by James Axler
And that target was obviously Mildred.
The eel was moving purposefully across the water, its slithering motion taking it beneath then over the surface of the water. It was moving with a greater speed than Jak and Dean could muster between them, certainly a speed too great for the frustrated Ryan to take aim and fire at such a range, even if he had been able to reach the rifle. With no oars to row, no strength to row with and unable to even reach his blaster, he watched in frustration as the creature moved out of his range and toward Mildred’s prone figure.
“Someone blast the fucker,” he croaked.
Jak and Dean’s raft had passed the drifting raft occupied by Ryan and Krysty, and although it was gaining on Mildred with enough speed to save her before she lost buoyancy, there was no way they would reach her before the eel. It was moving too fast and its diagonal course would take it to her long before them.
J.B. was on the far side of the raft. Although he had untangled one arm from the ropes and pulled free his M-4000, which with its charge of barbed metal fléchettes would be sure to at least cause the beast enough damage to slow and distract it, there was no way he could get a clear shot at the creature without the risk of clipping one of the other occupants of the raft, particularly as the waves continued to toss the raft from crest to crest, making a steady aim almost impossible.
Doc seeing the frustration in the Armorer’s face, and realizing what lay in his way, decided to take action of his own.
“Have no fear, dear John Barrymore, I have a clear view,” he yelled, untangling his arms so that he was able to move freely. Changing position with a speed born of urgency, he moved around on his knees, swaying wildly as the floor of the raft moved beneath him, but determined to follow through his avowed course of action. Pulling the LeMat percussion pistol from its secure place in his belt, where he had also secured his silver lion’s-head swordstick, he spread his knees and rooted himself as firmly to the floor of the raft as was possible. Holding the LeMat in both hands to try to attain a steady aim in such hostile conditions, he fixed his eye on the eel as it moved swiftly and smoothly through the water. With each stroke of the oars they were closing on Mildred and the eel, but the creature was closing in on her with more speed.
“By the Three Kennedys, you shall not have her you foul creature of eldritch imaginings,” he yelled before letting loose with the shot charge. The recoil, in such unsteady conditions, threw him back on his haunches. He pushed forward and let fly with the ball-charge barrel before having a chance to aim properly, knowing that there wasn’t enough time and that he couldn’t guarantee another moment of steady aim in these conditions.
Doc’s trust in his instinct was justified, although he couldn’t have foreseen the consequences. The shot scored the creature on its side, up near the point where its head almost seamlessly joined with the sinuous length of its body. The smooth blue-black scale was ripped apart by the shot, tatters of skin exploding to show white flesh and blood that began to pour into the sea as the creature suddenly changed direction, blind fury and pain causing it to twist in the water as it tried to locate the source of its pain.
Turning was the worst thing it could have done. As its head shifted, the ball charge sped toward it, hitting the marbled black eyeball with a force that exploded the dark, expressionless orb, the viscous contents splattering out to mix with the spume from the waves as the ball shot continued through into the creature’s brain. All functions ceased other than the purely motor, which took a little while longer before the eel’s nervous system finally lost the last spark of life. This was barely more than a few seconds, but long enough for the creature to wreak one last piece of havoc.
As the raft powered by Jak and Dean came closer both to the creature and to Mildred’s prone body, so it came within range of the falling body of the eel. As the creature twisted in its death throes, its downward trajectory brought it in line with the craft.
“Oh my sweet Lord,” Doc breathed as the creature hung for one moment in the air before lifelessly plunging toward them as he jammed the LeMat back into his belt.
J.B., at the rear of the raft, had time to yell, “Take cover, it’s coming down!”
The Armorer secured himself to the ropes as Jak and Dean dived for handholds. But Doc seemed transfixed, still on his knees.
“Doc!” J.B. shouted helplessly as the sun was blotted out by the falling creature. Then all sense was lost as the corpse of the eel fell heavily on the raft, thrusting it beneath the waves and throwing Doc from the interior as the other three occupants held on for dear life.
Ryan and Krysty watched in despair, unable to do anything to help, and yet there was a chance consequence that was of some benefit, at least. As the corpse of the creature drove the other raft under the sea, the impact combined with the conflicting tidal currents to lift the raft with the one-eyed man and the red-haired woman onto a wave that swept them onto a collision course with Mildred, herself lifted up on the current and pushed in a random direction.
“Grab her, quick,” Krysty said through salt-crusted lips, her voice a hoarse bark. Ryan moved as quickly as he could and joined her at the side of the raft, reaching for Mildred as she was swept past. She was still unconscious, but between them they were able to grab her coat and then get a grip on her body. As the woman was weighed down by the water in her clothes, and the deadweight of her senseless state, it wasn’t easy for Ryan and Krysty to haul her into the raft, particularly as their muscles were battered, bruised and weakened by the assault that had taken Mildred from them initially. However, with much cursing and no little effort, they were able to haul her into the raft.
Sinking back, Krysty sighed. “Thank Gaia for that—but what about the others?”
Ryan, still gasping for breath after the last effort and scanning the ocean surface as he clung grimly to the ropes around the raft, could see no sign of the other raft. Then, just as he was about to speak, his breath was taken away by a sight that defied belief. The raft with Jak, Dean and J.B. shot up from the depths, having squirmed free from beneath the falling chilled flesh of the creature by its natural buoyancy. It cleared the surface of the water, and, having avoided being caught by a wave, righted itself with less of a bone-jarring crunch than Ryan and Krysty had experienced.
“Dark night, what was that?” the Armorer spluttered, trying to clear his mouth and lungs of salt water, coughing heavily.
“Fucker chilled now,” Jak rasped. “Look for Doc more important.”
“Over there,” Dean retched, pointing to where Doc was visible as he bobbed up above the waves.
The oars had gone from the raft, but the current was pushing them roughly in the right direction. Doc had hit the water from less of a height than Mildred and had been able to keep conscious. He was weakly striking out toward them with as much energy as he could put into the breaststroke. Jak leaned over as Doc got within range and took hold of one of the older man’s hands, using all the strength in his wiry frame to pull the old man toward the raft. Dean leaned back to counterbalance as J.B. joined Jak in helping pull Doc into the raft.
Both rafts were now adrift without oars, at the mercy of the tidal currents. Waves brought the two rafts close enough for the occupants to be able to shout across to each other.
“What the hell do we do now?” Ryan yelled. “No fireblasted paddles.”
“What can we do except hope?” J.B. shrugged. “Is Millie okay?”
Ryan shook his head. “Still out cold. I’d feel happier if we could get her on dry land, warm and dry. But how the hell do we get past this bastard current?”
“Sea take us over this,” Jak pointed out, indicating the fact that the waves had now swept them across the bulk of the choppy waters. “Mebbe we hit tide, take us into island,” he added.
“He’s right, lover,” Krysty whispered hoarsely to Ryan. “Look.”
The white water was now behind them. The tidal current that swept toward the shore of the island had now gripped them and, slowly but i
nexorably, the sandy strip of beach was moving closer.
Chapter Three
Twilight’s last gleamings faded into the darkness of night as the two rafts were gently wafted toward the shore. Once free of the crosscurrents, the tidal flow around the island was gentle, the waves small and slow, lapping at the sands. Each flow took them in toward shore, each ebb, back out a little, making progress without the oars to assist a painful and slow task.
But for the inhabitants of the rafts, there was little inclination to hurry in any way. In one, Jak, Dean and Doc were lying in a state of half wakefulness, their attention drifting in and out with the ebb and flow of the tide. J.B. was more watchful. He was concerned that Doc had taken more of a buffeting than he could stand, and if the older man didn’t get warm and dry soon, there was risk of pneumonia. Even with Mildred’s skills, there was no guarantee that he could be saved if that occurred. And on a more communal level, it would make matters difficult to carry a sick Doc if the environment on the island were to prove in some manner hostile. And then there was Mildred herself. With little communication between the rafts, even shouting precluded by the weariness and salt-sore throats of the companions, there was no way for him to judge Mildred’s condition or its seriousness. He was worried about her.
So, while the others dozed, the Armorer stayed awake, unable to rest as his aching limbs commanded, his brain racing. What if it was a hostile environment? What if Doc got ill? What if Mildred bought the farm? What if…He knew that it was an extreme weariness and hurt that caused his brain to race feverishly in such a way, but he felt unable to stop it. He looked toward the shore. It seemed to be farther away than ever.
In the other raft, Ryan and Krysty had disentangled themselves from the ropes around the sides of the craft and had moved into the middle. Bailing as much of the loose water as they could from the slightly concaved floor of the raft, they had stripped off Mildred’s jacket, which was soaked with seawater, keeping her cold and wet. Krysty checked Mildred over. She was breathing regularly, although her eyes were still rolled up into her skull; it was likely the impact of the sea had concussed her. Her pulse was regular and strong. The important thing was to try to keep her warm until they reached shore. The only way they could do this, marooned in this manner, and soaking wet themselves, was to huddle next to her to try to impart some of their own body heat to her.
“Thank Gaia, Doc was able to chill that thing!” Krysty husked the words out through a hacking cough, choking on more seawater that came up from her lungs.
Ryan nodded, almost imperceptibly. It hurt his aching neck muscles to even move his head. “Wanted to blast that son of a gaudy myself,” he croaked, “but it didn’t occur to me until just now that I couldn’t have.”
Krysty gave him a puzzled look that he could barely see in the half light of the moon and stars above.
A grin cracked his salt-caked lips. “We’d already been under…blasters are fucked by the sea. They hadn’t been under—they were the only ones who could do it. Now they can’t.”
The full implication of his words hit Krysty. The seawater had jammed the mechanisms of the blasters they carried and the other raft had been immersed. So chances were that their blasters were now also next to useless until such time they had been dried out, oiled and cleaned. Which left them, apart from the knives carried by Ryan, J.B. and Jak, next to helpless…even assuming that they were fit enough to defend themselves against any threat that may arise when they hit the shore.
“I know,” Ryan said simply as he caught her eye and was able to read what ran through her mind. “Shit happens. We’ll just have to trust to luck.”
It took the rafts a couple of long, cold hours to finally reach shore, one last wave taking them far enough in for the weighted bottoms of the craft to hit the sand beneath the water. In their respective crafts, they felt the increased drag of the plastic on sand as the tide ebbed but failed, this time, to pull them backward.
Half asleep, the muted impact nonetheless made Ryan shoot wide awake, his eye opening and adjusting to the night-time light.
“Krysty, we hit shore,” he whispered.
The woman grunted sleepily and moved, her eyes slit-peering at her companion.
“Land?” she asked, her voice fogged with sleep.
“Yeah…yeah!” he croaked in louder tones. “Fireblast! We’ve got to get out and get this ashore before it starts to drag back.”
“Uh…” Krysty could do little more than grunt, but through her weariness her brain was working to kick her into gear and to force her tired and aching limbs to respond to what they had to do. She automatically checked Mildred, who was either still unconscious or merely sleeping, and then began to struggle to her feet, joining Ryan. The one-eyed man was already standing, shakily but with a growing strength as adrenaline pumped through his system, clambering over the side of the raft and falling into the shallow tide, cursing as loudly as his sore voice would allow, regardless of anyone or anything that his cries may alert.
His sodden feet splashed in the shallows as he leaned over and grabbed the ropes on the side of the raft, pulling it toward the dry sand. He slipped and fell backward into the surf, but could only laugh hoarsely in relief at hitting land at last. As he picked himself up, Krysty hauled herself out of the raft, and as Ryan scrambled to his feet, she joined him in pulling the craft out of the foaming shallows that lapped around their ankles and onto the safety of land.
“Get it clear, then get Mildred out. We have to try to get her warm soon as possible,” Ryan muttered in hoarse and urgent tones.
Krysty saved her sore throat and nodded, pulling hard on the ropes lining the raft as her feet sought purchase in the soft sand, dragging her silver-tipped Western boots from the water-and-sand mixture as each footfall sunk into the surface.
Each inch seemed to pull and strain on muscles that protested with each exertion, but before too long they had the raft on dry sand. Paradoxically, the last few feet were the hardest, as there was no water to give the heavy plastic, with Mildred’s deadweight, even the slightest of buoyancy.
“Bastard sea,” Ryan spit as he leaned into the raft and tried to lift Mildred off the floor. His muscles protested once too often, the lactic acid forcing him into a spasm of weakness.
“Come on, lover, it’ll take two of us right now,” Krysty said, coming to his aid.
“Sure we can manage with just the two of us?” Ryan questioned wryly as the woman joined him. They heaved at Mildred’s inert body with a pitiful weakness that would have been embarrassing if it weren’t so potentially dangerous.
Krysty allowed herself a short, bitter laugh and looked around to see if the other raft had landed yet. “Figure we’re going to have to,” she rasped.
The other raft was still adrift. It hadn’t caught the wave that had carried Ryan and Krysty onto the sands and was awaiting a crest forceful enough to carry that slight difference in weight onto the shore. Without the supplies that had been lost during the short but eventful voyage, the fact that the other raft carried four people was enough to make it just that much heavier, its progress just that much slower.
From the raft, J.B. watched Ryan and Krysty land their craft and scanned eagerly for any sign of Mildred. He was frustrated that his raft was still adrift and waited for each breaking wave with a growing impatience. Looking at his fellow travelers, he knew that Dean and Jak could be woken in a moment to help him pull the raft in to shore, but he was worried about Doc. There was a rattle in the older man’s breathing as he slept that could be the start of something dangerous. The sooner they were ashore, the better—for everybody’s sake.
Just when the Armorer felt that his patience had reached its limit, and that he would have to jump over the side to try to pull the raft over the tide himself, the craft hit a crest that carried it over the tide and he felt the weighted bottom of the raft bump against sand.
“Jak, Dean, get moving. We’ve hit land!” J.B. exclaimed, shaking the albino youth by the shoulde
r and prodding the younger Cawdor—a little farther away—with the toe of his boot.
Both stirred and opened eyes still fogged by their nameless dreams.
“Dammit, let’s get this bastard pulled in,” J.B. croaked, the words falling awkwardly from his salt-swollen tongue.
He was over the side and splashing in the shallows before either of them were fully conscious or aware. But they were alert enough to realize that the end of their voyage was in sight.
Leaving Doc asleep in the bottom of the raft, realizing that he was in no condition to assist, Jak and Dean scrambled over the side of the raft, the icy cold of the water barely registering as it swirled around limbs already numbed by their soaking and subsequent drift.
“The other raft’s already in—now pull,” J.B. implored, grabbing the rope and digging his feet into the soft, yielding sand that lay beneath them.
The Armorer was on one side of the raft. Dean took the other and Jak moved to the front, which faced the shore, and both grabbed a handful of the nylon rope that was threaded around the inflated tubular structure and that had already served them so well. Ignoring the burn of the fiber on their skin, softened and wrinkled by contact with the water, all three began to pull, fighting for footing on the treacherous sand beneath them.
Struggling to get enough air into lungs that were already hurting, they used all the strength they could muster between them. With three people to pull, they made swifter progress than Ryan and Krysty had managed, but it was still some time before they bumped the plastic bottom of the raft onto dry sand.
Dean collapsed onto his back, hungrily gasping in great mouthfuls of air and yet still feeling that he was empty, with no oxygen in his system. Jak sank to his haunches, then onto his knees, coughing heavily in great paroxysms that turned into retching as he puked bile and salt water onto the dry sand.