Time Castaways

by James Axler

  Peeling back an eyelid, Mildred checked the pupils of the supine man, and her frown told the others that she didn’t like what she found.

  “John, give me a grenade,” Mildred demanded, holding out a hand.

  “Sure,” the Armorer replied, clearly puzzled. “But what do you want—”

  “Now, John!” Mildred interrupted in a no-nonsense voice, snapping her fingers.

  Rummaging in his munitions bag, J.B. unearthed the ferruled sphere of a gren and quickly passed it over. The physician looked at the deadly explosive charge for only a moment before working on the retaining ring around the neck and then carefully removing the detonator assembly on top. Setting that aside, Mildred dug inside the open sphere with a knife and extracted a small wad of gray clay. Using a handkerchief, the physician slipped it off the blade and rolled the material into a small pellet, then tucked it under the tongue of the unconscious man. Almost instantly, his face began to flush deep red, and his breathing quickened.

  “What do?” Jak demanded, shocked by the bizarre action.

  “Grens use C-4 plastic explosive as the main charge, and that is mostly made of nitroglycerine,” Mildred replied, checking the pulse in Ryan’s throat. “We got most of the poison off his skin, now we only have to deal with what got into his bloodstream. He’ll have a monster of a headache, but the nitro should keep his heart pumping until the effects of these mutie mushrooms pass.”

  “Unfortunately, we have more trouble coming,” Doc announced without any preamble. “It seems that these hunting cats are always accompanied by mounted sec men. They should be here any minute.”

  “No, we use pass,” Jak reminded him, brushing back his snowy hair. “They go around mountain.”

  “That’ll buy us an hour, or more,” Krysty said, frowning. “But nowhere near enough time to run away on foot.”

  “Who said anything about running?” J.B. countered, pulling the clip from his rapidfire to double-check the brass. Fifteen rounds, and then he would be down to the scattergun and some pipe bombs. “How many can we expect?”

  “Baron Griffin issues a hand of cats for each sec man,” Liana replied, splaying her fingers.

  It took a minute, before everybody understood that the former slave could not count. But then, there was no conceivable reason to teach a slave anything. Obedience was all that was required. An educated slave was only a time bomb waiting to go off in bloody revolution.

  “Okay, five cats for each sec man means there are maybe six armed riders coming hard and fast,” Krysty stated, looking toward the gap in the wall where the gate had once been located.

  “Or more,” Liana warned. “Sometimes they also send along the newbies to learn.”

  “Excellent!” Jak grinned without any trace of humor as he pulled out his sharpest knife. “Then start cutting!”

  Working with a will, the companions got busy hacking and slashing at the dead cougars, blood and fur going everywhere.

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Twelve

  Ryan woke with a start, memories of the past few days flooding back. The last thing he clearly recalled was a cougar clawing at his chest, the pain fading into an oddly pleasant sensation, and then everything went triple-crazy, colors becoming tastes, sounds turning into colors, and then total chaos filled the world.

  “Drugged,” Ryan muttered softly, massaging his temples. That was the only possible answer. Some of that bastard poisoned water had to have gotten into the cuts and knocked him out. He could vaguely remember weird dreams. At least everything seemed back to normal again.

  Thick furs and predark Army blankets lay under him as a crude bed. He was tucked into the corner of a large wooden room. There was a large Franklin stove in the middle of the room, jointed pipes on top carrying the smoke outside through a hole in the roof, and wonderful waves of heat were radiating outward from the cast-iron antique.

  Soft light was streaming in through glass windows, and there was a large metal desk sitting kitty-corner across the room, a gooseneck lamp on top, as well as a small comp and piles of yellow paper. A wheeled chair sat partially behind the desk, the green leather cover badly ripped, tufts of yellow foam padding sticking out randomly. He grunted at the sight. Clearly, this was some sort of an office. But where were his companions? Through the window he could see a large campfire blazing, an aluminum pot that he recognized was suspended over the flames, the contents bubbling steadily, but there were no sign of the others.

  Rising stiffly, Ryan checked for his weapons and found they were gone. Cold adrenaline flooded the man at the discovery, but then he saw his blasters and the panga lying on top of the desk, along with his backpack, coat and canteen. Okay, I’m not a prisoner. Good to know.

  Shuffling across the room, Ryan suddenly noticed the awful taste in his mouth. He almost gagged, and his empty stomach rumbled unhappily.

  Reaching the desk, the man quickly checked his weapons, finding everything clean, sharpened, oiled and fully loaded. Strapping on his gunbelt, Ryan then screwed the cap off the canteen and poured some of the contents into his palm. It looked and smelled like water, so he took a lick and was delighted to find that was exactly what it was. Taking a small mouthful, he sloshed the fluid for about a minute, then spit it out into the wastebasket, before taking an equally small sip. It deliciously eased down his dry throat and spread across his empty stomach like a healing balm.

  Resisting the urge to drink more immediately, Ryan waited a minute to make sure his guts would keep the water down, then he started sipping and pausing, again and again, slowly letting his tissues absorb the water until the hunger pangs eased and the foul taste in his mouth noticeably lessened. Unfortunately there was also a distinct rancid aroma in the small room, and the one-eyed man was pretty sure it was coming from him.

  Quickly opening the backpack, Ryan found some self-heats and yanked off the lid of one to drink cold soup straight from the can. Ryan was finished long before the container grew warm, and he tossed it into the wastebasket.

  Feeling greatly refreshed, Ryan wiped his mouth on a sleeve and found a heavy beard on his face. His fingers checked the length and he guessed at least three days had passed since the fight at Hill ville.

  “Nice to see you again, lover!” Krysty said from behind him.

  Spinning in a gunfighter’s crouch, Ryan eased the blaster back into the holster when he saw it actually was Krysty, her long hair moving constantly as if stirred by secret winds.

  “About time you got up!” J.B. added heartily, stepping in through the open doorway with the rest of the companions. “For a while there, we were afraid that you were taking the last train west.”

  “Indeed, sir,” Doc added in his deep rumble. “If the good doctor had not forced all of the blueberry juice down your throat, I do believe you may have never returned from the arms of Morpheus.”

  “Why…” Ryan was barely able to even get out the garble sound. He swallowed hard and tried again. “Why were you feeding me juice?”

  “For the vitamin C,” Mildred explained, going over to him and checking his pulse. “It helps counter the ravages of the hallucinogenic compounds.” Ninety-five beats per minute, she observed. His blood pressure felt high, but that was understandable considering the circumstances.

  “Liana showed us where to find the fruit,” the physician continued, inspecting his eye for any dilation or discoloration. “The island is lousy with food, if you know where to look.”

  “Knowledge is power,” Doc stated, looking fondly at the diminutive Liana, and she preened under the praise.

  “I sang for you, trying to show the way home,” Liana added, holding out a large leaf filled with bright orange strawberries. “But you were lost deep in the nightscape of the dreamworld.”

  “Got that right,” Ryan replied, kindly dismissing the offer. He was starving, but not for fruit. “But thanks for trying.”

  Placing the leaf on the office desk, the woman seemed to pause, then blurted, “Kin helps kin.”


  “Kin helps kin,” Ryan repeated formally in agreement, then gave a rare half-smile.

  With that, Liana burst into a wide grin and hitched up her gunbelt. Half of the ammo they had originally given her was gone, and there were three small notches on the wooden grip of the blaster. The former slave had also put on a few pounds, all of it in the right places, and there were wildflowers tucked into her long hair, the bright yellow and blues reflected in the luxurious platinum waves.

  “What is this place?” Ryan asked, glancing around the cabin.

  “Museum,” J.B. replied, crossing his arms. “There used to be a copper mine here, but it got nuked and now it’s hotter than the Washington Hole, if you can believe it. The rad counters went crazy as we came out of the valley. But we’re safe enough here.”

  “And it’s triple-sure that no sec men or cats are going to coming after us through the pass,” Krysty added. “They might go around, but according to Liana that will take them days on foot.”

  “Good to know,” Ryan said, glancing around at the mostly bare office. “Was there anything here we could use?” Museums had always been a favorite of the Trader to loot. Lots of the old tech on display worked just fine.

  “Just some pamphlets that’ll serve as toilet paper, and a couple of oil lanterns, without any oil,” Krysty replied. “Along with a med kit with only some bandages left, and some lead plumbing that we yanked out of the walls.”

  “The sec men were carrying exploding lances, sir,” Doc explained. “According to Liana, they detonate when stabbed into a target. John Barrymore simply emptied out the powder, and filled several sections of the plumbing to make us a dozen new pipe bombs of frightening power.”

  “They’ll do the trick,” the Armorer said proudly, patting the munitions bag.

  “Sounds good.” Walking to the door, Ryan studied the rolling landscape. Nukescaping, without a doubt. There were misty mountains rising to the clouds in every direction, and one big waterfall situated off toward the setting sun. “Where are we now?” he asked, brushing back his hair. “This isn’t Hill ville, that’s for sure.”

  “No, we left there right after the fight,” Krysty stated, joining the man outside. “This is about fifty miles into the Crown Mountains, smack in the middle of Royal Island.”

  “You carried me through the mountains?” Ryan asked incredulously.

  “Hell, no.” J.B. chuckled. “We simply lashed your ass to a litter and dragged you along behind our new horses.”

  Horses? There was only one possible answer for that. “Sec men came after the cats arrived,” Ryan guessed, turning toward the campfire. Whatever was cooking in the pot smelled wonderful, and he sauntered over for a better look. It was stew of some kind, but the meat was green.

  “Yep, eight outriders,” J.B. stated. “We skinned the cats and hid under the pelts, then placed some of our spare blasters near the bloody corpses to make them resemble us. Well, kind of, anyway. However, in the dark the stupes bought the ruse, and when they climbed down for the blasters, we aced them from behind, simple as opening a self-heat.”

  “Easier,” Jak drawled contemptuously, a knife slipping out of his sleeve to land in the waiting palm of his hand. The teen flipped the blade in the air, then tucked it out of sight again.

  “A couple of the horses died during the fight, so we only have six for the seven of us,” Mildred said, going to the stew and stirring the contents with a green stick. “However, Doc was kind enough to offer to share with Liana, and she doesn’t seem to mind too much.”

  “Is this horse?” Ryan asked, his stomach rumbling in anticipation. The smell was intoxicating.

  “We butchered what we could carry, but we ate that already. This is hardbacks,” Liana replied. “I tried to sing for snakes. They arrived instead.”

  “She sang at midnight, and the turtles arrived at dawn just as we were about to leave,” Krysty explained with a rueful smile. “But better late than never.”

  At that news, Ryan grinned in delight. Hardbacks! That was some of his favorite eating.

  “Rest horses out back,” Jak said, jerking a thumb. “Lotta freshwater and grass.”

  “Along with a lovely little creek just perfect for bathing,” Mildred said, wrinkling her nose as she laid aside the stick. “Now that you’re awake, it’d be nice to be able to smell the stew instead of you.”

  “That is, unless you plan to conquer Northpoint by simply flapping your arms, my dear Ryan,” Doc said, faking a cough.

  Since it was blatantly true, Ryan accepted the rebuke. “Guess I do smell a little like a swampie,” he admitted.

  “Old aced swampie,” Jak corrected with a grimace.

  “Besides, it’s almost dark, and we can’t travel at night,” J.B. added, watching the trees, a hand resting on the Uzi at his side. “There are too many flapjacks in the area, and the damn things are tough enough to see in broad daylight.”

  “Fair enough.” Rummaging in his pockets, Ryan unearthed a plastic ziptop bag containing a small bar of used soap. It was military soap, without any perfumes or softeners, but it took the dirt off a person slicker than skimming pond scum.

  “Take your time. The stew will be ready when you come back,” Mildred called tactfully over a shoulder, her hands busy dicing wild carrots.

  “Good to hear,” Ryan stated, rubbing his unshaved chin. “Because I want everybody ready to leave at first light. Take only the weapons and food. I want to reach Northpoint by noon tomorrow, and get us some transportation off this fragging rad pit of an island.”

  “Steal boat?” Jak asked pointedly.

  “Sure as shitfire not going to try to buy one again,” Ryan declared gruffly, marching around the cabin and out of sight.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Thirteen

  Taking a dirty cloth from a pocket, Baron Griffin wiped the sweat from his face. It had been over a day since he last slept, but in his dreams, the man constantly relived the events of that terrible day over and over. Sleep brought no rest, so he abandoned the thoughts of it and concentrated on something more tangible. Revenge.

  By now, most of the destruction in the ville had been cleared away, the fires extinguished and the dead buried. Or rather, they had been until the kraken arrived. With the sec men almost too exhausted to fight, sec chief Donovan had devised a brutal new tactic and had the ville folk hurriedly dig up the corpses and throw them to the mutie. That hadn’t been enough, so then he fed the thing the slaves, all of them, and then some of the ville folk. Finally sated, the kraken had returned to the depths of the sea, leaving the ville untouched. However, that was not a tactic the baron could ever use again. There was nobody else to sacrifice to the giant mutie.

  Tucking away the rag, Griffin shuffled over to a worktable and assembled a sandwich from the assortment of dried meats and sliced breads. Without sitting, he consumed the crude meal in a few bites, then washed it down with scag-root tea. It tasted awful, even when sweetened with honey, but delivered a big kick.

  “All right, let’s try it again,” the baron wheezed, returning to the construction site. “Light the fire!”

  “You heard the baron!” Donovan bellowed, hobbling forward on his new crutch.

  As most of the sec men backed away to a safe distance, a grim-faced man opened the iron door of the hearth and applied a piece of smoldering oakum to the pile of rags soaked in shine. Instantly, they ignited, and the fire quickly spread through the carefully arranged stack of dry wood filling the hearth to overflowing. Closing the door on the growing conflagration, the bare-chested man pulled on several levers and, studying the gauges, made sure that the fire had sufficient air.

  As the temperature climbed, the needle on the repaired pressure gauge steadily rose higher and higher. Licking dry lips, the man muttered a soft prayer to the moon god. The previous ten people who tried this had been horribly aced, cooked alive by the escaping steam, the last one personally chilled by the baron to stop his agonized howling.

  “We�
�re at fifty percent, baron,” the man called out, a tingle of hope in his spine. “Seventy percent…ninety….”

  Suddenly a keening volcano of steam erupted from the valve on top of the machine, and the transmission lurched into action, wheels turning and rods shifting.

  “Throw the switch!” the baron commanded, taking a step forward, hope giving his haggard face new life. “Throw it!”

  Making a protective gesture, the man grabbed the big lever and pulled it all the way back.

  There was a brief hammering from the machine, and then the rebuilt Wendigo rolled out of the repair cradle, smashing aside the wooden supports in an explosion of hemp rope and splinters.

  Battered and bruised, the dirty repair crew cheered as the armored war wag rolled across the ville, huffing and puffing, but moving faster than ever before. The steam whistle keened again, the man at the controls beaming widely.

  “It works,” Donovan whispered, reaching out a hand as if to touch the chugging machine. “By the lost gods, we did it. The son-of-a-bitch thing works!”

  Closing his eyes for a moment in silent thanks, the baron then pulled in a deep lungful of air and loudly bellowed, “All right, mount up! We roll right fragging now.”

  “To Northpoint!” Donovan added, brandishing his cane.

  The sec men gave a ragged cheer. Dashing eagerly around, they grabbed their blasters and climbed into the saddles of their horses, every mind filled with savage thoughts of bloody revenge.

  AT DAWN, the companions rose and had a breakfast of reheated stew and black coffee to fortify themselves for the long day ahead. Then they packed away everything useful and buried the campfire, first under dirt and rocks, then dry leaves, to try to disguise the fact that they had ever been here.

  Checking the belly strap of the mare he had been given, Ryan heartily approved of the mount. Alvira wasn’t the biggest horse of the bunch—Doc got the big stallion to support the double load of him and Liana—but the big mare was clearly bridle wise and had the look of a seasoned warhorse. This was not a horse that would buck and throw him off at the first sound of blasterfire. However, Ryan would have to be extremely careful of where the animal walked. With metal in such short supply on the island, there were no horseshoes. Unshod hooves had a tendency to bruise, and then the horse would be lame for a week. Which meant that one wrong move, and Ryan was on foot again.