Downrigger Drift

by James Axler

  Ryan gave the leader credit, he recovered fast, although he seemed to be staring at Ryan harder than was necessary under the circumstances. “Greetings, outlander. What ya got?”

  Nodding to Krysty, they stepped forward and placed the various items on the road, then stepped back, keeping their hands in plain sight the entire time. The leader confirmed that his second was keeping an eye on the two outlanders, before walking forward to examine the goods. Although he tried to hide it, his gaze kept returning to the shells Ryan had set down, although he also showed interest in the small assortment of spices they’d packaged for the trip, including the more exotic ones like black pepper and vacuum-sealed containers of dried basil, oregano and sage, taken from the stores of the redoubt kitchen.

  The man finished his review and stepped back. “How much .308 and shotgun ammo you carrying?”

  Ryan rubbed his chin. “Mebbe fifty rounds of the ball ammo, and a hundred of the 12-gauge.” He was lowballing—there was five times that amount for the two machine guns inside, but he saw no reason to mention it.

  The man’s tongue flicked out to lick dry lips. “We’ll take forty .308 and fifty of the 12-gauge for passage for all of you and the vehicle. Disarm your weapons first, and you’d be welcome into the ville, where you could trade for any other items you may need.”

  “Sounds a bit steep—why don’t we say twenty of the .308 and twenty-five of the shotgun? I’ll even throw in a sample of the spices we’re carrying for the womenfolk.”

  Ryan saw the second man—more a boy, really, barely out of his teens—wipe his mouth, and figured he had a deal. Only salt could be easily found in the Deathlands, crudely processed from the ocean. Spices like the ones he was carrying were worth their weight in gold—even more sometimes, since a person couldn’t eat gold.

  The man spoke up again. “Thirty bullets and forty shotgun shells—that’s my final offer.”

  Ryan took his time replying, gazing first up the river, then down. “Could find another place to cross, then you’d have nothing.”

  The man smiled for the first time, revealing yellowed teeth. “Nearest bridge is more’n a hundred miles south, and they’d just as soon shoot ya as talk over there.”

  “Still, your price seems high. One bullet could get me a night’s lodging and food in most villes.”

  “Times are tough,” the second man said. “Caravans don’t come by as often—”

  The leader turned his head to stare at his backup. “Quiet, Jabe.”

  He turned back to Ryan. “Looks like ya got a destination in mind, and where yer going takes ya right through our ville. Could go around, but that takes a lot of gas. The toll is what it is—you kin pay and pass, or turn around and head back the way you came.”

  Ryan had been considering simply paying what had been asked—the bargaining had been tough but fair—but the man’s dismissive tone had gotten his back up. He looked past the man’s shoulder at the bridge in the distance. “Not sure what you’re offering is going to do it. The wag’s kind of heavy. It might bust your bridge right in half.”

  The man smirked. “She’ll hold, I guarantee it myself.”

  “That’s kind of you, but I’m not sure how I’d hold you to it if we end up at the bottom of the river with the fish nibbling our eyeballs. Nope, I think we’ll find another way across.”

  His calm words took both men by surprise. “Like I said, if ya ain’t crossing here, you’re risking a lot more than a few bullets. Come on, be reasonable.”

  “We’ll see you on the other side. Come on.” Ryan scooped up the sample of goods, turned and walked back to the war wag, Krysty falling into step beside him.

  “What’s going on? The price for crossing wasn’t that bad.”

  “Didn’t like his tone, that’s all. Besides, I think we can cross this river and not have to pay them anything.”

  “They see that, they might chill us all at being taken.”

  Ryan had reached the hatch of the wag by now, and opened it up. “It’d take a hell of a lot more than them to take us out. Let’s go.”

  J.B.’s sweating face greeted them. “How’d it go?”

  Ryan swung into the driver’s seat. “We’re crossing the river—just not over that bridge.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  J.B. digested that for a moment. “They ask too much?”

  Krysty glared sideways at Ryan for a moment. “Nothing we couldn’t afford.”

  Settling into the driver’s seat, Ryan silenced her with his own ice-blue gaze. “That bridge might not support the wag’s weight—all eleven tons of it. If it breaks, we’re out our ride, might even die trying to get out. J.B., you said this thing was amphibious, right?”

  “Manual said so. You sure about this?”

  “Yeah, let’s move out.” Firing up the engine, Ryan left the road, driving parallel to the river.

  Mildred’s voice called out from the back. “What’s going on up there? Folks’re climbing the bridge to watch us leave.”

  “Both blasters keep watch front and back. J.B., stay on the 20 mil.”

  “Hope you know what you’re doing, lover.”

  “Don’t worry about it, we’ll be fine.” The slightly nervous feeling in Ryan’s gut belied his words, but he pressed on. “This should do.”

  The waterway had probably been a small stream decades ago, but decades of the water’s relentless passage had widened it into a river, easily thirty feet across at this point, and probably ten to fifteen feet deep in the middle. The current was swift, the black waters bubbling and churning as it flowed toward the bridge. “Everyone make sure all hatches are secure, because we’re about to go for a little swim.”

  Ryan had picked a section of bank that sloped into the water on both sides, rather than trying to ford the water off a small cliff. He gunned the engine while waiting for a reply.

  “Front hatches secure,” Jak called out.

  “Rear hatches secure,” Mildred replied from the back.

  “Top hatch is secure,” Doc said from the middle of the wag.

  “Hold tight—here we go.” Ryan dropped it into gear and pressed the accelerator, feeling the wag lurch forward. The river grew larger in his view, until it took up all of his vision, then, with a jolt and sudden tilt, they rushed down the bank and into the water with a large splash.

  Ryan swayed in his chair with the sudden rocking motion as the Commando entered the river, but it kept powering its way forward, although more slowly now. The current lapped at his viewport, but otherwise the V-150 was unaffected by the water. Indeed, they were already almost to the other side, and with another bump, the wheels found the riverbed and Ryan floored it, sending the wag rocketing up the other side in a spray of water.

  “Worked better than I thought,” he said, turning back toward the town.

  Krysty’s face was drawn. “Just hope we haven’t crossed into a whole mess of trouble with your little stunt.”

  “Only one way to find out.” Ryan approached the bridge, slowing to a crawl as he came closer to the town. “J.B., best lower the cannon. We might scare them otherwise.”

  “Already doin’ it.” Ryan brought the wag to a stop a couple hundred yards from the bridge as the leader, who had already crossed the overpass, was trotting over, flanked by a half dozen men trailing him. Small children peeked out from around the corners of houses, and women hastily shooed them inside, slamming doors behind them.

  “Let’s see what they have to say this time.” Moving to the top hatch, Ryan unlocked it, shoved it open and cautiously poked his head out again.

  The bearded leader stood a dozen yards away, hands on his hips. “If you coulda crossed the river without us, why come out to barter?”

  Ryan shrugged. “Wasn’t sure I could in the first place. Besides, needed to know if you folks were honest or going to try a double cross.”

  “Ain’t no reason fer that. We do all right out here fer ourselves, and trade for the rest of what we need.” The man put one hand beh
ind his back, and the rest of the men with him visibly relaxed. “Well, ya don’t need to cross our bridge anymore, but I bet we got other stuff ya’d be willin’ to trade fer. Why don’t you shut yer wag down and come on in? At the least you all can break bread with us, share any news ya might have from the west.”

  Ryan considered the offer for a moment, then nodded. “Sure. Give me a minute, and we’ll be right out.” He disappeared into the cab. “Let’s head in, blasters only, keep them in your holsters. They seem friendly enough, but we’ll stick together. Watch their reaction to Jak. That’ll tell right off what we need to know.”

  It took a few minutes of awkward scrambling, but at last the group was able to exit the wag with a semblance of dignity. The guards greeted them with politeness, some hiding their surprise better than others at Jak’s unusual appearance. At least no one made the sign of the evil eye or spit at seeing him, as had happened in other villes they’d come across. It said a lot about the people here, and Jak accepted it with stolid silence.

  Ryan walked over to the leader and began making introductions, saving himself for last. When he did, however, the leader’s eyebrows shot up. “Ryan Cawdor? The Ryan Cawdor?”

  Now it was Ryan’s turn to be surprised. “You know me?”

  “I knew it! I thought it was you! Lots of people here heard of you’n the Trader. Hell, I even met ya once, a long time ago. I was mebbe fifteen, and you were a few years older at the time. The Trader rolled into town and stayed here for a day or two. Good man—always treated us fair. Whatever happened to him?”

  Ryan’s mouth twisted at the question about his former mentor, but he quickly calmed his expression. “He and I parted ways a while ago. I’ve seen him here and there across the land, last time down south several months back. For all I know, he’s still roaming around out there somewhere.”

  The last sentence was only partially true. When Ryan had last seen the Trader, he’d sacrificed himself to save Ryan and his group, making sure they had gotten on a raft while he stayed behind on shore to fend off the folks pursuing them. Abe, one of the last men to follow the Trader, had stayed behind with him, surrounded by murderous stickies and hostile locals. At the moment Ryan had no idea if the man was dead or alive. Still, the old man had an uncanny knack of wriggling out the tightest damn spots….

  The leader’s words jolted Ryan out of his reverie. “Too bad. If ya ever run into him again, be sure to send him up our way. We’d be happy to see him agin.” The man held out his hand, which Ryan took and pumped once. “I’m Brend Towson.” He introduced the rest of the men, with at least three others sharing his surname. “Welcome to Toma.”

  Half of the group peeled off to head back to the bridge, the others remained with the group as they headed into town. Before they left the wag, J.B. told Ryan he needed to check on the engine, and disappeared under the vehicle for several minutes. When he returned, he came up to Ryan and clapped him on the shoulder. “Runnin’ a little hot, but it’s fine now.” The words were a subtle sign that he’d removed a spark plug, ensuring that the vehicle couldn’t be stolen. They’d also removed the firing pins from all the blasters, rendering the wag an inert hunk of metal. But Ryan and his group would make sure to check on it during the night. Just because Brend and his closer relatives seemed friendly didn’t mean everyone here would be.

  “You the baron of the ville?”

  Brend laughed. “No, not really. We have a town council that meets once a week to handle any issues, but everyone here pretty much keeps the peace among themselves.”

  “What about raiders?” J.B. asked.

  “We’re pretty much off the beaten track. You all are the only ones we’ve seen in the past month. With the bridge and the river, we don’t see too much trouble, and all of the men are pretty good shots, so it’d take quite a force to actually do any damage here.”

  Ryan held his tongue, figuring it wouldn’t do any good to mention that their lone wag could destroy the entire town if he’d chosen to do so. He simply nodded instead.

  “So, where’d you folks come from? The I-90 road only leads to the ruins of Sparta and L’Crosse, then the big river.”

  Ryan exchanged a quick glance with J.B. before replying. “We were following one of our usual trade routes, coming down from Canada, around the Great Lakes, and over to this side of the Big Muddy. Heard rumors of a cache of predark stuff somewhere around here, thought we’d take a look-see. You know of anything nearby?”

  Brend forced a laugh. “If we did—and wanted to risk our lives tryin’ to get it—you think we’d be livin’ like this?”

  Ryan frowned at the reply. “We passed some kind of base sign on the road west of here. Anything in there?”

  Brend’s face darkened, and he turned to spit on the ground. “No one ever goes there. That’s from before, ya know? Got enough problems livin’ in the here and now. No need t’go stirrin’ up any more trouble.”

  Now that Brend and the guards had cleared Ryan and his group, other members of the ville cautiously approached. Soon they found themselves surrounded by a small cluster of women and young children, all dressed in homespun garb in simple colors, mainly white, dark brown and dark blue. Jak attracted the most attention, his white hair and red eyes drawing whispers and stares. Doc also garnered his fair share of stares. With his antiquated clothes and manner of speech, he caused alternating consternation and fits of giggling from any of the women and girls he spoke to.

  “Well, now we gotta start all over again with the barter,” Brend grumbled, though his tone carried no malice. “Since ya don’t need our bridge, is there anything ya do need?”

  “Well…” Ryan drew the word out for a few seconds before smiling. “Actually, there are a few things we could use.”

  “Food—real food,” Jak said, his arms folded, trying to watch everyone around them at once.

  “And any information you might have about what lies to the east,” J.B. said. “Particularly near the Great Lakes area.”

  “I think we kin do business—and at a price that works for ever’one. C’mon, we’ll show ya around.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The rest of the day passed in strangely peaceful relaxation. Ryan was able to arm both women with plenty of reloaded .38-caliber bullets in exchange for a few original .308 slugs. Just to show there were no hard feelings about the bridge, he threw in a dozen shotgun shells, too. They traded more ammo and some of the spices for other food, dried fruits, canned vegetables in valuable glass jars, some fresh ones as well, and salted meat. Of particular interest were the crusty loaves of fresh-baked sourdough bread, baked from stone-ground wheat grown in the area and made from a starter that one of the wives boasted had originated more than fifty years ago.

  The ville held a feast for the visitors that night, with everyone attending. There was plenty of venison, served several different ways, including several roasted haunches, a huge black pot of stew, and another pot slow-cooked and shredded for thick, sloppy sandwiches. They also served several other kinds of meat, including rabbit, squirrel, pig and chicken. There were plenty of vegetables: potatoes, tomatoes, zucchini, cucumbers and carrots. They even had fresh milk and butter, churned the day before. The real treat was thick, golden honey, collected from a large hive of mutie bees on the outskirts of town. The townspeople paid special reverence to the beekeeper family, who practically risked their lives every time they went out to collect it. They also distilled a strong, sweet mead from the honey, which left a pleasant, warm burn in the back of the throat after each swallow.

  Ryan and his company ate their fill, with Jak almost getting sick after wolfing down three huge plates loaded with food. Afterward, there was dancing and music, with several people bringing out ancient instruments, including a violin, tin whistle and a tarnished snare drum, all forming a bizarre combo that came together with the ease of years of practice. They were mostly limited to hymns, but when the violin player sawed the opening bars of a fast-paced waltz, Doc rose and walked over
to Krysty, bowing from the waist.

  “Master Cawdor, would you mind if this old man asked Miss Wroth for a dance?”

  Feeling full and expansive, Ryan was chewing on a sliver of oak after using it to clean his teeth. He glanced at Krysty, who had covered her smile with the back of her hand. “Permission isn’t mine to give, Doc. The lady’s right here, why don’t you ask her yerself?”

  The elderly man bowed again, all genteel courtesy, and held out his hand. Krysty rose to take it, and he led her out to the rough square formed by the rows of tables and benches. With a flourish, he drew her in close and swept the flame-haired woman around the floor in a whirl, his right hand around her waist, his left holding her right up and out at their side. Around and around they twirled, covering the floor in a series of circles, always moving counterclockwise on the floor.

  “He waltzes well,” Brend observed from beside Ryan.

  “Better him than me.” The one-eyed man thought about mentioning that Doc might have been around when this particular variation of the dance had been invented, but decided against it. Instead, he turned the conversation to more mundane matters. “You’d said you’d let us know what to expect east of here.”

  “That I did, but I’m not sure it’s gonna be much use. None of us have headed out that way in the past few years. Villes round here look out for each other, and each helps all in time of need. Occasionally a caravan passes through from the east, and almost all of them have been carrying fresh and smoked fish—large ones—so either they’re stocking up from the lakes, or someone over there is supplying them. But we’ve never taken that much interest—just trade with those that come through. It’s a hard life here, but a good one, and we aim to keep it that way. One way to do that is to not go courtin’ trouble.”

  Ryan nodded as he watched the festivities before him—Doc kicking up his heels as he waltzed a laughing Krysty around the hardpacked dirt, Mildred sitting next to J.B. down the table, their hands no doubt intertwined underneath. Jak off to one side, talking with some of the braver older children. For a moment he saw what all of the people here saw—a sense of community, a sense of place, of growing up where their fathers and their father’s fathers had lived, of carving out a life from the land, of working with people you knew and trusted, and knowing that they would repay the favor when you needed it.