzer in remarkably good condition.
"Get a lot of strangers?" Krysty asked.
"I sure do!" Feather grinned, wiggling her hips suggestively, then ceasing the act since it was getting her nowhere. "Yeah, sometimes outlanders arrive, but not very many these days of the mutie in the water. Big nasty thing, lots of teeth and—"
"Not interested," Ryan interrupted. "Is there a stable where can we buy horses?"
"Buy a horse?" Feather gasped. "You that rich?"
Ryan said nothing.
She shrugged. It wasn't her business. "Go down the street, past the burned-down church. Then follow your nose."
Ryan tossed her the bullet. "Thanks."
Tucking the round someplace safe, the slut watched them walk away. The bullet would buy her a week of sleeping under a roof and all the stale bread she could eat. And just for talking. Outlanders were idiots. Then she reconsidered that. Mebbe they really did have enough jack to buy horses. They certainly gave up a brass easy enough.
Heading across the town, the companions passed numerous folks in the street, many of them carrying long poles tipped with curved blades or heavy nets laced with dull copper wiring.
"Gator hunters," J.B. guessed.
Shifting the duffel bag on his shoulder, Jak snorted. "Too late."
Beyond a hole in the ground filled with rubble and stained glass, Ryan found their goal. The stable was a former gas station, the horses corralled in the service bays, water troughs where the fuel pumps used to be located. The office was now living quarters, ratty furniture resting on bricks instead of legs. Iron grates covered the window, and curtains made from shag carpet had been hung to afford some level of privacy.
Ryan knocked on a metal sign bearing the logo of a winged horse. "Customers!" he called out. "Anybody home?"
Out of a back room walked a man with a protruding belly, his clothes covered with food stains, a throwing ax in his hand.
"Oh, just outlanders." He grimaced. "No jobs here. Got a stable boy for the mucking. Try the farms north of here."
"We're here to buy," Ryan said, lifting a fistful of rounds from his pocket. The action also showed the SIG-Sauer resting on his hip. The demeanor of the stable owner changed on the spot.
"Well, well! Why didn't you say so?" he gushed, tossing aside the ax and rushing over to push up the garage doors. They rose with a squeal of tortured metal, and he stepped inside. "Want a horse, do you? Fat Tom got the best in the world."
"Highly doubtful," Mildred commented, wrinkling her nose at the smell of used hay and fish-oil lanterns.
A scrawny stable boy sat in the corner, polishing a saddle with spit and a wad of congealed grease. Mounds of dirty hay covered the stained concrete, and split rails sectioned the repair shop into a double row of small stalls. Horses of various colors stood in each, nibbling hay, and watching the humans with fearful expressions. Obviously, they were beaten into submission and not won over with kindness. Ryan immediately classified the stable owner as a coward. There was no other reason to beat animals who delighted in working for humans. Men with horses had conquered most of the old world, because they enjoyed being together.
"Not bad," J.B. said diplomatically, thinking he wouldn't want to store shit here. "How many do you have?"
"Ten," Tom said proudly, picking his ear. "But one's a swayback we'll be eating this winter, and two are colts not strong enough to carry a baby."
Walking among the animals, Ryan studied them carefully. Good legs and withers. No sign of split hooves or mange. Their coats were rough, with burrs caught in the tails. The horses needed a serious currying, but otherwise were in good health.
"We'll take them," Ryan decided.
"Which two? Or did you want three, mebbe?"
Her cascade of fiery hair gently waving, Krysty held out a hand and stroked one of the nervous beasts. The animal instantly calmed and nuzzled her palm affectionately. "We're buying all seven."
Fat Tom roared in laughter, his belly bouncing. "Not even Baron Polk has that much jack! I need some for working the fields. You gonna feed my family this winter? Thought not."
"Trade you," J.B. said, dropping the duffel bag to the ground.
The stable owner stroked his greasy chin. "Your redhead doesn't look like she has the coughing sickness. Of course, I'd want to inspect her cunny first before taking a ride, but if she's any good, I'd trade you two horses for an hour with her."
"That's fifty-nine minutes longer than you would be breathing," Krysty said, low and cold, her blaster partially drawn.
The man cackled and slapped a knee. "Good un! She's a fireblast, that one. Redheads, God love 'em."
"Try again," Ryan stated in a voice of granite.
"Well, I'll trade four horses for that fanc
y scattergun, four eyes."
"In your dreams." J.B. frowned.
Fat Tom shrugged. "Just talking. No offense meant."
Sensing the bargaining was getting serious, Ryan lowered his backpack to the floor and withdrew an oily blanket. Unwrapping the bundle, he hauled into view a AK-47 without a stock.
"Nuke me," the man whispered, reaching for the weapon and drawing his hands away before touching it. "That a rapid fire?"
"Eight hundred rounds a minute."
He snorted. "Ain't that much ammo in the whole world!"
Ryan didn't contradict the man. "We have two clips, one with ten live rounds, the other empty. Plus, fifty spent rounds you can reload. The stock is gone, but you can whittle a new one."
"Ten rounds for a rapid fire. That's one trigger click. No deal." Then he added, "Besides, got a blaster. Made it myself."
Ryan had spotted the weapon hanging on the wall when they first entered. It was made of corroded iron pipes bound together with rusty barbed wire and leather straps. He doubted if the shotgun would work more than once without blowing apart. Suddenly, he knew the local was lying for some reason, and staffed his position to keep a watch on the garage doors.
J.B. dropped the heavy duffel bag. "Well, you haven't got one of these."
Squinting suspiciously, Fat Tom watched as J.B. opened the drawstrings and lifted out the roll of hide.
"Aw, I don't need a coat," Tom sniffed. "Never gets bad cold down here."
With a flip, J.B. unrolled the skin, sending it across the floor of the stable almost reaching the door. "It's not a jacket, you fat fool," he stated. "This is the hide of the gator from the swamp. That's a hundred pairs of boots, plus gun belts and some jackets."
"No, it can't be." Tom touched the wide expanse of hoary skin in disbelief. "You chilled Frankenstein."
"Just a gator," Jak corrected.
"A dead gator." Licking his lips, the stable owner looked at the companions. "Well now, that is a lot of strong leather. Yeah, sure, I'll trade you seven horses for ole Frank."