Plague Lords (Empire of Xibalba, #1) (11 page)

“What tales?” Ryan said.

“Yeah, I didn’t think you had,” the captain said. “The stories have filtered up as far as Padre Island, but the traders working out of there have kept a lid on them. Nobody wants to start a stampede of newcomers. There’s too many in the business as it is.”

“Are you going to tell us, or what?” Krysty said impatiently.

“The details are sketchy, as you would expect,” Tom went on, “but it sounds like the folks to the south came out of the Apocalypse better than we did up here. They didn’t get any direct missile hits. Nuke winter wasn’t near as hard for them as it was for us. They caught some badass tidal waves, though. I’ve heard rumors they’re still making diesel in the predark plants. Other shit, too, you know, manufacturing stuff like before skydark. I was thinking seriously about sailing down there myself, just to see what’s what. If things are opening up half that good, I wouldn’t mind getting in on the ground floor.”

“How far?” Ryan asked.

“Mex, and points south.”

“We’ve been to Mex City,” Cawdor told him.

“And?”

“It was just another shitheap. Not a nuked shitheap, though. It was shaken apart by earthquakes and volcanos blowing off their tops. Natives weren’t all that friendly, either. Triple-crazy chillers if you want to know the truth. If you want to know the truth, it wasn’t much different than here, except for the funny hats.”

“How’d you manage to get all the way to Mex City?” the skipper asked.

“On foot,” Ryan replied, lying without hesitation. The predark mat-trans system that allowed companions to jump between redoubts in seconds was too valuable a secret to give away.

“Sailing is a hell of a lot easier than walking,” Tom said. “And there’s more to the world than what any of us has seen. There’s got to be.”

“In terms of total landmass and population before skydark, that’s a no-brainer,” Mildred said. “What’s left, of course, is anybody’s guess.”

“It has been said that travel broadens one,” Doc added. “Of course, it can also get you beheaded.”

“So, travel makes shorter?” Jak asked.

Ryan cracked a smile. Mildred and Krysty giggled.

“Two jokes in one day,” J.B. said, shaking his head. “What’s the nukin’ world coming to?”

“We’ve all got to die some way,” Tom asserted. “How I look at it, might as well be some way interesting. And a person has got to look farther ahead than just the next meal, or the next safe hole to crawl into at night. Got to look past what’s here and now, to set a course, a proper course…”

Tom paused and gazed off to starboard, frowning as he seemed to consider something important, then he said, “I’ve got a business proposition for you folks. I’ve been thinking about it for a good long time. I don’t make the proposition lightly, and this is the first I’ve mentioned it to anyone. We know each other by reputation. And I’ve seen what you can do, the kind of fight you put up, with my own eyes. My business proposition requires a sec crew. A heavy-duty sec crew I can trust to sail down the Lantic coast with me, mebbe all the way to Tierra del Fuego if need be. I figure you’re just what I’ve been looking for. Got no back-down in you. We can supply
Tempest
from the Padre Island stockpiles, then head on south. We’ll share the spoils of the trip equal shares. No telling the wonders and riches we might find.”

“A journey of discovery?” Doc said, his interest piqued. “A reprise of the Lewis and Clark expedition, three hundred years after the fact?”

“I don’t have a clue what you’re rattling on about,” Krysty told Doc.

Then to Tom she said, “You, either. You’re talking about making an open-ended sea voyage through unknown waters based on gaudy-house gossip?”

“No risk, no gain,” the captain replied.

“We’re not shy about taking risks, and big ones at that,” Ryan said. “But the gain at the far end has to be more than a pipe dream.”

The captain shot Ryan an incredulous look. “Hey, correct me if I’m wrong,” he said, “but when you sashayed into Port A ville, your butts were dragging mighty low. Tongues half hanging out. For adventurers you ain’t exactly living high on the hog, are you? You’re barely scraping by. My guess is, more often than not, you’re hungry, thirsty, cold and low on ammo. At a point not too far down the line all the hellscape’s prime booty will be gone and there’ll be no more scraping by the way you’ve done. No survival except for those who don’t mind stump clearing, rock chucking and shit shoveling. I’m talking dirt farmers. I’m talking goat milkers. I’m talking fighting off muties with wooden clubs and with blasters made out of iron pipe and bailing wire. And you all know I’m right. You can read the signs as well as I can. The awful day when the predark spoils run out is coming, sure as hell smells like sulfur. Nothing can stop it.”

The captain’s word were met with silence.

“Don’t say no to my idea right off,” he told them. “Think on it awhile. That’s all I’m asking.”

“We’ll think on it,” Ryan said.

“There’s plenty of food and drink in the galley,” the captain said. “Go down and help yourselves.”

Ryan was the last to descend the steep companionway. He could stand in the rear cabin without bumping the top of his head, but barely. On the port side was an aft bunk; in the middle of the cabin stood a chart table. An open, locked back bulkhead door led into the main salon. On the right was the galley: propane cooktop, sink, counter. Hanging above the sink in a net were pots, pans and cooking utensils. On the left was a dinette table surrounded on three sides by a settee. Above the back cushions were two rows of densely packed bookshelves. The table was set with miscellaneous bowls, jars, jugs and bags of food. Forward, through another locked-open bulkhead door, Ryan could see another set of steps, and beyond them, V-berths at the bow of the ship. He assumed
Tempest’
s cargo holds were hidden belowdecks. The cabin was scuffed, chipped, but spanking clean. There was a faint smell of bleach.

The companions slid in around the small table and without fanfare plowed directly into the eats and drinks. There was salted hard tack for bread, shelled walnuts, ripe tomatoes bigger than Ryan’s fist, melons, oranges, a variety of dried fruits and plenty of fresh water. The jars held pickled hard-boiled eggs and filets of small fish.

Except for the sounds of chewing and swallowing there was silence as they ate. They packed it in like there was no tomorrow, filling the voids.

“Not bad grub,” Jak said at last, licking the tomato juice dripping down his snow-white wrist.

“This is just nasty,” Krysty said holding up a piece of pickled fish on a knifepoint for Mildred to sniff.

“Gak,” the doctor said, spraying hard tack crumbs over the tabletop.

Krysty plopped the tidbit back into the jar and screwed the lid down tight.

Their hunger finally sated, the companions pushed back against the settee’s cushions and breathed deeply.

“Do we have to think twice about this offer?” Mildred asked the others. “It’s our first real chance to see what the rest of the world is like.”

“We saw Mex and we saw Baja,” J.B. countered. “We saw other foreign lands. They were shitpits. Barely got out of some places in one piece, if you’ll remember.”

“My dear John Barrymore,” Doc said, “you know other nations have survived. Entire predark nations, perhaps. Even cultures.”

“Ever wonder why these advanced civilizations haven’t paid Deathlands a visit in the last hundred years?” Krysty asked. “Sent rescue missions?”

“Maybe because they think we’re all chilled,” Mildred offered. “Perhaps they think there’s nothing left to visit or save. Nothing but poisoned earth, air and water, and crazy-chiller muties. Maybe they’ve turned their backs on us for bringing on the end of the world. Any or all of those reasons could be valid.”

“Or they could be bullshit,” J.B. replied with venom. The pain of his injury seemed to have put him in a particularly foul temper. “Deep down you and Doc still want everything to be back the way you remember it, before you got frozen and time trawled, before the nukecaust, and that’s not gonna happen. The both of you are living in a dreamworld. You don’t want to admit that what we have here is all there is. Mebbe even better than what’s left of the world. We’ve seen some downright evil shit in parts of the world we visited.”

“We know what we’re up against in Deathlands,” Krysty said, picking up the thread of J.B.’s argument. “The four of us were born and bred here. We’ve come up fighting muties, coldhearts and barons. We know how to survive whatever the hellscape throws at us. And we’ve got the mat-trans as our ace-in-the-hole. We can always get out of a hotspot in a hurry if we have to. Where this tub is headed there aren’t going to be any redoubts, no mat-trans, no quick escapes, no telling what’s going to be thrown at us. On this tub, if something goes wrong we’re dead meat.”

“Sailing south could be a suicide mission,” J.B. summed up.

Arms folded across his chest, Jak grunted in assent.

“In case you haven’t noticed by now,” Mildred countered with heat, “life is a suicide mission.”

“Wait a minute,” Ryan said, raising his hands for calm. “Let’s just look at the facts in front of us. Harmonica Tom’s the real deal. We know that. If he’s done a quarter of the stuff people say he’s done, there’s no better skipper.”

“Okay, facts on the table,” Krysty said. “How long could the trip take?”

“If the historic voyages of discovery are any measure,” Doc said, “perhaps a year, barring accident. Perhaps longer. The distance spanned, round trip, is something on the order of 12,000 miles.”

“Nukin’ hell,” J.B. groaned.

“Assuming we found something valuable,” Krysty said, “how much of it could we bring back on this boat? Seven people and provisions for same are going to make it kind of cramped.”

“That depends on what the valuables are,” Ryan said. “Good things sometimes come in small packages.”

“There’s more to this than just a fresh vein of booty,” Mildred said. “This could change all our lives for the better. If there’s another world out there, an un-nuked world, maybe we wouldn’t want to come back.”

“Mebbe you wouldn’t want to come back,” Krysty said.

“If you’ve got big love in your heart for the Deathlands because you were born in it, that’s your business,” Mildred told her. “From what I’ve seen over the years, I’d say all the hellscape does is kick our asses. But hey, maybe that’s just me.”

“And what if the captain isn’t telling us the whole truth?” Krysty said. “What if he’s holding something important back to get us to sign on? Figuring he’ll break the bad news when it’s too late for us to back out?”

“We kind of outnumber him,” Mildred said drolly.

“A guy doesn’t survive solo without having some neat tricks up his sleeve,” J.B. said with confidence.

Ryan held up his hands again. Though he didn’t show it, he was deeply concerned by the way things were shaking out. For the first time, he was facing the possibility that a fork in the road might permanently split up his crew.

“Look,” he said. “I can see both sides of this. It isn’t a matter of looking for new adventures. We’ve got plenty of that without shipping out. It’s about the devil we know versus the devil we don’t. The familiar, bad as it is, is still familiar. We can pretty much reckon how we’re gonna die. Starvation. Thirst. Gutshot. Backstabbed. Ate by some mutie. I don’t particularly care where I croak or how. But if there’s a chance of never having to go hungry or drink my own piss again…”

“So you’re for taking this pipedream trip and mebbe never coming back?” Krysty said, aghast.

Before he could answer Mildred said, “Are we going to put it to a vote, or what? Everybody in favor raise their hands.”

“By the Three Kennedys!” Doc exclaimed. “Can we please set some ground rules before we proceed? Is this going to be a majority decision that we all agree in advance to abide with, or does the vote have to be unanimous?”

“There’s not going to be a radblasted vote,” Ryan told the others. “It’s too soon to make up our minds about any of this. We don’t have to decide until after we’re paid for the C-4. Let’s wait and see how the islander deal works out. Mebbe pick up some more information while we’re there. Get a better feel for how the captain does business, and how he runs his ship.”

His words hit home.

“Of course you’re correct, Ryan,” Doc said. “Your logic is impeccable. There is no need for haste in the matter. And a decision this important is best made by cool heads all around.”

“So we’re going to wait and see?” Ryan said, pointedly staring down the companions in turn.

Each of them nodded in agreement.

Not a victory. A temporary truce. Perhaps simply a postponement of an inevitable outcome.

Mildred turned on the settee and began reading out loud the titles from the spines of the shelved books and magazines. There were century-old
National Geographic
magazines, sailing and travel books, books on first aid and emergency surgery, marine engine repair and gunsmithing books, cookbooks, crudely printed volumes on creating homemade explosives and poisons and books that taught foreign languages. Spanish. French. German. Chinese. Japanese. Maori.

“Our host has acquired quite a broad collection of useful twentieth-century nonfiction,” Doc said.