Deathlands 118: Blood Red Tide

by James Axler

  Ryan’s shore party fell into an easy rhythm of killing birds first and then shooting their riders in mid-dismount acrobatics. Skillet screamed like a banshee and hacked off a ñandú’s head. The gaucho screamed like a rabbit, and Skillet gave him the same. Ryan made a mental note he wanted Skillet with him in any future boarding party. The Deathlands warrior fired the Scout dry and dropped it on its sling. A 9 mm blaster was small for giant birds, but he had two of them and he filled his hands with Glock and SIG. He shoved the Glock at a charging gaucho and pulled the trigger. The weapon jack-hammered in his hand. The burst climbed up the ñandú’s chest in recoil and continued up the gaucho riding it. Man and bird fell in different directions as the weapon racked open on empty. Ryan admitted the Glock had possibilities.

  He raised the SIG and scanned. The wind and the rain shredded the smoke and beat it down. Ryan ran his eye over complete carnage. Hardstone was sending a fallen gaucho out of town with the butt of his AK to the skull. Miss Loral was cleaning her dirk on the cape of a dead opponent. Doc and Strawmaker stood back to back with sword and gaucho knife and empty revolvers. No enemies stood. A few birds and gauchos writhed and moaned.

  Ryan scanned the shredding smoke. “Sound off!”

  Every member of his party called back alive and well. Ryan barked orders. “Skillet, reload! Manrape, hold the perimeter! Loral, grab a blaster from below and then you and Strawmaker come with me!” Ryan reloaded the Glock and his longblaster. Miss Loral ran below while Doc showed Strawmaker how to reload his weapon. Miss Loral came up and gave the thumbs up on her new weapon. The three of them formed a wedge and walked to the gaucho wags.

  A stunned ñandú rose and Ryan raised his Scout. Strawmaker held up his hand. “Wait!” He took up a fallen lance and snapped his fingers. “¡Che! ¡Che! ¡Che!” The bird blinked, and its new owner grabbed a stub wing and expertly heaved himself into the saddle. Strawmaker pointed his lance at the slaves. “Those are Mapuche Indians. They are a warrior people. The only thing that stopped them from slipping their ropes and trying to kill the gauchos was that they are on foot, and they know the ñandús would eat them. Best to have a man on a bird when you negotiate with them.”

  “I like the way you think, Strawmaker. Do you speak Mapuche?”

  “I do.”

  “Translate for me exactly.” Ryan scooped up a dead gaucho’s knife. “Which one is the leader?”

  “Probably the one in the front glaring at you.”

  Ryan walked up and flipped the knife blade into his hand and held out the hilt. “Here.”

  The man took the knife.

  “Ask him what his name is.”

  Strawmaker began translating as the man cut his bonds. “Shisho.”

  Ryan nodded. “Tell Shisho he and his people can take the gaucho’s clothes and weapons and as much bird meat as they can carry. They can have ten of the guanacos for walking rations to get wherever they need to go. I need the wags and the rest.” Ryan turned on his heel and walked away.

  Strawmaker called after him. “Shisho says it would take weeks of crossing the southern estancias and the territory of enemy tribes on foot. Without horses they will never make it back to their lands. They will die or become slaves again.”

  Ryan turned. “Not my problem.”

  Shisho gave Ryan a Koa-worthy stone face.

  “Tell Shisho if I had horses, I’d give them to him. But I don’t, and I have to go.”

  “Shisho believes you and thanks you, but he asks where you are going.”

  “Out on the ocean.”

  Strawmaker laughed at the response. “Shisho says you must have a very big canoe.”

  “Bigger than he’s ever seen. If he wants to see it, tell him to follow me.”

  “Shisho says the orcas will eat you.”

  Ryan turned and looked Shisho in the eye. “Tell Shisho I already took care of the orcas.”

  Shisho’s eyes widened. Strawmaker laughed once again at his response. “He says he believes you.”

  “Ask Shisho if he’s ever eaten ñandú.”

  Shisho laughed. So did Strawmaker. “He says no, that would be something.”

  Ryan called back. “Skillet, make a fire pit and get some bird on the barbecue! I’ve got twenty hungry lubbers about ready to sign up! Hardstone, help him! Jak! Doc! Bring the wags around. Let’s start loading that cellar! Manrape, with me!”

  Shisho cut his people free. They swiftly acquired knives, blasters, bolas, boots and bloodstained clothing. Ryan turned to Miss Loral. “We’ve done what we can here. I think we made enemies with that estancia farther inland Strawmaker was talking about. I say we strip that cellar and bring it, fifty beasts on the hoof, the maté and twenty waisters ready to train up for the Horn to Oracle.”

  “We’ve succeeded beyond all expectations,” the first mate stated. “We better get out of here and under sail before the gauchos can swarm on us.”

  Jak climbed into a wag, opened the pigeon cage and began stripping them of their message tubes.

  Strawmaker bristled. “You are interfering with el correro, Jak!”

  “What?” Jak asked.

  “The mail! Interfering with the mail is highly frowned upon in my lands!”

  Ryan took a big step forward. Strawmaker instinctively pulled on his reins and backed up his bird. “You’re going to read me the mail, Strawmaker,” Ryan intoned. “Then we’re going to eat it.”

  “Mmm.” Manrape sighed happily. “Squab.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  As the wag topped the dunes Ryan stood and waved his scarf overhead in a circle. Cheers rang out aboard ship. Shisho and his people stopped short at the sight of the Glory at anchor. Ryan had to admit that from their perspective it was one nuke-big canoe. The long boat and the dinghy lay pulled up out of the surf, and Koa seemed to be in command of the beach party. They’d dug fire pits and brought out barrels in preparation. Koa hurled out a “Mahalo, Ryan!” that might have been heard in the Andes. Ryan grabbed his pack and jumped down.

  He turned to Miss Loral. “I relinquish command.”

  “Aye, Mr. Ryan.”

  The first mate began shouting orders. “Strawmaker! Take Shisho and his people before the captain and interpret. See if they want to join up. Skillet, fetch Boiler and get these guanacos skinned and salted away. Tell him to fire up these pits and get these oxen roasting. Bos’n, unload the wags. See the loot we don’t need on the ship brought before the mast for distribution or bidding! Hardstone, tell Chips and the carpenter’s mate to break down these wags for their planks! We’re going to need them. Ryan, report to the captain! Then all of you requisition a tot of grog and grab some hammock. Handsomely done, shore party!”

  The weary party gave themselves a ragged cheer that turned into answering thunder from ship and shore. Ryan went to the dinghy, and Wipe and Onetongue rowed him to the ship.

  Onetongue grinned. “How wa’th it, Ryan?”

  “We had a rough fight but found some food and mebbe some sailors.” Ryan patted his pack. “Found a cache.”

  Onetongue pulled oars and happily eyed Ryan’s bulging pack without an ounce of avarice. “Anything good?”

  “A few things.” Ryan reached into his pack and pulled out a sky-blue XXL fleece sweatshirt with a white stripe across the chest and a sun face on it. Strawmaker had explained that this had one been his land’s flag. “Figured this might fit you.” Ryan pulled out a matching wool watch cap. “Figured this too, for that bald head of yours.”

  “Aw jee’th, Ryan!”

  “You and Hardstone were the first crew to show me any kindness. A man takes care of his mates.”

  The mutant looked close to blubbering. “Aw jee’th...”

  Wipe looked covetously at Onetongue’s loot. Ryan reached into his jacket. Among his other accomplishments, Wipe was the ship’s confirmed onanist. Ryan had learned that twice since Oracle had become captain he’d rigged a grating and had Wipe lashed for “polishing his dolphin” on duty. Ryan handed Wipe the 1999 A
pril issue of Swank still in the plastic wrapper.

  “We’re Phalanx. Try not to look at it on watch.”

  Wipe gazed upon the ’zine, enraptured. “Oh...”

  “Row!” Onetongue cajoled. The dinghy soon clunked against the side of the ship and Ryan scrambled up the Jacob’s ladder.

  Commander Miles nodded from the top of the gangway. He was walking with a stick now rather than a crutch. “Captain is expecting you, Mr. Ryan.”

  “Aye, Commander.” Ryan went down the gangway. Gallondrunk stood guard at the door with his walrus iron held at port arms.

  The brain-damaged giant’s voice boomed. “Mr. Ryan to see the captain!”

  “Thank you, Gallondrunk. Send him in.”

  Ryan entered the captain’s cabin. As usual, Oracle was poring over a table covered with charts and old books. Purser Forgiven stood at his side. Ryan saluted and handed Oracle a few folded sheets of printer paper from the cellar. “Shore action report, Captain.”

  He gave a separate sheaf to Mr. Forgiven. “List of loot taken, Purser. Signed by myself and Miss Loral.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ryan.” Forgiven scanned the sheets. “Oh, very good. Captain, I recommend we get Mr. Rood working on the generators immediately.”

  “Indeed.” Oracle frowned at what he read. “This disposition of the natives isn’t good, I gather?”

  Ryan set down a handful of the tiny pigeon scrolls. “Strawmaker translated them. Spada’s sent out the word. We’re pumping so many rads now we glow in the dark. No one’ll come near us.”

  “Strawmaker and Miss Mildred as ordered!” Galloondrunk bawled.

  Strawmaker entered the cabin with Mildred. “The Mapuche are ready for your inspection before the mast, Capitán.”

  “Very good. Miss Mildred?”

  “At cursory examination they seem to be disease free. Suffering a bit from hunger and exposure and torn-up feet, but decent clothes and two meals of barbecued pigeons and ñandú have helped. Of course, they’re going to spend the next week puking, but that will give their feet time to heal. They might have their sea legs by Tierra Del Fuego.”

  “Thank you, Miss Mildred.” High-pitched shrieks broke out on the main deck. Oracle raised a coal black brow at his ship’s minstrel.

  Strawmaker flinched.

  “Captain,” Ryan said, suppressing a smile. “I think the Mapuche just met Mr. Squid.”

  Oracle nodded. “Mr. Strawmaker, Mr. Ryan and Miss Loral seem to be of the opinion that we will find no safe harbor in these southern lands.”

  “Jefe Spada has painted you as hostile raiders and the Glory as a pirate ship. The annihilation of the slavers will most likely cement this reputation. I had hoped to go inland. I know several border jefes who have forests on their estancias. Some are known for their magnificent wood working. I had hoped to get wood for spars and masts, but I fear that hope is gone.”

  “Wood and cordage.” Oracle gazed upon his one-hundred-year-old charts of the South Atlantic. “There is one place left.”

  Purser Forgiven’s head snapped around. “The Falklands?”

  Ryan frowned at a vaguely remembered word. “What’s the Falklands?”

  Strawmaker scowled ferociously and muttered beneath his breath. “You mean the Malvinas.”

  Mildred stared incredulously. “You’re still upset about that? After a century?”

  Strawmaker stuck out his lower lip. “Las Islas Malvinas, they’re ours.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!”

  Strawmaker pouted. “They’re ours...”

  Clearly something predark was going on. Ryan ignored it and looked to Forgiven. “What’s the Falklands, again?”

  * * *

  “WHAT’S THE FALKLANDS?” Krysty asked. Ryan reclined into his hammock and Krysty spooned into him.

  “Islands,” Ryan replied. “Big ones. Pretty far south and east of here. And rough from what I hear. Strawmaker’s all radded up about them. Seems his people think they own them. The locals don’t seem to agree, not before skydark and not now. The main ville is supposed to be big. Except for the one airbase they had, the islands didn’t get nuked. The people there aren’t above raiding the coast, though mostly they do it for ship-worthy trees and things they can’t grow on their own—and slaves.”

  “So they might have a timber stockpile?”

  “And rope and cable, possibly sail material of some kind. They’re seafarers. Problem is they’ll know the state we’re in, and word is they’re bastard cold when it comes to trading. Most ships plying the South Lantic don’t put in there unless they have no choice.”

  “And we have no choice.”

  “None.”

  “Well, did you bring me anything from shore” Krysty asked.

  Ryan made a rueful noise. “There was some jewelry, but I know you’re not one for carrying around useless baubles. Besides, I remembered what you said about gems and crystals having their own energy, their own vibration, and how they can pick them up from their surroundings.”

  Krysty’s shoulders twitched. “It was that bad?”

  “Even Manrape found that cellar tragic.” Ryan took a butane lighter out of the ditty bag he had packed for Krysty. “Got you a light. It’s pink.”

  Krysty smiled. “Thanks.”

  Ryan pulled out a rectangular package with a predark gaudy slut pouting on the pink wrapping. The package read Lux. “Got you some soap.” Ryan pulled out a washcloth and bath towel. “And wash rags, pink too. So’s your new toothbrush.”

  Krysty smiled at her loot. “Are you saying I have hygiene problems?”

  “I’m saying their aren’t many comforts on this ship. My girl deserves all of them.” Ryan pulled out a flattened roll of toilet paper. “Plus I got this.”

  Krysty’s green eyes glowed from within.

  “Mm-hm.” Ryan nodded. “The package was all in Mex, but Strawmaker said it’s diamond weave.” He brushed the roll against Krysty’s cheek. “Feel that? Quilted for strength, absorbency and softness.”

  Krysty crushed her lips against Ryan’s.

  He smiled. “Got more where that came from.” He held up her new boots.

  “So do I—if you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I get the picture, and I’m not one to turn down that offer.”

  “Word is they’re boiling water down on the beach.” Krysty waggled her bar of soap. “And I have wash rags and soap. Do you think we might be able to requisition a couple buckets of hot water and go down by that creek in the dunes?” Krysty’s hand moved down Ryan’s stomach. “Mebbe take a couple of blankets?”

  Ryan made a pretense of considering the idea. “You’re talking a little good, clean fun?”

  “Soap’ll be involved,” Krysty purred. “But the fun’ll be dirty as fallout.”

  “I’m in.” Ryan rolled out of the hammock. “That reminds me, I’ve got a present for J.B.” He emptied the ditty bag. “Meantime here’s a new hairbrush, a bandanna, a few rounds of .38 and some wool socks.”

  “Yay!”

  Ryan grabbed his pack. “I’m going to distribute a little goodwill around the ship. Meet me before the mast at the next bell?”

  “Miss Krysty and Mr. Soap.” Krysty touched Mr. Soap to her brow. “Volunteering for shore duty, shore commander.”

  Ryan walked away grinning. “See you by the mainmast, seaman.”

  “I got a mainmast in mind...”

  * * *

  RYAN SPIED J.B. crouched over a carronade. The armorer worked the trunion and squinted across the primitive sights. Ryan had a small, terrible temptation to keep the Glock, but he and his SIG Sauer were very old friends, and he didn’t need to learn a new manual of arms for the joy of squirting off eighteen rounds in one second.

  He called out to J.B. “Hey! Gunny!” J.B. continued staring at the carronade’s trunion fixedly, doing some kind of cannon math. The armorer still didn’t quite register his new title.

  “Master Gunner!” Ryan called.

  “Ryan!” J.B
. looked up. “You’re back.”

  “I brought you a present.”

  J.B. blinked at this unexpected development. “Oh?” Ryan held up the blaster in his right hand. J.B.’s brows bunched. “A Glock?”

  Ryan turned the weapon to show J.B the selector lever. J.B. squinted slightly through his glasses. His jaw dropped. “Glock 18! Full-auto!”

  Ryan grinned and tossed his friend the weapon. J.B. caught the machine pistol and held it as if it were a holy relic. He took in the top slide cut and the ported barrel. His eyebrows shot up. “Glock 18C!”

  “J.B., I figured you might need a handblaster, one that can put out a lot of lead when things get close.”

  “You sure?” J.B. was clearly moved. “You sure you—”

  “No,” Ryan said with a shrug. “You know me, J.B. I pick my shots, and I count them. I couldn’t keep up with that thing.”

  “You’re a good friend.”

  Ryan reached into his coat and pulled out the loaded spare magazines. “You’re the best I ever had.”

  J.B. gazed at the weapon, clearly mesmerized.

  “You need a moment alone with it, mebbe?” Ryan teased.

  J.B.’s eyes never left the blaster. “Mebbe.”

  “Right” Ryan turned and walked to the gangway.

  “Ryan?” J.B. called.

  He nodded without turning and said, “You’re welcome.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Ryan ran his longeyes across Stanleyville. It was big. A seawall of boulders and broken rock girded the shoreline. Nearly all the predark architecture was gone, replaced by a substantial maze of lumpish, black and gray stone houses with sod roofs. Nearly every chimney sent up thin gray smoke that instantly bent and shredded in the nonstop wind. A number of larger buildings had multiple chimneys and generated the harder blacker smoke of industry. Ryan lifted his nose and tested the air. The Westerlies that had filled their sails once they had turned from the Argentine coast blew across the ville from landward. The overwhelming smell of the ville was the turf and dung they burned for fuel. He also took in smoked fish, the smell of a slaughterhouse and the hard burn of ironmongery.