Separation

Ryan nodded, almost imperceptibly. It hurt his aching neck muscles to even move his head. “Wanted to blast that son of a gaudy myself,” he croaked, “but it didn’t occur to me until just now that I couldn’t have.”

Krysty gave him a puzzled look that he could barely see in the half light of the moon and stars above.

A grin cracked his salt-caked lips. “We’d already been under…blasters are fucked by the sea. They hadn’t been under—they were the only ones who could do it. Now they can’t.”

The full implication of his words hit Krysty. The seawater had jammed the mechanisms of the blasters they carried and the other raft had been immersed. So chances were that their blasters were now also next to useless until such time they had been dried out, oiled and cleaned. Which left them, apart from the knives carried by Ryan, J.B. and Jak, next to helpless…even assuming that they were fit enough to defend themselves against any threat that may arise when they hit the shore.

“I know,” Ryan said simply as he caught her eye and was able to read what ran through her mind. “Shit happens. We’ll just have to trust to luck.”

It took the rafts a couple of long, cold hours to finally reach shore, one last wave taking them far enough in for the weighted bottoms of the craft to hit the sand beneath the water. In their respective crafts, they felt the increased drag of the plastic on sand as the tide ebbed but failed, this time, to pull them backward.

Half asleep, the muted impact nonetheless made Ryan shoot wide awake, his eye opening and adjusting to the night-time light.

“Krysty, we hit shore,” he whispered.

The woman grunted sleepily and moved, her eyes slit-peering at her companion.

“Land?” she asked, her voice fogged with sleep.

“Yeah…yeah!” he croaked in louder tones. “Fireblast! We’ve got to get out and get this ashore before it starts to drag back.”

“Uh…” Krysty could do little more than grunt, but through her weariness her brain was working to kick her into gear and to force her tired and aching limbs to respond to what they had to do. She automatically checked Mildred, who was either still unconscious or merely sleeping, and then began to struggle to her feet, joining Ryan. The one-eyed man was already standing, shakily but with a growing strength as adrenaline pumped through his system, clambering over the side of the raft and falling into the shallow tide, cursing as loudly as his sore voice would allow, regardless of anyone or anything that his cries may alert.

His sodden feet splashed in the shallows as he leaned over and grabbed the ropes on the side of the raft, pulling it toward the dry sand. He slipped and fell backward into the surf, but could only laugh hoarsely in relief at hitting land at last. As he picked himself up, Krysty hauled herself out of the raft, and as Ryan scrambled to his feet, she joined him in pulling the craft out of the foaming shallows that lapped around their ankles and onto the safety of land.

“Get it clear, then get Mildred out. We have to try to get her warm soon as possible,” Ryan muttered in hoarse and urgent tones.

Krysty saved her sore throat and nodded, pulling hard on the ropes lining the raft as her feet sought purchase in the soft sand, dragging her silver-tipped Western boots from the water-and-sand mixture as each footfall sunk into the surface.

Each inch seemed to pull and strain on muscles that protested with each exertion, but before too long they had the raft on dry sand. Paradoxically, the last few feet were the hardest, as there was no water to give the heavy plastic, with Mildred’s deadweight, even the slightest of buoyancy.

“Bastard sea,” Ryan spit as he leaned into the raft and tried to lift Mildred off the floor. His muscles protested once too often, the lactic acid forcing him into a spasm of weakness.

“Come on, lover, it’ll take two of us right now,” Krysty said, coming to his aid.

“Sure we can manage with just the two of us?” Ryan questioned wryly as the woman joined him. They heaved at Mildred’s inert body with a pitiful weakness that would have been embarrassing if it weren’t so potentially dangerous.

Krysty allowed herself a short, bitter laugh and looked around to see if the other raft had landed yet. “Figure we’re going to have to,” she rasped.

The other raft was still adrift. It hadn’t caught the wave that had carried Ryan and Krysty onto the sands and was awaiting a crest forceful enough to carry that slight difference in weight onto the shore. Without the supplies that had been lost during the short but eventful voyage, the fact that the other raft carried four people was enough to make it just that much heavier, its progress just that much slower.

From the raft, J.B. watched Ryan and Krysty land their craft and scanned eagerly for any sign of Mildred. He was frustrated that his raft was still adrift and waited for each breaking wave with a growing impatience. Looking at his fellow travelers, he knew that Dean and Jak could be woken in a moment to help him pull the raft in to shore, but he was worried about Doc. There was a rattle in the older man’s breathing as he slept that could be the start of something dangerous. The sooner they were ashore, the better—for everybody’s sake.

Just when the Armorer felt that his patience had reached its limit, and that he would have to jump over the side to try to pull the raft over the tide himself, the craft hit a crest that carried it over the tide and he felt the weighted bottom of the raft bump against sand.

“Jak, Dean, get moving. We’ve hit land!” J.B. exclaimed, shaking the albino youth by the shoulder and prodding the younger Cawdor—a little farther away—with the toe of his boot.

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.