by neetha Napew
Ryan concentrated on swinging the panga, hacking small branches out of the way.
Jak knew they'd already removed all the ones that mattered, but he also knew the big one-eyed warrior was concerned about him. However, none among the companions was more able to achieve the feat that lay before him. He didn't feel any unease himself. If he couldn't have made it, he damn sure wasn't going to swing out over the piranha-infested waters.
"Make me promise," Jak said with a straight face.
Ryan looked up at him. "What?"
"I fall in water, you shoot me in head. Gonna need relief."
"Sure," Ryan replied, slipping the SIG-Sauer free of leather. "In fact, if it looks like you aren't going to make it, I'll shoot you before you hit the water."
Jak thought about that, wondering how his joke had gotten lost in the translation. He tested the rope in his hands, pulling it taut and checking the pull of the branch it was tied to. "Joking, Ryan."
"Yeah," the big man said. "Me, too. Real fucking funny, wasn't it?"
Mentally Jak made a note that humor wasn't exactly something Ryan seemed capable of at the moment. Without another word, he took two running steps forward along the branch, then hurled himself out from the tree.
He kept the tension on the rope, transferring all his forward motion into a swing toward the moored boat. He checked the swing, letting his natural acrobat's ability guide him. The pull of gravity tugged at him, increasing his speed. In a heartbeat, he was out over the water.
His forward motion slowed, and he knew he couldn't risking losing all of it. Releasing the rope, he spread his arms wide in an effort to keep his balance as he hurtled toward the boat's prow. He was higher than he'd anticipated, coming down faster than he'd wanted. At least he was coming down near the boat.
When his forward motion stopped, he thought for an instant that he'd missed his target. The second rope had created more drag than he'd thought it would, or maybe he just hadn't gone as far out as he'd hoped. In the next instant, the bobbing deck was below him.
He landed hard, tucking into a roll and coming up on his feet. A feeling of exhilaration filled him as he turned to face the others. He smiled, then he started pulling the second rope across so they could rig the transfer.
IT TOOK ALMOST AS LONG to get the passengers aboard the boat as it did to rig up the ropes. Ryan glanced at the midmorning sun sourly. They'd lost much of the morning.
He stood back at the pilothouse with Morse, who bawled out orders to his sons. They raced up and down the rigging like monkeys as the other passengers and the companions settled in.
Junie slunk back into the river's current reluctantly, almost mired in the slow waters near the bank. Then the sails belled out and caught the wind. Her prow sheared through a low sandbar with a long grating sound that left Ryan wondering if she'd torn her bottom away.
Morse laughed as he worked the wheel. "Not to worry. Old Junie, she's a workhorse, not some nervous filly."
Ryan tightened his jaw and said nothing. He stood with a wide-legged stance that absorbed the pitch and roll of the boat as she cut to the heart of the river current. "Where's the nearest place we can do some trading for ammo and gear?"
"That'll be Annie's," Morse replied.
"How far?" Ryan asked.
Morse squinted against the breeze. "In a wind like this, if it stays with us, mebbe half a day. Be there before nightfall no matter what."
"How's she fixed for supplies?"
"Annie's a trader. Come by it natural born. Anything worth having anywhere near her, she'll have it if she wants it. Or she'll know where a fella can trade out of it."
"We're going to need ammo."
"She'll have it. She'll be willing to trade for blasters, so you can relax your brain about that. With the Slaggers in Idaho Falls getting fatter and bigger, a lot more people are wanting to get their hands on some firepower. If your friend can get those blasters fixed, she'll be willing to trade with both of us."
Ryan accepted that. Trading was only one of the options the companions had, and he knew it. With the condition Krysty was in, he wasn't going to be any more politic than he had to be.
Chapter Nineteen
"Back when I was around the Totality Concept whitecoats, my dear Ryan," Doc said softly, "they were experimenting with many things that were supposed to enhance a person's psychic ability. Drugs and electrical experiments. Even operations on the brain itself that involved transplantations from other brains and the insertion of microcomputers."
"Anything like this?" Ryan asked, looking at the nearby railing where Krysty slept like the dead. Her body rolled slowly with the motion of the boat. Only the slow rise and fall of her breasts let him know she was still alive. Dean sat nearby, keeping watch over her.
Doc shook his head, his long hair tangling in the breeze. "Not that I recollect. I made myself privy to as many of their goings-on as I could, but there was still much that I missed, as you are well aware."
"We're still days out from finding the Heimdall Foundation," Ryan stated. "After the problems she had last night, we need an edge to help her get past this."
"Doc and I talked last night," Mildred said. "We came up with a few possible solutions."
Ryan stood in the prow, feeling the breeze whisper past him and the sun beat down on him. The air was tainted with the smell of salt and minerals burning, coming from the galley below where Morse's sons had started up the water-purifying system they had on board. The water purification setup was cobbled together out of spare parts and copper tubing they'd scavenged, but Doc had pronounced it serviceable. Being able to filter water from the river made them dependent only on game from the riverbanks while they sailed. The previous night's haul would carry them for a few days.
"First option is to keep her hopped up on drugs," Mildred said.
"That'll mean carrying her with us," Ryan said. "We stay on the boat, that won't be much of a problem. Just one less blaster, which she almost is now. But once we leave, carrying her would be hard on the rest of us." And the truth also was that he couldn't tolerate the idea of Krysty mind numbed and not capable of taking care of herself. The beautiful redhead was independent and proud, qualities that had drawn him to her.
"We could," Mildred suggested, "leave her somewhere. With one of us."
Ryan shook his head. "We're in hostile territory, and splitting us up isn't something I'm going to do."
"Might not have a choice," Mildred pointed out.
"Make that choice when it's time," Ryan said. "Not before."
She nodded, accepting his decision. "Just playing devil's advocate, Ryan. You leave her behind unless there's just cause, you'll be leaving me behind, as well. We've been through too much to consider giving up now."
"What else?" Ryan asked.
"Hypnosis is a possibility I would be willing to consider," Doc said.
"What are you planning on doing with hypnosis?" Ryan asked.
"Perhaps I could help Krysty build a wall against the old crone's personality," Doc said. "By whatever means she employed to connive her way into Krysty's mind, she is only there because Krysty has not found a way to get rid of her."
"Why not just hypnotize the woman?" Ryan asked. "Have her chill herself inside Krysty's head and leave Krysty alone?"
"Treating her like a multiple personality sounds like an answer," Mildred said. "But there's some problems with that."
"Exactly," Doc said. "At the moment, Krysty is the dominant personality of the two. We might upset that delicate balance by calling for the harridan that is possessing her. Once we get her to the forefront, she might not be so easily returned."
"What Doc wants to work on is breaking the communication between Krysty and the old woman," Mildred said. "Maybe if Krysty had more time and was in a quiet place, she'd be able to do it on her own."
"That's not going to happen now," Ryan said.
"No," Doc agreed, "it is not."
"There is on
e other option," Mildred said.
Ryan looked at her.
"We could perform an exorcism," she went on.
"Madam," Doc said, lifting his eyebrows in consternation, "I cannot believe you would suggest such a thing. How can you even entertain the notion of ghosts and call yourself a person of science?"
"Everybody believes in ghosts," Mildred said. "Or at least they admit to the possibility."
"I would in nowise agree to that blanket statement," Doc objected.
"No? But I'll bet you bought into every ghost story old Shakespeare ever wrote."
"I beg your pardon. The bard included ghosts only as dramatic license, a plot device that kept a good story rolling along at a nice clip."
"I'm not talking about ghosts," Mildred went on. "I'm talking about belief systems. Maybe that old woman only has a toehold in Krysty's psyche because of her gifts and her belief in things supernatural. You ever talked to her about ghosts, Ryan?"
Ryan couldn't remember and said so. There were more important things they had to talk about every day than some threat that existed only in folklore.
"Maybe if we had an exorcism and Krysty believed hard enough, it would be able to help her build that wall against that old woman like Doc was talking about," Mildred said. "We give her a crutch to believe in, maybe her own belief systems will kick in and deny the woman's existence."
"Denying a problem's worse than facing it head-on," Ryan said.
"We're just trying to buy some time," Mildred explained. "Your call."
Grudgingly Ryan gave his acceptance. "When?"
"After nightfall," Mildred said. "By then maybe we'll be at this trader Annie's place and off the river for the night."
Ryan nodded.
"And pray tell, dear lady," Doc said, "how many exorcisms have you hosted?"
"This'll be my first," Mildred admitted.
"Fireblast!" Ryan snarled. "This isn't the time to be figuring out if mebbe you can and mebbe you can't."
Mildred turned her dark gaze on him, anger burning in her eyes. "I could have conducted forty of them before now. It doesn't mean it would work on Krysty now. An exorcism doesn't require me believing in it. It requires her believing in it."
Ryan curbed his anger, and the red mist in his vision cleared somewhat. He glanced back at Krysty, seeing that she still slept.
"What bona fides do you have in this endeavor, madam?" Doc persisted.
"One of the college papers I did involved the creation of zombies in voodoo practices," she replied.
Doc shook his head. "More false mysticism."
"Ryan, listen to me." Mildred focused her attention on the one-eyed man. "Voodoo was very powerful in Haiti, New Orleans and other pockets of civilizations where the religion flourished. The darker side of voodoo involved blood sacrifices. We've seen muties who still practice it, and other things as we've knocked around. There were cases of zombie creation in the 1990s. They were documented studies. Pharmacological corporations sent teams down into South America and Haiti looking for the zombie powder. They were hoping to find a new anesthetic that was more potent than anything that had been found up to that date. Instead, they proved the existence of zombies."
"Dead men walking," Jak commented, approaching the group.
"You've heard of such things?" Ryan asked the albino.
Jak shook his head. "Seen 'em. Dead men crawl out graves in swamps. Made protect sacred areas, bokor's secrets."
"Bokor?" Doc asked.
"Sort of a voodoo evil magician," Mildred said. "Bokors raised the dead. Only they weren't really dead. The voodoo religion was so strong that the zombie powder convinced people it was given to that they were dead. What it really did was put them into a coma that lasted days. Then they were buried."
"Alive?" Ryan asked.
"Not so that you could tell it," Mildred replied. "There wasn't enough respiration to fog a mirror. No heartbeat that could be heard. For all intents and purposes, they were dead."
"Only they were truly in a coma," Doc said.
"Yeah. There was the belief among medical professionals, physicians and psychologists, that the afflicted person could still hear."
"While they were pronounced dead?" Doc queried.
"Right. It strengthened their belief that they would return as a zombie, that they were really dead. A funeral was held to further convince not only that individual, but also the community, that person was chilled. A few days later, the person was dug up and another drug was administered, or maybe the effects of the zombie powder wore off."
"Why didn't these people just go back to their lives?" Ryan asked.
"Because they believed they were zombies," Mildred answered. "That's what I'm telling you, Ryan. And it's one of the major differences between the Western practice of medicine versus the Eastern practice. Homeopathic medicine requires more belief on part of the patient than the Western style. But the success rates are on a par. Or were. Even Western doctors were convinced that after surgeries patients usually got better because they believed they would. Belief is a very strong thing."
"So if Krysty believes enough in this exorcism, mebbe it'll erase this woman from her head?" he asked.
"Perhaps it'll give her a better chance against that woman," Mildred commented. "We're still dealing with something we've had no experience in. We find this Donovan, maybe we'll know more."
"You talk to her first?"
Mildred nodded. "Get her thinking along the lines we need her to first. Do the exorcism tonight when we have time to put on a show, do it right."
"Only if she's got the strength," Ryan cautioned. He glanced down the river, shifting his body with the pitch of the sailboat. "Even getting to the trading post, we're going to be on condition red. Don't trust Morse not to run us into a trap. Everybody keep your eyes peeled."
"HOW MUCH FARTHER?" Ryan demanded.
Morse called out sail changes to his sons and held on to the wheel. The river was swollen more now with the spring rains than before. "Another ten, fifteen minutes should see us there."
Ryan studied the riverbank. That morning, he'd been able to see where the waterline had been in weeks past. Dead grass and the clutter of broken branches and other debris had lined both banks, creating a definite line of demarcation. Now, the water was up against the green again.
And the river had picked up speed, sluicing whitecapped roils through the brown water.
"How many blasters at the trading post?" Ryan asked.
"Don't know." Morse worked the wheel, putting his back into it. Muscle stood out in sharp slabs along his back, rippling with perspiration. "Depends on how many Annie's putting up."
"Putting up?"
Morse nodded. "Built herself a couple cabins back of the trading post near twenty years ago. Likes her privacy, old Annie does. She's a reader. Got a lot of books the like of which I never seen before. Know one thing, though."
Ryan surveyed the man.
"You bring Annie a book she ain't heard tell of before, you done won her heart."
"Does she keep a standing sec force?"
"Not what you'd call a proper sec force. She's got a son, must be nearing fifty now, but he keeps meat on the table by foraging among the forest. Max, he's a silent one. Good with knives. Way I heard it, the mutie cougar Annie's got mounted over the bar was one Max took, and him with nothing more than a blade."
"What're the chances he'll be around?"
"Max knows when a boat's out on the water. He'll be there with Annie, waiting on us. Mebbe already spotted us from the forest in the last couple hours. She'll know who's coming before we get there."
Ryan glanced up at the wind-filled sails. "We've been making good time. Even with a horse, Max might not make it back in time."
Morse shook his head. "We're following the curve of the river, mister. That land on the leeward side of this boat is a half moon. Max cutting across the land is going to get to the trading post before we do. Can't be helped."
Ryan changed his gaze to the riverbank in question, thinking.
"You want to try to hedge your bet, mister," Morse said, "you go on and do 'er. But anybody you put on that riverbank now, you might as well say a few words over 'cause you ain't going to see them alive again. Max'll chill 'em and leave their bones to bleach in that forest."
"Might not go that way," Ryan pointed out.
"Mebbe," Morse grudgingly admitted, "but if we show up at the trading post before Max, Annie'll cut loose on us. Mebbe blow old Junie plumb outta the river."
"With what?"
"Got herself an artillery cannon mounted up in that trading post. Scavenged it from some National Guard unit after skydark. Been in her family for a couple generations, way I hear it. Damn thing'll set up and belch out sudden death. Seen it happen myself."
The idea of the cannon didn't sit well with Ryan, nor did the probability that any encounter with Max in the woods wasn't going to be beneficial to their cause. He didn't like the lay of the land at all, and that was a solid ace on the line. They had time, he knew he could figure a way out around it. But they didn't, and Krysty asleep and lying only a few feet from him was a constant reminder of that.
"Anybody else at the trading post regular?" Ryan asked.
"Just her grandson. Name's Jubal. He's the only child of her dead daughter, and that boy's been a retard since the day he was brought into this world."
"How often are the cabins occupied?"
"Often enough. And Annie don't let nobody stay there that wouldn't pick up a blaster in her defense." Morse pointed ahead of the boat. "See that grove of ash trees?"
"Yeah."
"We get around that," Morse said, "you'll be able to get your first look at the trading post."
Ryan nodded.
"Best you keep in mind, though," Morse cautioned. "Once you see that trading post, you remember you're also looking down the throat of an artillery cannon."
Chapter Twenty
"That's a regular fort," J.B. commented.