Moonfeast (12 page)

“No way these are the descendants of the original sailors assigned to this dock,” Mildred said bluntly. “Even a green recruit would know better than to let steel tools rust in the salty air.”

“Then we can have little hope for the condition of the boat,” Doc rumbled, his shoulders sagging.

Sitting in the wooden cradle of the dry dock was a civilian cabin cruiser, the fiberglass hull unblemished from the passage of the years. However, there had plainly been extensive modifications. Car tires hung along the gunwale as protection from the cradle, there
was now a black-powder cannon set on the foredeck, thick slabs of wood had been bolted to the exterior of the wheelhouse as crude armor and a fat smokestack rose directly from the rear deck. Painted across the bow in flowery script was the name
Moon Runner
.

“Dark night, what a tumbledown tub,” J.B. said with a sigh. “At least, it still floats. Kinda.”

“The engines are what matter,” Ryan countered, rubbing one of the scratches on his cheek. With a start, the man realized that his eyepatch was missing, and fumbled in his pockets to find a handkerchief. Quickly, Ryan tied it across his face as a temporary replacement until he could make a new one.

The rest of the companions waited until the man was finished, then proceeded to board the craft.

The cabin cruiser was a little cramped for six people, so everybody waited on the deck while Ryan and J.B. warily entered the wheelhouse and then took the companionway that had to lead to the engine room. A few minutes later the men returned, not looking happy.

“The engine is gone?” Krysty guessed, thumbing the hump of her hammerless revolver.

“Worse. It’s been replaced with a steam engine,” Ryan stated. “On top of which, the screamers have been playing with the engine.”

“Playing?” Jak asked.

“A lot of pipes are joined together in random patterns, nonsensical stuff, and some of the machinery is gone,” J.B. added, resting the Uzi on a shoulder. “We found a safety valve that had been carefully removed, polished brightly, then beaten flat with a hammer and hung as a decoration.”

“And I will assume the valve is critical?” Doc rum bled.

“We wouldn’t get more than a half mile offshore before this thing exploded without it,” Ryan stated, resting a boot on a coil of rope. “Replacing the part is easy. J.B. and I had lot of work on steam trucks used by the Trader in the past, but first…”

“We need a replacement part,” Mildred finished with a frown, then her face brightened. “Think we might find one in the ruins of the SEAL base?”

“If they took showers, or there was a big kitchen, there was a water heater, and those always have safety valves,” J.B. said. “Worst comes about, we can check the wreckage of an aircraft carrier.”

“Because they used steam catapults to throw the jets overboard,” Krysty said, getting the idea.

“Into the sky,” J.B. corrected. “But yeah, and the carrier would carry dozens of spare parts. Most of them would still be in storage, safely packed in jelly.”

“If find drek,” Jak added. “What better place look boat than Navy yard?”

“True,” Krysty agreed. “Gaia knows, we aren’t going to swim a hundred miles to reach the mainland!”

“Not with a kraken in the area,” Ryan agreed, brushing back his hair and looking at the mouth of the wooden tunnel. “Doc and Jak, go with J.B. and seal that bastard tunnel at both ends. I don’t want anybody else coming through ever again.”

“Done and done,” J.B. stated, hefting the munitions bag.

The first explosion sounded dull and distant, loose dust and dirt bellowing across the dockyard like a hur
ricane from Kansas. The second pipe bomb collapsed the mouth of the access tunnel, wood splinters and wreck age blowing out across the water for a hundred yards.

After rigging some low-yield explosives in the dockyard around the
Moon Runner
, the companions started off along the sandy coast toward the ruins of the U.S. Navy base. According to the map, the trip shouldn’t take them more than a few hours. San Clemente wasn’t that big an island.

Days later, they were still walking.

The sea water foamed across the bow of the cargo barge, the huge, flat vessel skimming along the southern coastline of Clemente with remarkable speed. Across the bow in oddly flowery script was the name
Tiger Shark
.

Although equipped with three massive diesel engines, the barge had only one in operation at the moment to conserve fuel. The flat deck was divided into compartments by sandbag walls lashed into place with strong netting, the gunwale bristled with pungi sticks and barbed wire, and there were two .50-caliber machine guns bolted to the deck, along with a brace of cross bows with a span over six feet wide. A wrinklie had once called the weapon an arbalest, which was just feeb talk as why would a thing have two different names? The captain had executed the fool for lying.

A dozen sec men stood alert on the deck, watching the land through binocs, searching for any sign of the outlanders and their strange war wag of a boat. Only the deadly
Tiger Shark
had been deemed fast enough to challenge the outlanders and their unknown vessel. The rest of the fifteen-ship fleet was moored in Black Mountain Bay, safe from any possible attack by norms or muties. Not that there was much danger of the latter.

Unlike ville sec men, the sailors wore whatever was
available. Uniforms were for lubbers, not wave-riders! Blasters were worn around the waist or across the chest. Some had swords, while others carried axes. However, each man and woman had a gold ring in their left ear, fishskin boots and a host of tattoos, which gave them an oddly similar appearance.

“Anything?” Captain Bart Carlton asked, sweeping the horizon with a set of military monoculars. The special functions of the computerized device were aced, as they required a battery pack to function, but the optics worked fine, much better than any set of civilian binoculars, or telescope.

“Not yet sir,” reported First Officer Frank Godderstein, giving a crisp salute. The man was enormous, his wide chest and oversize arms giving him a definite simian appearance. An M-16 rapidfire rested in a scabbard across his back where it was protected from the salty spray, and a curved throwing ax dangled from his belt, the blade nicked from constant use, but mirror-bright from a daily polishing.

“Well, keep looking, Frank. The island isn’t that large,” Carlton ordered, tucking away the monocular.

Although only five feet tall, the blond man radiated an aura of command that few people could deny. His plump face burned with an intensity of purpose that frightened coldhearts, pirates and mercies alike. His clothing was stark white and painfully clean. Only his combat boots were old and scuffed. A predark watch adorned his left wrist, even though it no longer worked, and a squat 9 mm Ingram rapidfire was holstered at his side, a shoulder holster carrying five extra clips. The open display of wealth intimidated most people, and
those it didn’t soon discovered the error of their judgment, as Carlton was lightning fast and always hit what he aimed at.

“Tell me about their weapons again,” Carlton ordered.

“They had rapidfires, longblasters and wheelguns, but there was no smoke from the muzzle when they fired,” said Digger O’Malley, the insignia of Sealton ville removed from his uniform. “Only flashes of light.”

“Mutie shit,” a sec man drawled from the starboard bow. “T’aint possible.”

“It’s true, I saw it myself!” Digger insisted, a hand going to the matlock at his side. “Only one of them had a proper blaster, a tall man with silver hair. He looked like a wrinklie, but moved like a sec man.”

“And you say that he had a son?” Carlton asked. He didn’t know who these strangers were, or who they served, but if he wasn’t their leader, then they had to be aced. Clemente Island was his personal property. End of discussion.

“A son? Sure enough,” Digger said, bobbing his head. “There was this shorter young fellow, lean and hard. Looked like a real coldheart. His hair was the same color as the wrinklie, mebbe a touch more white than silver, but with hair like that they had to be kin.”

“Excellent,” Carlton said with a cold smile. “People are always so much more cooperative when family members are involved in negotiations.”

“But the silver-hair guy wasn’t in charge?” Godderstein asked. “Nor his son?”

“No, there was another man,” Digger replied. “He
was clearly the leader. Big fellow, muscles like a hunter, black hair, scarred face, one eye, carried a couple of blasters and a weird long knife.” The man started to tell about the redheaded woman, then decide to keep that piece of intel to himself.

“You know, I took a big chance coming to you with this,” Digger said, drumming his fingers on the wooden handle of the matlock.

“Which is why you will be given Sealton. After Jones is chilled, of course,” Carlton said, standing on the deck. Both hands clasped behind his back, the man swayed to the motion of the ship as if he were an integral part bolted into place. “I rule the sea, you barons have the villes. That is to be our accord.”

“Fine by me!” Digger grinned.

In the distance, a pod of small whales broke the surface and Carlton rushed to the prow. Holding out his hands, the man began to softly hum. A few moments later the choppy surface of the ocean erupted into a geyser of writhing tentacles, then they arched over the gunwale to surround the captain, flexing and moving constantly, but never touching the smug man.

“By the coast gods,” a young sec man whispered, making an ancient sign of protection. “The captain can talk to muties?”

“He can talk to any animal alive, lad,” Digger boasted. “That’s why we shifted our allegiance to him!”

“But that means he must be a…a…mutie!” the boy finally got out, his face pale with terror.

“Yes, I am,” Carlton said, dismissing the kraken with
a wave of his hand, and thought. “Does that disturb you, youngster?”

“Aye, it does! I’ll never work for a filthy half-breed!” the boy snarled, and clawed for his brand-new blaster—only to find the holster empty.

“And who doesn’t have a touch in their blood these days?” Godderstein snorted, tucking the stolen blaster into his belt.

“My lord?” Digger asked, licking dry lips.

“Chill him,” Carlton said, not even looking in that direction.

Spinning, Digger rammed the matlock into the stomach of the young sec man. With a cry, the boy went backward, soaring over the gunwale to splash into the waves.

Reaching out with his mind, Carlton summoned the kraken. Almost instantly the choppy water around the speeding barge was filled with tentacles. Still fighting to stay afloat, the boy screamed in raw terror, then disappeared under the foamy red waves.

“Such a damn waste,” Godderstein rumbled. “His boots were brand-new.”

Pulling out a home-rolled cigar, Carlton lit it with a match. “As you say, such a waste.” The mutie puffed away, deep in thought.

T
HE SUN WAS HIGH
in the cloudy sky, the heat oppressive and unrelenting. A cool breeze blew in from the ocean, making the shoreline tolerable. Just on the other side of the sand dunes, the companions would have believed that they were back in the Great Salt.

“John Barrymore, how big did you say this island
was again?” Doc rumbled, wiggling his bare toes in the shallow water along the sandy beach. A length of twine dangled off the end of his ebony sword stick. A shiny hook wafted in the water. But the tiny fish darting around didn’t seem to be fooled, and were boldly nibbling on the bait and avoiding the hook entirely.

“According to my map, Clemente should be about twenty miles wide,” J.B. answered.

“And how far have we walked, sir?”

“Thirty-five miles,” J.B. muttered, thrusting away the map and paper. “Dark night, I’ve done this math over and over. Everything says this is San Clemente in the Channel Islands!”

“However…” Mildred prompted.

“In the middle of the bastard ocean!” J.B. replied hotly. “We should be drowning by now!”

“Map wrong,” Jak said simply, wringing out his socks before laying them flat on a large rock. The salt water helped kill the smell, and seemed to be doing a small bunion he had a world of good.

“Because of the nuking, it’s possible,” Mildred suggested, “that San Clemente got shoved into other islands to become a single landmass. I’ve heard of that happening before.” She paused. “Just not in this millennium.”

“Makes sense,” J.B. grudgingly relented.

Just then a sharp whistle sounded from the distance and the companions looked up to see Ryan and Krysty walk into view down the beach. Impatiently, they waited for the man and woman to rejoin them.

“Find a ville?” J.B. asked hopefully.

“More important, got food?” Jak asked, his empty
stomach growling loudly. The coneys were long gone, and the wildlife that was so abundant in the interior of the island was almost nonexistent along the blazing hot coastline. For the past two days the companions had been living on the clams and sea urchins recovered from the tide pools. Each were excellent, but there was never enough of them to satisfy the companions’ growing hunger.

“We found everything,” Ryan answered, dropping his bulging backpack onto the sand. “There’s a fresh water river up ahead, and more of these bastard fruit trees than we could count.”

“What kind?” Jak asked, scurrying over. Opening the backpack, he eagerly withdrew a red and yellow sphere with a shiny skin. “What is, mutie?” he said, his lip curling. The teenager had once almost starved to death, but he would never be hungry enough to eat a mutie plant. That was just suicide!

“Don’t know if it’s natural, or not,” Krysty said honestly, lifting out one of them and polishing the skin on her sleeve. “But we saw the birds eating them, and a cougar eating a bird. That sounded good enough, so we tried it.” She smiled. “They’re wonderful!”

“They’re called nectarines,” Mildred said, taking one and biting deeply. Juice gushed from the fruit to trickle down her cheeks. “Yep, this is a nectarine, all right.”

“Indeed,” Doc rumbled suspiciously. “I had a neighbor in Vermont who had an apple farm, and loved to talk about different types of fruits grown from around the world. He had several books on the subject, yet I have never heard of…what was the name again?”

“Nectarine,” Mildred mumbled her mouth stuffed.
“It’s a sort of peach. Some people thought it was a simple crossbreed of a plum and a peach, or something like that.” She paused to swallow. “Best thing in the world. I honestly never thought to see one again.”

“So okay?” Jak asked, sniffing. It smelled great, and his mouth began to water.

“Hell, yes!”

“Even more importantly, there’s a ville just past the orchard,” Ryan said, taking out a nectarine and biting into it. He chewed twice and swallowed. The man had consumed several already, but they really were the best thing he’d ever had off a tree.

“The gate is open, so we suspected another cannie trap, or mebbe a plague ville,” Ryan continued. “But there was a straight-up fight, spent brass everywhere. Coldhearts, mercies, doesn’t matter, they aced the sec men and the civies are gone. But they left everything behind.”

“Like food?” Jak insisted.

“Tons of it,” Krysty said, reaching into a pocket and tossing something over.

The teenager made the catch and beamed with delight at the self-heat can. Spaghetti! After pulling the tab to activate the heating device, Jak waited impatiently for the wisps of steam to rise, showing the food was ready to eat.

Yanking off the lid, Jak smelled the spaghetti just to make sure, then started wolfing it down without wasting time with unnecessary chewing.

“Goof!” he mumbled, his face smeared with red as if he had just ripped open an enemy’s throat with his bare teeth. “Amp bear ’eapballs!”

Trying not to smile, Mildred translated that into “And there are meatballs,” and happily accepted a can herself. This one had no label, and after it grew warm, she removed the top to find the military container full of tuna casserole. She paused at the thought of yet another fish dinner, then the smell of the tangy cheddar cheese sauce wafted upward, and the woman dug in with gusto.

“Delicious!” she said after a moment, using her fingers in lieu of a spoon.

“We found twenty cans, but we each only get one for dinner,” Ryan said, fishing off another nectarine. “Too much food too fast, and it only comes back up. We can’t afford a waste like that.”

That statement slowed everybody, and the food began to be chewed before being swallowed. More fruit was served as dessert, and everybody simply sat after the meal, allowing their bodies to absorb the repast. A U.S. Navy self-heat was designed to sustain a sailor for an entire day. However, for the companions it barely “fed the tiger” as the saying went. The fruit helped, along with the knowledge that more was available.

“Dark night, I needed that.” J.B. grinned, tossing away the empty can. Then he paused to burp. “I like fish, but at the rate Doc catches them we’ll be aced of old age before he gets enough to make a pot of stew.”

Arching an eyebrow, Doc bristled, then shrugged as it was unfortunately true. The man had many talents and skills, but fishing in Deathlands was sadly not among them.

“When you’re feeling better, we’ll start walking,” Ryan said, leaning back on the rock and closing his eye.
“It’s only about a mile to the river, and another three to the ville.”

“Ready now,” Jak said, kneeling on shore to wash his hands and then rub his face clean.

In only a few minutes the companions had gathered their meager belongings and started along the upper part of the beach, past the high tide mark. Grass and some weeds grew there, which made walking a lot easier than marching through shifting sands.

Along the way, the companions passed the burned-out wrecks of U.S. Navy vessels dotting the ocean, some of them completely submerged, only the tip of the deck guns reaching the open air as if the vessels were snorkeling.

Several times Ryan checked his rad counter, but the device never reached the danger level, and soon they left behind the radioactive ruins of the predark battle. Everything they wanted and needed was probably on those ships, and in abundance. But rich in rads, the food and weapons were deadly, and so the companions simply ignored the predark bounty as if it didn’t exist.