Judas Strike. James Axler

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      “Too small me,” his voice echoed, and he stepped away from the chimney. “Mebbe Dean, too.”

      Dubiously, the boy eyed the flue, then used a stick to measure the opening, then himself. “Tight,” he agreed, and slid his backpack to the ground. He removed his canteen and belt knife, then unbuckled his gun belt and took off the ammo pouch.

      “I’m going to need every inch to get down that,” Dean stated, shucking his Army jacket.

      “What if filled with crabs?” Jak asked pointblank. “Trapped where no help, no light. Candles iffy.”

      “Here, this will help,” Mildred said, rummaging in her med kit to extract a small flashlight. She squeezed the handle on the side of the device several times to charge the ancient batteries, and flicked the switch. The light was weak, but still serviceable.

      Dean accepted the flashlight and tucked it into his shirt for safekeeping. Then he double-checked his blaster, making sure there was a round under the hammer for instant use.

      “You see or hear any of the blues, get out of there fast,” J.B. said sternly. “Just cut and run.”

      The boy nodded in agreement, his thoughts private.

      “Now, lad, there should be plenty of ropes and tackle near the base of the tower,” Doc said, the wind blowing his hair across his face like silver rain. “Along with torches and cork jackets to rescue people from drowning. Just toss a line over the balcony and we shall climb up.”

      “Gotcha.” Dean climbed onto the pile of rubble and carefully slid his legs into the brick-lined darkness. He wiggled back and forth a bit, going lower with each move, until his hips passed the top of the flue and he unexpectedly dropped. J.B. and Jak both snatched a wrist, but Dean had already stopped himself by grabbing the top layer of bricks.

      “Thanks,” he panted, shifting his stance in the flue until his boots were more solidly braced on the rough surface. “I’m okay now.”

      The adults released the boy, and he started into the darkness once more. The rest of the companions backed away from the hole to allow the greatest amount of the dying sunlight to illuminate his way. In only a few moments he was gone from sight.

      “How you doing?” J.B. called after a while.

      “Busy,” the boy’s voice echoed back upward, closely followed by a muffled curse.

      Long minutes passed with only the sound of the surf and the breeze disturbing the peaceful ocean front peninsula. Overhead, the always present storm clouds began to darken as the setting sun drained all color from the world, the shadows growing long and thick. Doc and Jak began to gather driftwood into a pile for a campfire.

      “How much longer do we give him?” Mildred asked, brushing back her tangled mass of beaded locks.

      Rubbing his chin to the sound of sandpaper, J.B. scowled. “Long as it takes. We don’t have a way to go down there and check on him.”

      “Good thing there is no sign of those accursed PT boats,” Doc rumbled, looking out over the sea. “At present, we are prepared neither to wage war nor to retreat.”

      “Got that right.” Mildred sighed. “I’m down to ten rounds.”

      Feeling uneasy, J.B. unfolded the wire stock on the Uzi. “What had Jones called the baron again?”

      “Kinnison,” Jak answered, whittling on a piece of wood with a knife. The pile of tinder grew steadily under his adroit ministrations. “Called him Lord Bastard, too.”

      Suddenly, a sharp whistle sounded twice from the weeds and stunted brush growing inland, and the companions dropped into combat positions, taking cover behind the bricks. Working the bolt on his machine pistol, J.B. replied to the call with one long whistle. It was answered by the same, and everybody relaxed as Ryan and Krysty rose into view, holstering their blasters.

      “You’re hurt,” Mildred said, rushing forward and kneeling to probe Ryan’s wounded leg.

      The Deathlands warrior inhaled sharply at the contact of her fingers. “Just a scratch,” he grunted. “I got the poison out and cauterized the hole.”

      “Maybe. Better let me be the judge of that,” the physician said, untying the torn pieces of cloth. Closely, she looked over the puckered scar, shiny and new among many older ones.

      “Well?” he said in controlled impatience.

      “It’s clean enough,” Mildred reported, tying the strips of cloth closed again. “And thankfully not infected. But it must hurt like hell.”

      “Pain means you’re still alive,” Ryan muttered, then glanced around. “Where’s Dean, on patrol?”

      “Down chimney,” Jak replied, jerking a thumb. “Finding door for lighthouse.”

      His face a stone mask, Ryan limped to the pile of bricks and looked down the hole. He whistled sharply and waited, but there was no response.

      “Any other way inside?” Ryan asked.

      J.B. snorted. “Not that we could find. Lighthouse has got solid granite walls. Need a C-4 satchel charge to even dent the place.”

      As Ryan limped over to the lighthouse, Doc started to offer the man his ebony stick, then thought better of the gesture. Ryan would never take it. Not from foolish macho pride, but with one of them possibly in danger the man wouldn’t have the time to spare thinking about his own pain. In the New York Herald of his day, Doc sometimes read of officers whose troopers claimed they would charge with them straight into hell. The scholar had never met such a person until Ryan freed him from a slave pit so very long ago.

      Another crab scuttled by, and Jak caught the mutie in his hand, keeping well clear of the scorpion tails. “Wonder if good eat?” the teenager asked. The eye stalks of the creature extended fully, and it stared at the albino as if in open hatred. It unnerved him slightly how much intelligence there seemed to be in its steady expression.

      With a gentle laugh, Krysty pointed to the east. “There’s an oyster bed in a tide pool some hundred yards that way with enough to feed an army.”

      “Excellent, madam. Exemplary!” Doc stated, lifting an imaginary hat to the redheaded woman. “Once more you are the source of our succor.”

      Jak tossed the crab away, uncaring where it landed. The mutie hit the beach on its back just in time for a wave to flip it over, and it hastily disappeared into the briny foam.

      “I fill sack,” the teenager stated, and took off at a run.

      “Speaking of which,” J.B. said, walking over to a slab of bare rock and lifting up a canvas bag. “Here are your backpacks. They washed ashore near us couple of miles down the beach.”

      Krysty took them both and passed one to Ryan. The packs were torn in spots, probably from coral reefs, and still damp from the ocean, but were still okay.

      Easing the longblaster free from the tangled straps, Ryan briefly checked the Steyr SSG-70 sniper rifle for damage. He worked СКАЧАТЬ