by James Axler
Chapter Thirteen
"There!" a sec man shouted, pointing at the distant horizon. "Black dust, it's the biggest I've ever seen!"
"Silence, fool," Brandon hissed, leaning over the railing that surrounded a .50-caliber machine gun attached to a gimbal stanchion. The officer held a pair of binocs to his face, and manually dialed the focus. The batteries were long dead, and many of the functions of the complex device were unknown, but the prism-based optics worked just fine.
"Shitfire, it's a monster!" Brandon cursed, then lowered his tone to a hush. "Pilot, kill the engines. I want dead silence."
Keeping one hand on the wheel, the pilot of PT 264 threw a switch, disengaging the propellers from the thumping steam engine.
"Engine room to bridge," a voice shouted up the speaking tube. "What's going on up there?"
"Shut up. There's a sea mutie on the horizon," the pilot said clearly into the tube, his lips less than an inch away. "No sounds, no walking, nothing until the lieutenant says so."
"Aye, aye, sir," the engineer whispered up the tube, his voice barely audible.
"And if you hear Firebirds launch," he added sourly, "then kiss your ass goodbye."
Going to the stern, a bosun waved a bright orange flag at the other nine boats as a warning. But most of them had already gone silent, and soon the entire armada was coasting along by sheer inertia through the Pacific Ocean, props still, engines banked and quiet.
To the naked eye, there was only some rough water ahead. Maybe an underwater volcano bubbling up steam or a school of sharks in a feed frenzy. But under the glass, Brandon saw it all. A humpback whale was fighting for its life. Bleeding from a hundred wounds, the creature frantically rolled over and over, trying to get loose from the writhing tentacles ripping off chunks of its flesh. An eye was removed, the blowhole ripped wide. The whale slammed down a tail that could have crushed the PT boat flat, rolled over once more, but to no avail. More of the tentacles stabbed into its huge body and began to pulse as they pumped out the life fluids. Pitifully moaning a warning to others of its kind, the humpback still tried to swim away, but was dragged backward under the choppy waters. Then a red geyser shot into the air, going up a hundred feet as the horrible feeding began.
"Nuke me," the pilot breathed, and grabbed his blaster for no sane reason. The weapon would be totally useless against one of the ocean leviathans. Its only possible function was to blow out his brains and save the man from being swallowed whole, boat and all, in a single gulp, by the underwater mutie.
Padding along in bare feet, Thor approached the machine-gun nest. The lieutenant was leaning over the railing, watching the death match closely through the binocs.
"Never seen one before," the sergeant said, cracking his knuckles, then abruptly stopping and staring at his hands as if they belonged to somebody else. The sea muties were attracted to sound, the more the better. As a child he heard stories of the muties attacking an island ville celebrating their baron's birthday, the finishing of wall, whatever, and dragging most of the people and the buildings into the sea. He had never believed the tales until this moment.
"What's wrong—scared?" Brandon asked, a touch of amusement in his words.
"Yes," the sergeant answered truthfully. Standing erect, Brandon lowered the binocs and tucked them into a cushioned bag at his side. "Me, too," he admitted. "If that thing attacks, we don't have a chance in hell of reaching land in time. Even if I sacrifice the other boats, it'll still swallow us all, then go looking for more."
"So we wait."
"Aye, wait in silence, until it leaves." Thor started to crack his knuckles again, then stuffed both hands into his pockets. "Shouldn't be too long," he ventured, watching the mutie tear the whale apart. "Mebbe only a couple of hours. It's about done."
"We stay right here for however long it takes," Brandon whispered. "Cold Harbor isn't going anywhere."
"Aye, sir," Thor agreed. "What's another couple of days?"
SLUGGISHLY Krysty awakened to find herself naked under the covers of a large bed. The mattress was softer than anything she had ever been on, the quilt warm and heavy. The woman almost went back to sleep it was so comfortable, then the images of the fight on the beach flooded back into her conscious mind, and Krysty abruptly sat upright, reaching for her blaster.
But she was alone. The room was big, brick walls, bare concrete floor with thick rugs of different designs. All of the furniture was oversize, the two wooden chairs before the fireplace old leather shiny with polish. There were no windows; the light came from bright white lanterns. The door was lined with bolts, all of them on her side.
Obviously this was no prison, and aside from her lack of clothing there were no indications she had been violated. Lots of bruises, but only where she remembered Langford pummeling her with his massive fists. Then she noted the wounds had been tended, cuts stitched closed. Krysty recognized Mildred's style of a battlefield dressing in the bandage on her shoulder. There came a fuzzy memory of the tunnel fight and a confused impression of being carried through the ville by Ryan and J.B. with people cheering. Had she aced Langford, and was the baron now? Or was he still alive and softening her to be his bed partner?
Rising from the soft cushions, Krysty shivered more at the thought than the cold floor, then remembered slashing his throat. No, Langford was dead— no doubt of that.
Goose bumps running along her skin, Krysty stepped off the floor and onto a rug. Ah, better. Across the bedroom was a fireplace with a cheery blaze, a couple of chairs set tandem and a large table covered with what looked like her clothing. As Krysty padded over, a young girl rose from one of the chairs holding a blaster, then gasped and fell to her knees bowing.
"Morning," Krysty said.
The girl raised her face and touched her throat, shaking her head no.
Ah, a mute, as Mildred called them. Most were deaf and dumb, but obviously this one could hear, just not speak. A perfect bed warmer for any baron.
Walking past the kneeling girl, Krysty examined the articles on the table, running fingertips along the patches. There were new buttons, and her boots shone.
"Your work?" she asked.
A head nod, shoulders braced for a strike.
"Excellent work," Krysty said, looking at the inside seams. "Well done…ah, what do I call you, girl?"
Rising timidly, she touched the toe of the cowboy boot.
"Steel?" Krysty asked.
A head shake.
"Silver," she stated, and the girl nodded. "Well done, Silver. Should be the head seamstress for a big ville with talent like this. Predark clothes aren't this well made."
Silver blinked rapidly.
"Baron not much with compliments," Krysty stated. "Even when they were due, eh?"
A shy smile and a vigorous head shake.
"Well, that changes today. New baron, new rules," Krysty announced, stepping into her khaki jumpsuit.
Quickly getting dressed, she was amazed that somebody had even curried her bearskin coat. The thing never looked so good. Lying nearby were her weapons, cleaned and oiled. Along with the baron's matching set of knives and two blasters.
"Where are the others?" Krysty asked, strapping on a gun belt. She checked the load in her blaster and tucked it into her belt. Only a few rounds were left. The baron's weapons she left where they were. Too many was the same as not enough.
Silver bowed again and gestured toward the door.
"Take me to them," she said, giving her first command as a baron.
Silver scurried to unlock the bedroom door. On the other side was a long hallway without furniture or windows. Krysty recognized it as a killzone. Invaders would have no place to ambush the baron, or hide when he shot back.
Proceeding to the far end, Silver gave a coded knock on a heavy door banded with iron. On creaking hinges, the massive portal was pushed aside by frowning sec men, longblasters in their hands, but then both of the guards beamed smiles and saluted. "Good day, Baron," they chorused.
&nb
sp; Not used to such servitude, Krysty merely nodded in passing and started down the wide brick stairs and into a tremendous room with cinder-block walls. It was obviously the throne room. At one end was a dais and a massive chair covered with intricate carvings of mushroom clouds and other symbols of war. Swords and axes decorated the walls. Four chandeliers were suspended from the ceiling, but only one was lit, casting most of the room into shadows, including the chopping block, the neck rest stained dark with old blood.
Crossing the room, her boot heels clicking on the floor, Krysty paused by the dais and noticed the bullet holes, then went to the chair and easily found a knife and a blaster tucked away in hidden folds. Even here, Langford had expected betrayal.
Silver patiently waited for Krysty to decide to continue.
Going to the windows, Krysty threw back the shutters and saw it was night outside. "How long did I sleep?" she asked.
The girl went to a lantern and, touching it, raised just her forefinger.
One lantern burn. About eight hours. It was the same day.
"Good," Krysty said, then her stomach rumbled. "But you better show me that dining hall fast before I start eating the throne."
The girl was startled, then almost allowed a smile to cross her pretty young face as she darted across the room.
Past an iron portcullis, another set of double doors opened into a courtyard of flowering bushes and stone benches. A gravel path circled a marble fountain with a predark bronze statue, and orchids dotted the basin with tiny fish darting about in the clear water. Smoky torches lit the courtyard, and a dozen sec men stood smoking green cigs, talking softly. But at the sight of the two females, they snapped to attention and briskly saluted. Silver stayed in the background, head bowed, hands folded.
"Ready for inspection, my lord," a sergeant stated, holding a salute until it was returned.
"Is the ville secure?" Krysty asked.
"Yes, sir!"
"Then continue as you are for the time being." Krysty turned to go, and the man cleared his throat.
"What?" she snapped irritably. Hunger was growing inside her belly like a fire. It had been days since her last full meal, on top of which summoning the power of Gaia always left her weak and hungry. Her stomach loudly gurgled again, and the sec man flicked his attention to her midriff then back.
"You shouldn't walk alone, my lord," the sec man said. "Which of us do you want as an escort?"
Damn, she was the baron now and had to tolerate such things. Krysty briefly looked over the guards, none of them very impressive.
"I need no escorts inside my own castle," she retorted, touching her blaster and briskly walking away.
The sec men frowned at each other, their confused and angry voices mixing with the splash of the fountain in the private garden.
A side path led to another door of iron and wood. Silver pushed it open with some difficulty, and Krysty entered a long room with a vaulted ceiling. Instantly she was assaulted by the rich smells of roasting beef and fresh bread. Then a wave of weakness washed over Krysty, and she nearly stumbled. The need for food was a knife in her guts by now.
Over by a roaring fireplace, the companions were seated at a massive table looking over maps and cleaning their weapons. The other end was covered with dirty dishes.
Ryan snapped his head up at her approach and smiled widely, the first such expression she had seen in months. It faded quickly, but she went directly to the man and kissed him soundly.
"I'm glad to see you, too, lover," Krysty said, stroking his smoothly shaved cheek. "Now get the fuck out of my chair, I'm the baron."
"My lord," he said, chuckling, and shifted his chair to the side to make room for another.
"Silver, have you eaten yet?" Krysty asked, then she glanced about. The girl was gone, moving as silently as morning mist. Maybe there was more mutie in that mute than she expected.
Judiciously Mildred watched as the woman stiffly took a chair from a line of them along the wall. She had tended Krysty as best she could under the circumstances. The redhead had several sprains, and quite a few bone bruises, painful but not life-threatening. Good news, as without her med kit there was little Mildred actually could do. And the local healer knew nothing of basic hygiene, much less surgery or chemistry. She used a lot of wild herbs, and seemed to have a pathological fear of science. Understandable, considering what science had done to the entire world a hundred years ago.
Krysty sat down heavily at the table, and serving girls appeared from a steamy kitchen to lay down bowls and plates of food. There was a whole loaf of brown bread still radiating warmth from the oven. Plus a tiny dish of honey with a piece of comb. A heaping bowl of steamed kelp, with some sort of chopped nuts on top, a tray of boiled crab, baked fish, a bowl of fresh oysters still in their shell with a curved knife on top for easy opening. There was no glassware, but the wooden mugs were carved with scenes of sailing ships and naked women.
Taking a sailing ship, Krysty poured it full of water and greedily drank.
"How are you feeling?" Mildred asked, going to the woman and lightly probing her here and there.
"Better than Langford," Krysty replied, ignoring the ministrations while she hacked off a piece of the bread and stuffed it whole into her mouth. After a short prayer to Gaia, she swallowed and ripped off a crab leg to crack the shell apart and start picking out the sweet white meat.
"I told them to bring enough for five," Ryan said, pouring her some coconut milk. There was no wine or beer. But he would tell her about that later.
"Smart move," Krysty mumbled, tossing the hollow leg onto an empty platter and starting on another. Crab was a favorite of hers, and they didn't find much of it in the deserts of North America. Doc said it was kin to spiders, but she had eaten those and the two tasted nothing alike.
"Aside from your hunger, you're fine," Mildred announced, returning to her chair. "Just some bruises, abrasions and a minor flesh wound. Although those ribs need to be watched. You start having any trouble breathing, let me know."
Nodding her agreement, Krysty put aside a wooden mug of water and began shoveling the kelp into her mouth. It was surprisingly good.
"How do we stand?" she mumbled, sucking a loose strand off her chin.
"The people worship you and tolerate us," J.B. said, blowing a smoke ring at the ceiling. The seaweed cigar was very similar to tobacco in taste, if not appearance. Four more were tucked into the pocket of his clean shirt.
"Langford major buttwipe," Jak added, cleaning his nails with a knife point.
"From what we can discern, dear lady," Doc rumbled, brushing crumbs off his shirt, "he ruled by sheer intimidation."
"No rewards for loyalty?"
"None," Ryan stated, leaning back in his chair.
"Which explains the party over you chilling the man."
Even over the fireplace, they could hear faint sounds of celebration from the ville. Laughing, singing, even the occasional gunshot.
"To be blunt," Doc added, "unloved would be a polite way of assaying his general social demeanor."
"Got that right," J.B. agreed, stubbing out the butt of the cig on a dirty dish.
Seeing the Armorer without his glasses brought her attention to the pressing matter of ammo. "We have to get those backpacks," she said urgently. "I'm down to five rounds."
"Same here," Mildred agreed.
"Less," Dean admitted, and placed a flintlock on the table. "That's why I have one of these now."
Jak made no comment. Langford had owned a .357 Magnum pistol, and the teenager had taken all of the spare ammo off the dead man. It fit his own blaster just fine. Doc had done the same with the baron's Navy Colt .44, reaping a harvest of primer caps and lead for his Civil War hand cannon.
"Five for the Steyr, one clip for the SIG-Sauer," Ryan said, taking a sliver of wood off a small dish and began picking his teeth. "But even with torches it's too dark. We'll send divers to reclaim our backpacks at first light."
"Under tight guard
," she added.
"Bet your ass."
Krysty drew her belt knife to smear honey on another piece of bread. Then she paused, recalling where it had last been, and dipped a finger into the gooey sweet to do the job.
"Also, your sec men aren't too happy to get replaced by us." Ryan said, watching them through the windows as they stood around the fountain outside. A man hatefully glanced their way, caught Ryan's eye and hastily looked away.
"Tough," Krysty said, looking in to the courtyard. The sec men stood straighter and stopped talking. "Probably only afraid you'll take away their privileges in the gaudy house."
"Langford was a human, by the way," Mildred said. "Just really strong and heavily muscled. Not a thing out of the ordinary. I cut him open to check."
"And to make sure he was dead," Ryan added grimly. "But it's a good thing we're not planning on staying here. The ville is a pesthole. Seen cleaner ruins after a shitter exploded."
"Disgusting," Dean added, holding his nose.
"The latrines are far enough away from the wells," Mildred announced. "But not by anybody's plan. Pure chance."
"Lots of slaves, but they're all captured pirates. For some reason, Langford didn't use slave labor."
"Even Hitler liked dogs," Mildred said.
"Damn. I was almost hoping this was the good land we've been searching for." Krysty sighed, pushing away the half-filled plate. "Guess not."
"Aside from the crap in the streets," J.B. said, "the ville is okay. Walls are sturdy, the gate solid. But as a precaution, I've had two of the wall cannons elevated to point down at the beach before the gate. Jak had the idea of loading them with pieces of coral and broken clamshells."
"Short-range only," Ryan said. "But it'll blow any boarding party onto the last train west, that's for sure."
"Piecemeal," the albino added. "Nobody try twice."
"Expect trouble?" Krysty asked, wiping off her mouth of a cloth napkin. She was the only person at the table with such a luxury.
