Separation. James Axler

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      Both stirred and opened eyes still fogged by their nameless dreams.

      “Dammit, let’s get this bastard pulled in,” J.B. croaked, the words falling awkwardly from his salt-swollen tongue.

      He was over the side and splashing in the shallows before either of them were fully conscious or aware. But they were alert enough to realize that the end of their voyage was in sight.

      Leaving Doc asleep in the bottom of the raft, realizing that he was in no condition to assist, Jak and Dean scrambled over the side of the raft, the icy cold of the water barely registering as it swirled around limbs already numbed by their soaking and subsequent drift.

      “The other raft’s already in—now pull,” J.B. implored, grabbing the rope and digging his feet into the soft, yielding sand that lay beneath them.

      The Armorer was on one side of the raft. Dean took the other and Jak moved to the front, which faced the shore, and both grabbed a handful of the nylon rope that was threaded around the inflated tubular structure and that had already served them so well. Ignoring the burn of the fiber on their skin, softened and wrinkled by contact with the water, all three began to pull, fighting for footing on the treacherous sand beneath them.

      Struggling to get enough air into lungs that were already hurting, they used all the strength they could muster between them. With three people to pull, they made swifter progress than Ryan and Krysty had managed, but it was still some time before they bumped the plastic bottom of the raft onto dry sand.

      Dean collapsed onto his back, hungrily gasping in great mouthfuls of air and yet still feeling that he was empty, with no oxygen in his system. Jak sank to his haunches, then onto his knees, coughing heavily in great paroxysms that turned into retching as he puked bile and salt water onto the dry sand.

      J.B. straightened, every muscle in his back, thighs and calves protesting at being stretched in such a manner when he was so weary, and yet feeling better for the burn of such a stretch.

      Ryan and Krysty had managed to maneuver Mildred from the bottom of the craft, but she was still unconscious. Stumbling with unsure footing on the loose sand, and their own weariness, they carried her up the beach and toward the shelter of trees that fringed the edges of the sand. J.B. watched them go and figured that that was the best thing that he and the others could do with Doc.

      “Come on,” he rasped painfully, “let’s get Doc and follow.” He pointed toward Ryan and Krysty.

      “Yeah, okay,” Dean gasped between breaths. He was whooping slightly, in danger of hyperventilating, and was trying hard to control the level of his breathing. Leaning over, hands on thighs, he held his breath for a few moments, trying to quell the desire to gulp lungfuls that would only make him pass out. Nodding to himself, he straightened and joined J.B. at the raft, where the Armorer was leaning over to take hold of the still-sleeping or semiconscious Doc.

      Jak spit the last of the bile and salt from his mouth, wiping it across the sleeve of his jacket. He stood without a word and turned to the raft. Taking Doc’s feet, he left the older man’s torso and arms to the other two.

      Doc was tall, but skinny. Although he had enough wiry strength to surprise many a foe, he weighed very little. It was easy for the three of them to lift him out of the raft to follow Ryan and Krysty’s path to shelter.

      The moonlight was bright enough on the clear sands to cast the faintest of shadows as the three men carried the prone Doc, and it occurred to Jak that they would be easy prey for anyone or anything that may be lurking in the trees lining the shore. They were tired, their hands were occupied for the first crucial moments in any confrontations and their blasters were currently useless. Okay, all three had knives, but they’d be useless against coldhearts with blasters. Looking ahead as they tramped through the sand that crumbled beneath their feet, the albino youth was acutely aware that Ryan and Krysty were in an even more vulnerable state. Their only weapon was Ryan’s panga, and the fact that there was only the two of them to carry Mildred would make them more tired, increase their reaction time by vital fractions of a second.

      The sooner they found a dry area for Mildred and Doc and secured their position, the better. Because, although his instincts were muted by fatigue and the disorientation engendered by the voyage, Jak had a niggling feeling that they weren’t alone along the shore.

      Ryan and Krysty had reached the firmer footing of the trees, where sparse vegetation and tree roots made for a more sure, if uneven, surface. The surrounding area grew darker as the canopy of the trees blotted out the moonlight.

      “Find a clearing if possible—anything where we can lay her down,” Ryan whispered, unable to raise his voice above an almost inaudible volume.

      “Sure,” Krysty replied, unwilling to risk her voice, but knowing that he would be unable to see any gesture of assent.

      Following behind, J.B., Jak and Dean were able to move more swiftly, and were gaining ground on those in front. They were close enough to see where Ryan and Krysty had entered the cover of the trees and so had been able to follow their path.

      As they half walked, half stumbled into the dark and cover, Jak felt all his instincts begin to kick in. They were telling him things that were far from good.

      “J.B., need be careful here,” he said in a low voice.

      “Yeah, we could break an ankle on this,” Dean complained as he turned an ankle for the second time in a few paces.

      “Not what mean,” Jak rasped. “Be triple-red.”

      “Okay,” J.B. said simply. He glanced around him as they made their way through the trees. He could see or hear nothing, but he knew that Jak’s hunting instincts were honed to an almost preternatural level and he trusted them implicitly.

      If Jak could sense a threat, it was there. It was just a question of when it would show itself.

      Now only a few yards ahead of the Armorer and his party, Ryan and Krysty had come upon a small clearing in the trees, no more than a few square feet. It was, however, enough to lay Mildred down and for Doc to be placed beside her. The canopy of trees overhead gave them shelter, and despite the cold of night, it was still warm compared to conditions in the raft or on the beach. The one-eyed man became aware that he was shivering, his muscles locked into an almost continual spasm. They needed to stop, to build a fire, to mount a guard and to get themselves warm and dry. Maybe even some proper sleep. That was a thought that wrapped itself around his mind like a warm blanket.

      “Stop here,” he rasped to Krysty, who nodded agreement. They placed Mildred on the soft floor of the woods and began to strip her.

      “Pity we don’t have anything dry to cover her with,” Krysty huffed.

      “Get some leaves, any bracken…just something to keep the warmth in,” Ryan replied, beginning to search the immediate area.

      The others reached the clearing, J.B. signaling their arrival with a brief and sore-throated “Us, Ryan…”

      The one-eyed man barely had the energy to acknowledge their arrival as the second group laid Doc down by Mildred. Taking a deep breath that rasped in his aching rib cage, he spoke in barely more than a whisper.

      “Need to get a fire going, try to get warm, dry. Gather some wood. Blasters are useless, so need СКАЧАТЬ