by James Axler
"Shit. There's too many," J.B. cursed, working the bolt on the Uzi to clear a jammed round.
The booming .357 penetrated the crude armor, chilling with every hit. Ryan fired nonstop, chilling with every round, but the man was becoming pale, his sleeve red with blood.
"Use the grens," Ryan panted, dropping a clip from the SIG-Sauer, and needing two tries to insert a fresh magazine.
While J.B. and Mildred maintained fire, the rest of the companions dug the black-powder grens from their pockets, pulled the pins and threw. Then they wisely ducked, not knowing how well the reloads would work.
Two of the charges exploded in the air, showering everybody with hot steel. Doc felt a tug on his frock coat from passing shrapnel, Jak jerked as a piece of the shattered casing hit his jacket but failed to penetrate the razor blades hidden inside the lapels. He muttered something and threw the other repaired gren as far as possible—without pulling the pin first. Damn things were worse than useless.
Bleeding from a hundred wounds, the stickies broke their charge and stood dumbly picking at the wounds. Two more grens hit the ground and did nothing, but the last three finally detonated, sending pieces of muties skyward. Startled and frightened, the stickies started attacking one another, and the chaos soon spread until the fields were filled with the creatures hacking each other to bits with the stone axes.
Rummaging in his munitions bag, J.B. unearthed two real grens and used them to clear a gory path through the infighting. Running and shooting, the companions reached the trees again, and stopped to chill some stickies coming after them. When it was clear, they continued for the lagoon, leaping over the exposed roots and ducking under low-hanging limbs. Cannonfire from the harbor could still be heard, but it was more sporadic. The battle was being won by somebody. Not good news.
Finally reaching the beach, they dashed for the trembling PT boat and hoisted one another onto the deck. Ryan went straight for the big .50-caliber machine gun and needed both hands to work the arming bolt. A lone stickie appeared from the trees, appearing mostly confused and he tore it apart with a short burst.
"Get this crate moving!" he shouted, gritting his teeth against the pain. The SIG-Sauer had been uncomfortable, but operating the fifty was like shoving his hand into acid.
J.B. stood at the ruin of the wheelhouse, the broken remains of the walls rising no higher than a foot. The captain's chair was gone, as were the control board and the steering wheel. A few wires were sticking from the deck. Walking halfway down the short flight of steps that led to the lower level, he twisted two of the wires together and nothing happened. Shit, no electric gears. They had to be manual.
"Mildred, flashlight! Find the transmission and put this thing into neutral before we blow a gear!" J.B. shouted, prying away boards with his hands.
The woman darted below, flashlight in hand. A few seconds later, the craft stopped trembling as the propellers were disengaged.
Finding a yoke with taut cables attached, J.B. tried to shift its position, and there was some reaction at the stern of the boat. But not enough. No time for repairs. "Doc, I need your sword!"
The scholar tossed over the ebony stick. J.B. made the catch and unsheathed the blade to plunge it into the wooden yoke. Grabbing the lion's-head handle, he now had some leverage and the yoke moved much easier.
"How's the boiler?" he shouted, flipping switches.
"Seems undamaged!" Krysty answered, checking the pipes and valves.
"Keep me posted on the readings!" J.B. ordered, experimenting with the yoke.
"Dean, in the hold with Millie. Stoke the boiler and keep up the pressure."
"Check," the boy cried, and disappeared down the stairs.
"Haul ass!" Ryan shouted, burping the fifty again. The hail of bullets tore apart something in the trees overhead that screamed and thrashed about before plummeting into the lagoon and sinking without a trace.
Suddenly, Krysty and Jak started firing at the shore. Sec men from the ville dived for cover, and shot back with their long flintlocks. The muzzle loaders booming loudly, the .75 miniballs slammed into the boat with sledgehammer blows. Then one of the sec men screamed as a stickie wrapped its tentacles around his face and dragged the man off into the bushes. Caught reloading, the other pulled a knife, but the stickies pounded the norm with their axes until the screaming stopped.
Ryan wasted no bullets until the creatures started shambling for the boat. He'd been hoping they would be content with the guards. There was only one belt of ammo for the fifty anywhere about; the rest had probably blown overboard when the Firebird hit. Unfortunately stickies were attracted to noise and fire like moths to flame. The more the companions fought, the more the muties wanted them.
The scent of the fire was beginning to taint the air as Ryan cut the abominations apart. The waterfall was making it impossible to hear any movements, so the man followed his instincts and sprayed half of the remaining ammo around them in a full circle. Startled cries announced numerous hits on men and muties.
"Reverse gear!" J.B. shouted, pulling on the sword. The props spun wildly behind the gunboat, churning the water into froth. Then the craft jerked backward, scraping its hull loudly on the sand, and started chugging across the lagoon.
Switching gears, the PT headed along the shallow runoff water until reaching the harbor and then leaping ahead with renewed speed. More stickies rushed from the bushes, chasing after the departing vessel, only to flounder in the deep water and drown as they tried to reach the norms on board.
Ahead of the companions, the sea battle raged on. Four Peteys were darting around the last two pirate ships, weapons chattering steadily. The cannons from the ville sounded now and then, but the fighting crafts were beyond their limited range.
Taking a piece of shirt from a torso of dead sailor jammed under the port cannon, Ryan wrapped the cloth around his aching palm. It slowed the flow of blood. Good enough for now.
"Now what?" J.B. shouted. "We're mobile, but in a bottleneck. Use the pass, and we're sitting ducks for those wall cannons!"
"Fuck the pass," Ryan growled, digging in a pocket with his uninjured hand and extracting his butane lighter. He flicked it once to check the flame, then headed for the undamaged Firebird pod. "We're going straight through the coral reef breakers, and at full speed!"
Chapter Eighteen
Muttering curses, Giles stumped along the smoky deck of the Gibraltar, trying not to trip over the bodies. Only two ships of the pirate fleet were still floating; the rest were sinking or burning. The other vessel, whatever its name was, had ceased firing its cannons once the mainsail caught fire and fell to the deck, smothering the crew. Many had tried to cut their way free, but nobody escaped from the burning canvas.
Now there was only Giles, and the Gibraltar. The rest of the swabs on board the flagship had been aced by a Firebird that flew over and exploded in the air, the shrapnel chilling everybody on deck. Only he had survived, the mast shielding him from the deadly blast. Now Giles was alone, the last pirate on the last ship.
The Peteys were still circling the dead ships, firing bursts from those big rapidfires, but soon even those idiots would realize nobody was shooting back, and they'd start coming on board for a recce. With blasters in one hand and slave chains in the other. No way Giles would ever let others do to him what he did so often to his prisoners. Death first.
Moving among the corpses, the pirate took a knife from a dead man, a gourd of wine and water, a machete and finally a revolver and three live rounds from the still hands of Red Blade. Or he thought it was Red Blade. It was hard to tell without a head on the body.
Well armed, Giles headed for the hatchway. He'd grab some food in the galley, then go hide in the bilge with the rats. Back on the Delta Blue, there had been secret places on the ship where a man could hide from the most ruthless search. Even used the cubbyhole once to smuggle out the daughter of a baron. Before the vessel had left the dock, Giles had been enjoying the girl while her frantic parents and a
n army of sec men searched the streets for the lost child.
Awkwardly thumping down the companionway with his cane, Giles knew it would be the same again here. He'd stay out of sight, for weeks if necessary, feeding off the rats until the time was right, then escape from under the very nose of the lord bastard himself. Afterward, he'd steal a ship and find those bastard outlanders again to finally get his revenge. This was far from over.
AS THE COMPANIONS raced across the harbor in the damaged PT boat, their speed steadily increased until the craft was skimming across the water, going from wave to wave, practically flying.
Standing near the Firebird pod, Ryan noted that the pirate ships were oddly quiet, the ville, too. Only the Peteys were still darting about, shooting their machine guns and launching Firebirds. The Deathlands warrior watched as a tall man shouted orders while he fired a hand cannon into the sea, wounding the pirates being eaten by the sharks. He had to be the commander of the lord baron's armada. There would be no mercy or deals with a coldheart like that. Best to chill the man first chance he came under the crosshairs of the Steyr.
"Fifty yards!" Krysty shouted from the bow.
Quickly lighting the main fuse, Ryan aimed the pod at the water ahead of the bouncing vessel, threw a handle to lock it in position and stood clear. This worked, or it didn't. There was nothing more he could do.
Joining Ryan by the port cannon, Krysty felt a strange crawling sensation in her mind, and turned fast, staring at the rockets. She could have sworn somebody whispered to her, asking a question too soft to hear. Her skin crawled at the memory of the unnatural feeling, and her animated hair coiled tightly in reaction to her agitated state.
"Hold her steady!" Ryan shouted, keeping a firm grip on the cannon with his good hand. The other was tucked into his shirt, the throbbing almost too painful to ignore. He had been wrong; he should have let Mildred stitch it shut in the fields.
J.B. yelled an answer, but it was lost in the rustling launch of the first rocket. The Firebird shot ahead of the craft and knifed into the ocean, detonating underwater. Another launched, then a third, the blasts churning the sea with their detonations as the boat raced for the coral reef.
"Slow!" Jak bellowed, as another Firebird launched, the supply rapidly dwindling.
"Only four left," Krysty warned. "Too fast!"
"I know!" J.B. answered, wiggling the sword back and forth, making the speeding boat fishtail, its velocity decreasing imperceptibly.
But that was enough. The next-to-last Firebird slammed directly into the coral reef, violently blowing it apart, chunks of pink material flying into the air. The last rocket missed the reef completely as the boat shot through the boiling opening. There was a hard slam as they hit something, then the vessel was in the open sea and moving without hindrance.
"Damage report!" Ryan shouted down an air hole on the deck.
"We're okay," Mildred said, walking up the stairs. "No leaks in the hull. Dean got a bad knock, but nothing serious."
"Dark night, it worked!" J.B. cried in triumph and immediately angled the boat to put as much land between them and the fighting as possible. The point was only a hundred yards away. In less than a minute, they would be out of the line of blasterfire and safe.
"LOOK, SIR!" a sailor shouted, brandishing a fist. "FT 53 is running away!"
"Cowards!" Thor growled, levering a fresh round into his Weatherby. "We'll find them soon as this is done."
"I saw the crew get chilled, fool," Brandon retorted hotly, reloading his own blaster. "Must be some locals who stole the boat when it crashed on the shore."
"Fisherman who can operate a steam engine?" the sergeant asked, pointing his longblaster at the departing boat. He tried to target the crew, but the two vessels were jostling too much for him to get a clear view. He fired twice, with no results.
"Well, it's not locals, sir," he reported. "I saw that much. They have rapidfire, and revolvers like us. But not the kind we carry."
"New blasters?" Brandon frowned. "Shitfire, it might be Langford. Always thought he had some good blasters hidden away someplace. Either way, we can't let them escape. Pilot, full speed."
"Aye, sir!" Abruptly PT 264 changed course and headed after the runaway vessel.
Feeding a fresh belt of ammo into fifty, a sec man asked, "What about the pirates?" His face was smudged with black soot from the dirty exhaust of the black powder weapon.
"They're dead. Signal the other boats to recce the pirates, make sure they're anchored securely against the tide, then follow after us. Don't like going into any battle without reserve troops."
"Aye, aye, skipper." Grabbing two flags, the corporal began stiffly moving his arms, relaying the orders to the other Peteys. Their flagman responded with an acknowledgment as the boats headed for the quiet pirate vessels.
"Already at the point, eh?" Brandon said in annoyance. "This boy is smart, all right. Best to not take any chances. How many left, Sergeant?"
"None in the pod, sir," Thor replied. "But we can reload a full salvo."
"Do it, and fast," the officer snapped. "I want this bastard blown to Davey. Faster, pilot! Use the coal oil, if necessary. Lose them, and I'll whip the flesh off your back myself. Move this crate!"
Skimming along the water at top speed, the pilot shouted orders down the tube, and soon the engine surged with power, its bow rising from the water as the craft hurtled along, smashing through the assorted wreckage and bobbing corpses blocking in its path.
ONCE PAST THE POINT, J.B. checked his pocket compass and headed due north, hoping for a break. If there was an undersea river running south, maybe there was another on this side of the island going north. They had to travel this direction anyway, so it couldn't hurt. But there was no sign of fast water.
A canteen was shoved into Ryan's face.
"Drink," Mildred ordered, taking his hand and splashing some of the vodka on his palm.
Ryan's eye went wide at the pain. "Don't waste this," he growled, pulling away. "Need every drop to leave here."
"Not anymore," the physician replied, hauling his hand back. "Dean found a pile of cans filled with coal oil."
"Must be emergency fuel for the engine," he grunted as her needle plunged into his skin, sewing the cut closed.
"But J.B. says it will work fine in that turbine generator. We have gallons of fuel now. More than enough." Finishing a knot, Mildred paused to bite off the excess thread.
"Still got those empty bottles from the trunk?" he asked as she wrapped it tight with strips of boiled Army bedsheets.
"Sure," Mildred answered, packing away her supplies. Then she looked up and smiled. "Damn good idea. They hate fire."
"Slow it down, at least," Ryan stated, flexing the hand. "Better. Thanks."
"No problem."
A sharp whistle cut the air.
"Incoming!" Jak shouted, firing behind them.
Just rounding the point was a PT boat, stuttering flame from its .50-caliber blaster, showing it was already throwing lead their way.
Ryan went to their own fifty, and worked the massive bolt on the huge rapidfire. There was only half a belt dangling from the breech, and no spare coils of ammo anywhere in sight. Bracing himself against the recoil, Ryan fired a short burst at the approaching Petey while Krysty and Jak placed carefully shots with the handblasters. Shouldering the med kit, Mildred crouched low and started feeding cartridges into the S&W M-4000.
Pausing to let the wind clear away the acrid smoke from the fifty, Ryan cursed as he saw something with a smoky contrail arcing through the sky. Then another appeared right behind it.
"Missiles!" Doc cried, fanning his mammoth blaster at the moving target.
The companions cut loose with their blasters, while Ryan pulled the trigger of the fifty and held it down as he made concentric circles in the air, trying to zero in on the Firebird.
He got a hit as the lead rocket detonated into an aerial fireball. The second went right through and came out dripping flames only to exp
lode one heartbeat later. Shrapnel peppered the stern of FT 53, bouncing off the side cannons, but the sandbag wall stopped most of the killer debris.
"Everybody okay back there?" J.B. asked from the helm. Both hands were white from holding the sword in place against the bucking yoke.
"Go faster," Jak replied, reloading his Magnum pistol.
"Doc, Krysty," Ryan snapped, grabbing some of the damp sandbags from the side and placing them on the aft wall. The others helped until the stern wall was three feet high and double thick. Now they had some protection against the rockets, and the extra weight forced the rear end of the boat into the water and kept the nose high. That would boost their speed. As long as another Petey didn't attack from their sides, this would work.
The Steyr resting on his shoulder, Ryan knelt behind the sandbag wall and tracked the enemy ship through the scope of the longblaster. The machine was in excellent shape, with not a single sign of rust or wear. Behind the windshield of the short wheelhouse were three men. A redhead was pointing a big-bore longblaster their way, a short guy was at the wheel and a handsome man with slicked-back hair and a fancy shoulder rig seemed to be shouting orders. Ryan assumed him to be the captain.
The enemy .50-caliber stuttered again, then a flurry of arrows lifted into the sky and fell pitifully short.
Working the bolt on the Steyr, Ryan delicately adjusted the focus and mentally calculated the sheer factor of the wind, trying to take the roll and pitch of the ships into account. The Deathlands warrior had done long shots before, but this was a pure bastard, on a moving platform aiming at another moving platform. Sea spray fogged the view, while the men on the other ship moved back, getting ready to launch another attack. The distance was closing.
Holding his breath, Ryan squeezed the trigger. A sec men on the deck threw his arms high and tumbled into the sea. He fired again, and another went overboard, but then the rest hit the deck, safe behind their own sandbag wall.
Standing, Krysty pulled a gren from her bearskin coat, pulled the pin and threw the bomb. Even with the converging vectors of the two vessels, it fell short and exploded underwater just as PT 264 went over the spot.
