Hell Road Warriors

by James Axler

  “Thorpe’s going to see the Queen coming long ways off. It might make some sense to insert some men by canoe, under cover of dark. Swim under the lock with the charges and—”

  Poncet, McKenzie and every Canadian in the hall burst out laughing. J.B. bristled. “What?”

  “So—” Poncet leaned forward waggling his eyebrows in humorous question “—you like the pie?”

  More men laughed.

  J.B. waited for the rub. “Like it just fine.”

  “I’ll admit you’re a little on the small side, J.B., but I tell you what. If you go take that moonlight swim, the lampreys are going to like you just fine, too. With or without mustard.”

  Men roared with laughter and pounded the tables at this new height in Lake Huron humor. McKenzie wiped tears from his eyes. “No one swims the Lakes, J.B., least no one north of the Saint Clair.”

  J.B. took a big deliberate bite of lamprey pie and chewed it and swallowed. “Fine.” He washed it down with more hawberry wine and raised his stein. “Like Ryan said, then. Naval gunnery.”

  Pewter steins rose and clacked together around the table. “Naval gunnery!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Kagan! Kosha! Quinn!” Hunk called. The Manitoulin Island platoon had arrived on the Queen. The islanders trooped up the ramp proudly. Each bore a new Diefenbunker C-7 blaster over his shoulder and a SIG-Sauer at his hip. A new bayonet was mounted on every muzzle, and each man carried his own favorite mix of tomahawks, knives and war clubs. The men of Manitoulin all wore a red tuque with a crude, five-petaled white hawberry blossom stitched on the front and a matching sash.

  First Mate Smythe shook his head. “Haweaters…”

  Mildred eyed the massive dogs. The three animals were cream-colored, silver and black respectively. “Those are some mighty-looking poodles you got there, Hunk,” Mildred observed. They were huge. Their poodle lines were unmistakable, but they were built on some kind of postapocalyptic Great Dane–size frame. Mildred was pretty sure there was something in them besides standard poodle, but it was hard to tell under the thick, curly coats covering every inch of their massive bodies. There was definitely something a little wolfy around the eyes, and their jaws were just too damned big.

  Hunk nodded. “Poodles will do anything dog. Gun dog, guard dog, water dog, lamprey retrieving—”

  “What!” Mildred was appalled. “What kind of inbred sicko throws his poodles to giant, man-eating sea lampreys?”

  Hunk looked shocked. “Lampreys don’t eat people. They got no jaws. They suck people, and they don’t give you the tongue and start suckin’ less their mouth gets a good seal.” Hunk dropped to a knee beside Kagan and ran a hand over her dense cream coat. Kagan stood imperiously wagging her tail. She was clearly the alpha bitch of the trio of dogs. “Try to latch on to a poodle,” Hunk continued, “and all the lampreys get is a mouth full of fur. Those thorny little teeth? They just get lost in the curls. Now, when a poodle bites a lamprey back?” Hunk smiled mischievously. “Pie for dinner.”

  “That’s just wrong,” Mildred said.

  Hunk scratched Kagan behind the ears and gave the woman a reproachful look. “If you ever fall in the water, these dogs are gonna be just right.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m never swimming again. I’m never eating pork again, and I’m never going to take another a nap in a refrigerator again, ever.” Mildred walked away waving her hands. “I have to check on my patients.”

  Hunk watched Mildred walk away. He looked up to find Ryan in front of him and Hunk leaped to his feet. “Ryan!”

  “I see you got your men squared away.”

  “Even my pa the baron says they’re salty!”

  A smile hinted at the corners of Ryan’s mouth. “You know the plan?”

  “Your friend, J.B. told me everything. Everything except our part in it. I guess we’re blasting from the rails and repelling borders.”

  “No, I got plenty of Quebecers doing that. You’re an island man, sailing man, right?”

  Hunk thumped his chest. “Got that right.”

  “Listen, the Queen carries a pair of whale boats. I want two detachments of sailors I can send to any trouble spots. I’m going to put a machine blaster on the prow of each one. I got one filled with a bunch of Jon Hard-knife’s men, and I want to give the other to you.”

  Hunk swelled with pride. “I won’t let you down!”

  “I know.”

  Mr. Smythe stepped forward with his volunteers. “The Queen’s contribution to your raiding party, Ryan. Captain’s compliments. This is Loadmaster’s Mate Timms.”

  Canada seemed to be dripping in giant humans. Loadmaster’s Mate Timms wasn’t gladiator-built like Ryan, or in a strongman frame like Six, or a monoblock of man like Boo Blacktree or sumo-wrestler-vast like Baron Poncet. Mr. Timms was simply built on a separate scale. Timms was impossibly tall, impossibly broad and best described as a full-blown human. Man-mountain came to mind. Ryan wondered how they would fit him in the LAV and if he would sink it.

  Timms shoved out a hand with fingers like a bunch of bananas. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Ryan.”

  “Just Ryan, Mr. Timms.”

  “Hear we’re tearing down the locks.”

  “Looks like you could do it all by your lonesome.”

  “More fun to do it with friends.”

  The first mate gestured at the woman. “Armorer’s Mate Tamara.”

  Tamara had long dark hair, broad shoulders, large breasts, a flat behind, and slightly canted eyes that bespoke some interesting Canadian hybridization. First Nations tattooing banded her right biceps. What Ryan noted most was her early model, ancient Armalite AR-15 and the equally ancient but apparently serviceable Colt 4 x 20 scope mounted on the carry handle. He remembered McKenzie telling Smythe to pick someone “wicked good” with a blaster. Ryan liked what seemed to be a permanent smirk. Tamara didn’t miss his appraisal. “I’m your guardian angel, Ryan, and you’re Deathlands ass belongs to me. Captain’s orders.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Don’t worry about your flame-headed girlfriend. What happens in the iron wag stays in the iron wag,” Tamara said with a smirk. “You keep it in your pants, Ryan, and I’ll see about keeping your head on your shoulders when the shooting starts tomorrow.”

  “WHO’S TAMARA?” Krysty asked dryly.

  Ryan turned his face from the sinking sun, lowered his sleeve of spruce beer. And looked Krysty dead in the face. “She’s my guardian angel. My Deathlands ass belongs to her. Captain’s orders.”

  Krysty’s eyebrows drew down dangerously.

  Ryan tried his hand at a Gallic shrug. “But if I keep it in my pants, she’s going to see about keeping my head on my shoulders when the shooting starts tomorrow.”

  Krysty was vaguely mollified. “Oh.” She took the wooden stoop from Ryan’s hand and took a swallow. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “You know something, lover? I like drinking beer with you out here on the—”

  “Loose!” Doc’s voice boomed all the way from the rear promenade.

  Ropes snapped like gunshots and spar-size timbers slammed together. Ryan and Krysty looked up as an enormous chunk of stone tumbled through space off the starboard bow. It hit an outcropping out on the water with an enormous rock-on-rock gunshot sound. The missile skipped off the outcropping and hit the water to skip twice, throwing enormous ripples.

  Onlookers out on the decks cheered.

  Krysty shook her head and smiled. “Boys and their toys…”

  Ryan’s eye narrowed. “What does that mean?”

  Krysty returned Ryan’s shrug. “Something Mildred says.”

  “He’s doing all right since the jump.”

  “Canada agrees with him.” Krysty sli
d her free hand into his. “And you gave him something to do.”

  Giving Doc something to do was one of the best ways to control his condition. Ryan knew that all too often the man from the nineteenth century felt helpless. It was worse when he felt useless. Then he retreated into his memories, and Ryan knew from long experience that ville was haunted. At the moment Doc was excited about his catapults. He’d asked for quicklime and Greek Fire among other obscure items, and had almost got himself fired as Captain of Catapults. Then he’d asked for barrels of pitch mixed with the local bison fat soap. J.B. had sat up and taken notice at that. The Armorer had reviewed the local soap and pitch and insisted on an infusion of diesel fuel.

  Doc had asked for caldrons, barrow loads of sand and the mess wag’s twin portable ovens, and despite Captain McKenzie’s misgivings about open flames on his deck, Doc had gotten those, too. Doc also had what he called single, double and triple weight rocks for various ranges. The old man had marked arcs of fire for both catapults like giant chrons in chalk on the stern promenade deck. Ryan didn’t know about the sand and the pitch, but in practice, Doc was dropping huge rocks like you could set your chron to it.

  Ryan was really hoping the coming fight just might be one of Doc’s mad-genius moments. “You want to go for a walk?”

  “Someplace where we won’t get hit in the head with a bastard huge rock?” Krysty suggested.

  “Someplace where there’s some Diefenbunker rations,” Ryan countered. He slid his arm around Krysty’s waist. The decks were festooned with a double watch of convoy and crew, but most were relaxing, blasters ready as they sipped beer and waited to be relieved. Ryan and Krysty went inside. Three-quarters of the benches that had served the forward passenger deck had been ripped out and replaced with poles to hang hammocks from. The Deathlanders moved through the ranks of Canadians to nods of greeting. Ryan and Krysty reached the cafeteria-pub and the smell set Ryan to salivating. Cyrielle Toulalan had left her brother’s side temporarily to distribute rations among convoy and crew. Ryan and Krysty were hailed by one and all and ushered to the front of the chow line. Ryan stared at long, Diefenbunker-marked tin pans of what appeared to be ruptured stickie and mystery meat. Ryan stopped short of wiping drool from his chin.

  “What is that stuff?”

  Mildred let out a belch from the end of the closest table and looked just about ready to roll onto the floor and stick all four legs up in the air like a dog drunk on slaughterhouse blood. “That on the left? That’s lasagna with Italian sausage. And that?” Mildred sighed and put a hand on her stomach. “That’s macaroni and cheese. And that? Those are ham slices with pineapple.”

  “Thought you gave up pig, Mildred.”

  “A girl’s got to keep up her strength, Ryan, and I got a bad feeling I’m sewing tomorrow, like all day.”

  Ryan lifted a trencher board toward the cook’s assistant. “For the lady and me. All three.” Ryan saw the board piled high and he and Krysty took a seat with Mildred. “Where’s J.B.?”

  Mildred made a noise. “Shining his cannon. At first I thought it was a Freudian thing, but now I’m beginning to believe this just might be true love, and I starting to wonder if I should be jealous.”

  “Ah yes, Sigmund and his phallic symbols.” Doc took a seat at the table. His cheeks were flushed from his work with his catapults. He tucked into a small plate of mac and cheese with unusual gusto. “However by the same token he always insisted that a fear of weapons was a sure sign of a retarded sexuality.”

  Mildred rolled her eyes. “Sigmund Freud was one seriously messed up sexual retard.”

  Doc cocked his head. “I never found him so in any of our conversations.”

  Mildred’s face went flat. “You knew Sigmund Freud.”

  “As an American studying in England, there was no practical hope of spending ones holidays at home, so my fellow Yankee school chums and I often took our holidays upon the Continent. One summer some of us who fancied ourselves fencers decided we would go take on the Heidelberg boys for the glory of Oxford, and then travel to Vienna. I shared coffee and cordials with Sigmund several times after faculty symposiums. Fascinating man. I remember once when he was talking about his principles of dream interpretation…” Doc slowly trailed off and stared into the middle distance.

  Ryan recognized the look. He rapped his knuckles once on the table. “Doc.”

  “What?” Doc blinked. “Yes?”

  Ryan nodded at the food. “Big fight tomorrow. Need you tossing rocks. Eat.”

  Doc cringed with embarrassment and began picking at his food. “Ah yes, indeed, of course.”

  “Where’s Jak?” Ryan asked.

  Mildred smirked.

  Jak was getting downright domestic with the mechanic. Ryan looked around the crowded tables and decided to review the troops. He got up and walked among convoy, crew and mercenary deputations. Ryan stopped at the island contingent’s table. “How you haweaters doing?”

  The Manitoulin men laughed. Hunk grinned through a massive mouthful of lasagna. “Well, it isn’t lamprey pie, but Lord, Thunder and Fallout! If you’d said the chow was this good, you coulda got the whole island to volunteer!” Hunk’s men shouted in agreement.

  Ryan clapped Hunk on the shoulder. “Listen, I know you boys don’t like being held back as a reserve.” This was met with a round of good-natured cursing in the affirmative. “So I’m giving you a job. I want you and your men cutting the log chains tomorrow. It’s going to be rough. You’ll be out in the middle of the canal, no cover, and Thorpe and his pirates are going to rain on you.”

  Hunk jabbed his thumb into his chest. “Haweaters aren’t afraid of a little rain, are we, boys?” The islanders shouted and pounded their beer mugs on the table. “Besides, we’ll be sitting in the shade, the shade of J.B. and that big iron wag he got parked on the promenade.”

  Ryan grunted in amusement. Hunk was irrepressible. “You’ll have that.” Ryan went over to the First Nations table. Loud Elk and his crew were a little more taciturn than the island boys but they were just as eager for the fight. Ryan pulled the First Nations warrior aside.

  “I know you and your men aren’t happy about being the marine reserve.”

  “Someone’s gotta do it,” Loud Elk said. “And no matter what the island boys say, no one can oar a whaleboat faster than us. If the attack has any holes, we’ll plug ’em.”

  “One other thing I want.”

  Loud Elk gave Ryan the stone-face. “What?”

  “If we get through, nothing’s going to stop Thorpe from coming back and trying again unless he’s dead. If he is, there’s nothing to stop some other baron coming in, rebuilding the lock and replacing him.”

  Loud Elk’s eyes narrowed. “You’re saying that if you get through, you want me and the boys to row hard, back for the Bruce. Have Hard-knife call a tribal gathering with as many Sachems as we can reach before the hard freeze. Declare the Soo Locks a trading camp and subject to camp law.”

  “Only sure way I can see making this worth the effort,” Ryan said.

  Loud Elk gazed at Ryan very steadily. “We will do this, and all will know these were your words.”

  Ryan and Loud Elk shook hands, and the First Nations warrior returned to his men. The one-eyed man looked out across the dining hall. Spirits were high. He put a hand on the wall and felt the vibration of the boilers chugging like a giant mechanical heartbeat. The plan was insane, but it was as good as it was going to get. Everyone knew his or her job, and Ryan had some bastard-tough sons of bitches on his side. Every resource they had was allocated and they had even come up with some new ones. He considered himself and knew he was more rested and fit than he’d been in a long time. His blasters were clean, his mags were full and so was his belly. His blades were razor-keen. There wasn’t much more he could do about this battle except f
ight it, and to do that he was going to sail an iron wag across open water and blow up a pirate-infested wall, outnumbered five to one, with the enemy behind fortifications. The plan was insane.

  Ryan allowed himself a small smile.

  But it wasn’t bad.

  The only remaining thing he could do was get a good night’s sleep. Getting shut-eye on the eve of battle was hard, but he knew something that might relax him. Ryan looked over at Krysty. She was laughing at something that was passing between Mildred and Doc. She almost instantly turned her head and favored him with a long slow smile across the mess hall. Krysty always knew when he was looking at her, and always seemed to know what was on his mind when he was. Ryan turned without a word and headed toward their stateroom.

  He reminded himself to make sure both canteens of water were full.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ryan stood on the bridge and watched the lake bottleneck down into the last stretch of river that would take them to the locks. The dawn was overcast. The top of the St. Mary’s River formed a question mark girded by islands. They were about to hit the apex of that question mark. There was no question in Ryan’s mind as the Queen approached the narrows. This was the gauntlet, and there was a solid wall dripping with pirates waiting at the end of it. Ryan looked at McKenzie. The captain nodded and began bellowing through his brass speaking trumpet. “All hands! Battle stations!” Boatswain’s whistles shrieked on both decks. The Queen of the Lakes reverberated with the pounding of feet as her passengers and crew made ready for war. Every inch of rail had been sandbagged and began dripping with men and blasters.

  “Loadmaster!” the captain called. “Raise nets!”

  Capstans clanked as crewmen pushed against the spars on all four cranes. Heavy fishing nets brought from Manitoulin crawled up the sides of the Queen port and starboard to impede boarders. Both Ryan and the captain looked at the roof above them as a tremor and groan creaked through the ancient ferry as the weight of the heavy sodden strands rose. The Queen was a very shallow draft vessel to begin with. Raising the LAV to front promenade and putting both catapults and their loads of missiles on the back had raised the Queen’s center of gravity several perilous degrees. The men crowding every inch of rail space and now the netting was only exacerbating things. Captain McKenzie and his Loadmaster had rearranged the vehicles and cargo on the bottom deck to try to compensate but only so much could be done.