Time Castaways (9 page)

“Well, it’s my turn to cook,” Ryan said, rubbing a hand across his unshaved jaw. He would have liked to shave, but it would be better if he looked rough when negotiating with folks who didn’t have any metal. “Is there any of the stew left?”

“Nope,” Jak said with an apologetic shrug.

Knowing the appetite of the teenager, Ryan accepted that. “Fair enough. I’ll use some of the MRE packs.”

“Be glad to help,” Liana offered. “I’m a very good cook.”

“Me, too,” Ryan replied tolerantly. “This time you watch, learn how we do things, then you can make lunch. Fair enough?” The man understood her eagerness to be seen as a valuable member of the group. But he wasn’t quite ready to trust the newcomer enough to consume anything she made out of sight.

“Done and done,” Liana said, and offered a hand, as if sealing a deal.

The smiling man and serious woman shook, then got busy gathering more driftwood, while the others took their turns in the bushes and washing in the cold lake.

Seeing his refection in a tide pool, Doc decided to
shave. Using a scrap of soap recovered from a distant redoubt, he worked up some lather, then used his belt knife, running the flame of a butane lighter along the edge first to make sure it was clean. Over the years, the blade had been thrust into far too many bodies, both norm and mutie, to risk using without sterilization.

Soon, the time traveler was freshly scraped, his face shiny pink, with only a small cut on his chin. A single red drop of blood fell into the water and faded away from sight into the murky depths.

Chapter Six

Leaving the cave behind, the companions trundled inland, going high into the foothills then across a woodsy glen.

Breakfast had been MRE envelopes of pancakes and syrup, French toast and scrambled eggs, plus packets of hot chocolate. Liana marveled over the foodstuff, but passed on the hot chocolate for some of the coffee, savoring the dark roast Colombian as if it was made from precious salt. From her sounds of pleasure, it clearly tasted even better than she had imagined.

As the day progressed, the thick fog returned, masking the landscape until it was impossible to see more than a few yards in any direction.

Irritably, Ryan realized this condition made the scope of his Steyr useless. Any chilling on Royal Island would be up close and personal, knives and blasters only.

Preparing to bargain with the local baron, Ryan and Mildred had already removed anything they carried that was made of metal: belt buckles, rad counter, belt knives and such, including their combat boots. The footwear wasn’t made of metal, but was in far too good shape. The spare Army blankets had been converted
into crude ponchos, held in place by pieces of hemp rope, with additional pieces lashed into place around their bare feet as crude rag boots. Doc said the idea came from the Middle Ages.

Trying to look the role of sec men from one of the outer islands, both Ryan and Mildred were armed with a crossbow and quiver, stone knives, wooden boomerang and bolo. However, secreted inside their shirts, under their ponchos, were their blasters and a few grens, just in case of emergencies.

The two companions also carried a couple of gifts for the baron, hopefully more than enough to buy a boat and fishing nets. The companions had no conceivable use for the nets, but since it was forbidden to leave the island, they would make for a good cover story, as Mildred liked to say. A reasonable lie used to hide the uncomfortable truth.

Slowly the hours passed as the companions crossed a wide field of daisies growing in wild profusion around the corpse of what might have been a mutie spider, but it was impossible to tell anymore. Just to be safe, J.B. primed a Molotov and watched the trees for any unusually large webs.

Reaching the forest once more, the companions climbed a ragged hill covered with pine trees only to quickly go around a small bay, the rad counters of Ryan and J.B. both clicking steadily upward.

“That’s Dead Man Bay,” Liana said with a shiver, making a protective gesture in the air. “It looks safe, but drink that water, or even eat a fish from there, and all you hair falls out, then you start bleeding from the gums.”

“And then?” Krysty prompted. The bay seemed perfectly normal, but the counters were almost off the scale.

“And then the sec men shovel dirt over you,” the blonde replied. “They used to feed the bodies to the crabs, but then the women started having bad babies for some reason, so the baron made them stop.”

“Crabs eat corpse, then you eat crabs?” Jak asked, shifting his backpack.

“Sure. Why?”

“That reason,” he replied succinctly.

“Heavy metal poisoning,” Mildred explained with a sigh. Strontium, thulium, cobalt, the list of lethal isotopes was nearly endless. Most likely, the bay had been hit by a Russian MIRV, a warhead containing not a single, massive, thermonuclear bomb, but a dozen tactical nukes. However, she knew better than to raise the possibility to the others. They simply did not care. A nuke was a nuke, end of discussion.

“Are you a whitecoat?” Liana asked sharply, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Healer, just a healer,” Mildred replied, sensing possible danger.

After a while Liana nodded in acceptance and continued walking, her legs moving fast as she tried to keep abreast of Doc with his long stride.

The masked sun was in the afternoon sky by the time the companions started to run across traces of the ville—repairs done to the dirt road from the summer rains, farmland already harvested for the coming winter, acres of tree stumps with the splintery stumps giv
ing mute testimony to the backbreaking task of using a stone ax, and a crude bridge spanning a dry ravine that was probably a raging torrent in the spring.

Finding a relatively secluded area, masked from the surrounding hills by a copse of maple trees, Ryan and Mildred divested themselves of their larger metal items, the spare blasters and brass going to Jak, the Steyr to Krysty, and the med kit to Doc. Double-checking each other for anything metallic, Ryan and Mildred then rubbed some loose dirt into their hair and clothing to enhance the idea that they had walked to Anchor from the far end of the known world.

“Okay, we part company here,” Ryan said, hefting a loaded crossbow. The weight was awkward, so he shifted the grip until it properly balanced. A small detail like that could easily get them aced if the local sec men were any good at their jobs. “Whether we get a boat, or not, we’ll meet you at the grotto that Liana told us about.”

“We’ll be there,” J.B. replied earnestly, stashing away the possessions. “And if you’re not back by midnight, we’ll come looking for you.”

“Damn well better.”

“Watch out for the Wendigo!” the blonde warned again, knowing that she was repeating herself, but feeling it was necessary. She had once seen the terrible thing in action, and her new friends had not. It was not a sight the woman would ever forget.

“The Wendigo?” Krysty asked with a scowl.

“Unless I am mistaken, that comes from a Canadian myth about an unstoppable monster,” Doc replied. “A
trapper went mad from hunger, ate a friend and the Indian gods cursed him forever.”

“Unstoppable monster.” Jak nodded. “Good name war wag.”

“Hopefully it is just advertising, and not an accurate description,” Mildred said, double-checking her clothing one last time. The rag boots were surprisingly comfortable, but the physician knew that would cease at the first touch of moisture. Rain puddles were now to be avoided like landmines.

As the companions slipped into the bushes, Jak waited until they were past before following along behind, a leafy branch in his pale hands erasing any trace of their passage.

“The Trader used to do something similar with sage bushes,” Ryan commented. “Said he learned it from the Sioux when he was a kid.” The one-eyed man almost smiled. “Seems kind of funny thinking of the Trader that way, learning things, instead of teaching others.”

“Even the great Socrates had a teacher as a child,” Mildred replied. One of her professors had said that civilization was merely the accumulated wisdom of everybody who had ever lived. Smart words. With all of her heart, the physician hoped that in the future people would be smart enough to never allow another skydark. The universe rarely gave anybody a second chance.

When the others were completely out of sight, Ryan and Mildred stolidly returned to the main road, then walked back toward the lake for a mile, before turning and starting for the ville again. Along the way, the man
and woman sharply watched the trees and hillsides for any signs of perimeter guards, sentries or outriders, but saw only songbirds, stingwings and an abundance of squirrels. Whatever else was wrong with the island, at least food was plentiful, which was a nice change from the vast sterile deserts of the western Deathlands.

A few miles later the ville rose into view. Situated on the side of a cliff, the walls were composed of irregularly shaped stones, joined with a blue material that was probably river clay. Sec men and women armed with crossbows walked along the top of the structure, and a guard tower rose high above the ville, the pillbox on top bristled with wooden spears like a frightened porcupine.

“Protection from the kraken?” Mildred asked out of the corner of her mouth.

Adjusting his eyepatch, Ryan merely nodded in agreement. Perhaps the bastard lake muties really were as large as Liana had informed them. If so, that could put a real crimp in their plans to reach the mainland in a fishing boat. The journey would be tough enough without dodging a hungry mutie larger than a predark warehouse.

The front gate of the ville was made of interlocking logs, the bark stripped off and the smooth bare wood studded with wooden spikes and shiny pieces of volcanic glass. Only the hinges were metal. Then Ryan looked again. Correction, two of the six hinges were metal, the rest were carved from stone.

Unlike every other ville Ryan and Mildred had ever encountered, the front gate was wide open, with no guards in sight. However, there was another log wall
just past the gate, neatly blocking any view of the ville. That was standard in most villes. The second wall was a shatter zone, designed to break the charge of any invaders and to give the ville sec men an excellent place to shoot at the enemy from relative safety.

Strolling closer, Ryan could hear the sounds of ville life, raised voices, a dog barking, laughter and cursing, a drunk was singing, a newborn crying, and there was the steady, never-ending chopping of wood.

When they were only a few yards away, a muttered curse came from off to one side and a sec man scrambled out of a brick kiosk, holding a large crossbow. Each brick in the kiosk was a different color, showing they had been salvaged from several ruins, and there was a firing slit in the side, subtle movements on the other side showing the gatekeeper was not alone.

“Hold it there, outlanders!” the sec man commanded, swinging up his weapon until it wasn’t exactly pointing in their direction, but close enough to be used if desired.

The guard looked dangerous, but Mildred internally sighed at the sight of the large black man, his skin even darker than her own. Once more, Liana was right. She was just regular folks here.

The huge sec man was dressed in thick furs, with a stone-throwing ax hanging from a thong at his side. The leather-wrapped handle was old and worn, the stone blade nicked in several places, but polished to a mirror sheen. It was clearly a deadly weapon that saw a lot of constant use.

“Sure thing,” Ryan said in an even tone, his own
crossbow pointing at the ground, but with an arrow notched and ready.

“What’s your biz in Anchor?” the sec man demanded, a finger resting on the trigger of his weapon.

“Just here to buy a boat,” Ryan replied, trying to appear anxious.

“Buy a boat?” That seemed to confuse the man. “What for? They’re easy enough to make out of bark.”

“Don’t want a fragging canoe, we need a fishing boat,” Ryan answered curtly. “A big one. Got a whole ville to feed, and mine got swept out to sea in a storm last week.”

“Along with our master carpenter,” Mildred added on impulse. “You ever try to make one of those things without any tools?”

“Hell, no, and don’t ever wanna try, either.” The guard chuckled, changing the aim of his weapon. “Well, come on in. Guess you’re telling the truth. We do have the best carpenters on the world. A man can notch that into his crossbow!”

“Everybody knows that flies straight,” Ryan agreed, resting his crossbow on a shoulder. “Is there a toll?” This was a weak point in their masquerade as locals, and he just had to bull through. As a slave, Liana had never entered the ville by the gate, and thus had no idea if there was payment due.

“Toll?” the sec man asked, puzzled over the word.

“We heard from a Northpoint sec man that folks had to give the payment of a good arrow to get into Anchor.” Mildred ad-libbed, trying to cover the gaff by playing on the natural rivalry of the two largest villes. “We
thought it was a lie, of course, but still…” She shrugged, but didn’t finish the sentence.

“Those, dirty, inbreed, mutie-kissing, sons of bitches,” the gatekeeper growled in clear hatred, his hands twisting on the wooden stock of the crossbow. “No, there ain’t no nuking toll. Never even heard of such a triple crazy thing before.”

“Hey, you know Northpoint,” Ryan said with a shrug.

“You got that right, friend.” The guard barked a laugh and stepped aside. “Welcome to Anchor. No riding a slave unless you ask permission first. Knife fights ain’t allowed in the gaudy house, only bare fists. Piss in the lake, not the street, or else you get ten lashes. Twenty for lying to a sec man, fifty lashes for refusing to obey a direct order. Savvy?”

“No prob,” Ryan replied amiably, thumbing the safety on his weapon. “Where would we find the baron, anyway?”

“Don’t worry about that, he’ll find you!” the guard replied gruffly, going back into the kiosk.

Ambling through the gate and around the shatter zone, the two companions were instantly immersed into a living mandella of noise, smoke and motion. The air was redolent with the smells of baking bread, frying fish, horse dung and boiling laundry. The perfume of civilization.

Laughing and cursing, pushing and shoving, civies and sec men were everywhere, each going in a different direction. Squealing children ran underfoot chasing rats, then a falcon swooped down from overhead and
stole their prize. Sitting around in clusters, elders nimbly stitched repairs to ripped fishing nets, their conversations lost in the overlapping din. A burly woman walked by with a yoke across her wide shoulders to support a pair of large buckets full of freshly made charcoal, the blackened lumps still smoking. Inside a circle of rope, two men had stripped down to the waist and were having a bloody fistfight, while other norms watched and placed wagers. A smiling stone worker slapped his apprentice on the back in congratulations as the teenager successfully split a piece of granite into a set of perfect knife blades.