Читать книгу Separation - James Axler - Страница 10

Twilight’s last gleamings faded into the darkness of night as the two rafts were gently wafted toward the shore. Once free of the crosscurrents, the tidal flow around the island was gentle, the waves small and slow, lapping at the sands. Each flow took them in toward shore, each ebb, back out a little, making progress without the oars to assist a painful and slow task.

But for the inhabitants of the rafts, there was little inclination to hurry in any way. In one, Jak, Dean and Doc were lying in a state of half wakefulness, their attention drifting in and out with the ebb and flow of the tide. J.B. was more watchful. He was concerned that Doc had taken more of a buffeting than he could stand, and if the older man didn’t get warm and dry soon, there was risk of pneumonia. Even with Mildred’s skills, there was no guarantee that he could be saved if that occurred. And on a more communal level, it would make matters difficult to carry a sick Doc if the environment on the island were to prove in some manner hostile. And then there was Mildred herself. With little communication between the rafts, even shouting precluded by the weariness and salt-sore throats of the companions, there was no way for him to judge Mildred’s condition or its seriousness. He was worried about her.

So, while the others dozed, the Armorer stayed awake, unable to rest as his aching limbs commanded, his brain racing. What if it was a hostile environment? What if Doc got ill? What if Mildred bought the farm? What if…He knew that it was an extreme weariness and hurt that caused his brain to race feverishly in such a way, but he felt unable to stop it. He looked toward the shore. It seemed to be farther away than ever.

In the other raft, Ryan and Krysty had disentangled themselves from the ropes around the sides of the craft and had moved into the middle. Bailing as much of the loose water as they could from the slightly concaved floor of the raft, they had stripped off Mildred’s jacket, which was soaked with seawater, keeping her cold and wet. Krysty checked Mildred over. She was breathing regularly, although her eyes were still rolled up into her skull; it was likely the impact of the sea had concussed her. Her pulse was regular and strong. The important thing was to try to keep her warm until they reached shore. The only way they could do this, marooned in this manner, and soaking wet themselves, was to huddle next to her to try to impart some of their own body heat to her.

“Thank Gaia, Doc was able to chill that thing!” Krysty husked the words out through a hacking cough, choking on more seawater that came up from her lungs.

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.

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 knives.”

Jak nodded, understanding immediately what Ryan meant. Hands dipping into the hidden recesses of his camou jacket, he produced two leaf-bladed throwing knives. One of these he kept in his own palm, the other he gave to Krysty. Now all of the companions that were conscious had a weapon of some sort that could work. And in the close quarters of the woodland, the knives and the panga sported by Ryan would be much more effective than any blaster that could alert an enemy of their position.

“Dean, Krysty, stay here and keep guard over Mildred and Doc. The rest of us will gather wood for the fire.”

And as the younger Cawdor and the red-haired woman took up defensive positions, the remaining three companions moved into the darkness to gather small wood and kindling for a fire. Even if it was kept small, it would still give away their position when lit, but at least they would be able to establish a solid line of defense.

Jak, despite the battering his wiry frame had taken, was recovering more quickly than the others and he moved with speed to gather firewood, his blazing red eyes scanning the darkness as his nose and ears tried to pick out the slightest sound to identify it. He was sure that there was something—someone—out there, but he couldn’t be sure what it may be. Whoever or whatever it was, it had a gift for concealment and disguise that made it a match for him. The albino youth gritted his teeth and judged the amount of wood he held—enough for a small fire on its own. He nodded briefly to himself. It was enough for him to get back to the clearing. There was safety in numbers, and it wasn’t through any kind of cowardice that he wanted to seek that. Rather, it was the knowledge that J.B. and Ryan were tired and may be carrying more injuries than himself.

For Jak had been able to tell that the Armorer had been limping, the legacy of a long-ago injury thanks to a mutie flying squirrel that had taken a chunk from his leg. It had torn into the muscle of his calf, making it a weak spot that would always succumb first in rough conditions. As for Ryan, the one-eyed man had moved in a way to suggest that movement from the waist up—even from breathing—was painful. Jak suspected that their leader had cracked at least a couple of ribs, and the pain and stiffness would make him much more vulnerable than usual.

While Jak ghosted his way back to the clearing, Ryan and J.B. were both struggling.

As the Armorer collected wood he grit his teeth, his calf muscle feeling as if it were on fire. It had begun as a dull ache and had increased as they had carried Doc through the woods. So much so that he had felt himself begin to drag the leg as he walked, the calf stiffening and refusing to respond before a dull ache began to suffuse it. When they had stopped, instead of a cessation of pain, it had begun to grow in intensity to the point where it now felt as if a red-hot knife had been pushed vertically through it. Sweat spangled his forehead, running salt into his eyes as he continued with his task as quickly as he could manage. He, too, was in a hurry to get back to the safety of numbers and an established camp, being only too aware of the vulnerable state in which he found himself.

Ryan, on the other hand, couldn’t have hurried if he tried. Like the Armorer, he wanted to return to camp quickly, but the notion of rapid movement was, at the moment, quite alien. Every breath, every step, sent pains around his ribs and chest, shooting back and forth like snakes in long grass, never letting him know exactly where they would appear next. Bending to gather wood was an almost impossible task, and although he gathered some pieces, he soon gave up on that. It would be all he could do to get back to the others. Breathing as shallowly as possible to cut down on the pain of muscle movement around his ribs, he began to hobble back, taking small, quick steps to make as rapid a progress as possible with as little effort and pain.

Unlike Jak, both Ryan and J.B.—although keeping triple-red—were unaware of any presence around them, their own pain and difficulty misting their usually razor-sharp faculties.

It made the group relatively defenseless, especially as Mildred was still unconscious when Jak—the first back—reached the clearing.

“Me,” he said simply as he emerged from cover to join Krysty and Dean, dropping his load of firewood on the woodland floor. “Where others?”

“Not back yet,” Krysty replied.

Jak grimaced. “You notice?” he asked.

“Notice what?” Krysty countered.

“Ryan and J.B. both carrying injury—one leg, one ribs. Try to cover, carry on—but must hurt like fuck.”

Krysty trusted Jak’s judgment implicitly. It was typical of both men to try to work through their pain; but given the conditions under which the companions were trying to survive, it was better that Jak had made them aware of this. They would have to pull together more then ever.

Doc began to moan.

“He’s coming around,” Dean said, leaning over Doc as his eyes flickered open. They were unseeing, as though the old man was viewing a different world.

“Heavens to Betsy, is there no one who will rid me of this troublesome priest?” he asked in feeble tones. Then, surprising them, he shot bolt upright and spoke in loud, declamatory tones. “Are we not men? Do we seek to hide in the shadows and not to come into the open and declare ourselves? What is this that makes us skulk in the shadows? When they came, then came again, I said nothing. When they came for me, there was nobody left to save me. Oh, who will save the poor widow’s son? I do not wish to be split from breast to breast and have my entrails spilled across my shoulder, and yet…and yet…” As he repeated the phrase, his voice suddenly quietened and he sank back, eyes still open. “Oh my sweet Lord,” he continued softly, “what has happened to me?”

“It’d take too long to explain, Doc,” Krysty said softly, mopping his brow. “Just know that you’re pretty safe right now, and we’re about to build a fire and get warm. Do you remember being in the raft?”

“I think so,” he said gently, nodding with wide-eyed wonder like a child frightened of the dark and sensing a friendly hand in the blackness.

“Well, that was a rough ride, but we’re out of it now. Just got to dry off and get warm.”

Doc struggled up onto one elbow. “But the good Dr. Wyeth? What has happened to her? I know something must have, for she is always there when I am troubled in the soul and awaken from a nightmare.” He looked around, catching sight of the prone Mildred. “Is she…?”

“She’s alive, Doc, but unconscious,” Krysty answered, holding on to the hand with which he clung to her, tightly and as though his life were dependent upon it. “It’s important that we get this fire built.”

“What? Oh, yes, of course,” he said, suddenly snapping into reality and letting go her hand. “What must I do?”

“You stay there, Doc, while we do this,” Dean answered. “You’re still not a hundred percent and that was a hell of a trip. Just rest a moment.”

Doc nodded sagely. “You are a wise man, like your father, young master Cawdor.” He fell silent as he watched them.

The fire was soon built and Jak began to use a stick rubbed onto dry leaves in a channel cut into a larger branch by his knife. In the dark, the first sparks of fire and the smoldering of the leaves glowed dimly in the dark, brightening as Jak blew gently to fan the flame before transferring it to the pile they had constructed ready for burning.

As the fire took, all four of them suddenly became aware of the fact that J.B. and Ryan hadn’t yet appeared.

“Hot pipe, where are they?” Dean asked, a note of concern and worry creeping into his voice. “Mebbe we should try to search for them.”

Jak shook his head, his eyes like the embers in the center of the now-burning fire. “They not call for help, and not quick as usual. Wait for while. Light of fire guide them if they lose bearing.”

The albino youth was right. After a few tense minutes when no one dared to break the silence, first the Armorer and then the one-eyed man came into view. J.B. was limping heavily, and Ryan moved slowly, the pain of each step, each breath, showing on the lines etched on his face. The two men stopped and looked at each other as they entered the small clearing, wry grins appearing despite the pain.

“And I thought I had something to tell you,” J.B. said softly.

They made their way to the fire and settled uncomfortably.

“I’m going to see if there’s any painkillers in Mildred’s pockets,” Krysty said, rising to move over to the sodden jacket and rifling through the pockets to see what was left. To her surprise, many of the medical supplies were still within the capacious pockets, having stayed there despite the turbulence and immersion of the short voyage. As they were all vacuum-packed or shrink-wrapped to keep them sterile, it was only the outer coverings of the medical supplies that were wet. Some pills and dressings that had already been opened were ruined, but these were in the minority as Mildred had filled her pockets as much as possible before leaving the redoubt. Although the supplies she had carried in her satchel were forever lost, the supplies she’d stashed in her jacket pockets would do for the time being.

So Krysty was able to give J.B. and Ryan painkillers. She checked the Armorer’s calf, but there was no outward sign of injury. And as Ryan gritted his teeth and swore at the pain, she took a roll of sealed bandage, broke it open and began to bind his ribs. Like the one-eyed man himself, she and the rest of the group were only too well aware that he would be slowed up for some time, leaving him vulnerable. But at least his ribs would be secured as much as possible and they could begin to mend.

All the while Jak kept his attention divided between the group around the fire and the darkness beyond the clearing, trying to discern any movement and to identify the danger he knew was there.

“What is it?” Ryan asked simply.

Jak shook his head distractedly. “Dunno. Something, but good at keeping cover.”

Ryan sucked on his hollow tooth. “Okay, we’re not in any shape to go to it, so we have to let it come to us. I figure if nothing else, if it gets too close, at least Jak’ll be able to hear it coming, if not all of us. Stay triple-red. Meantime, we need to see what we can do about Mildred.”

The painkillers had begun to kick in and both Ryan and J.B. were able to move a little more freely without the harsh reminder of pain to bring their injuries to mind. The companions gathered around Mildred.

Krysty pulled back the doctor’s eyelid. The eyeball was still rolled back into her head, the pupil lost to view. She had no fever, and there was no cut anywhere on her head, just an egglike lump near the top of her skull, where she had hit the ocean with force. She was breathing regularly and easily now.

“Why won’t she come around?” J.B. asked of no one in particular.

“It is nothing more than a manifestation of concussion,” Doc said quietly. “There is nothing we can do, no matter how frustrating it may be, other than sit and wait.”

“Yeah, but how much time do we have?” Ryan countered.

Doc fixed him with a stare. “How much time does she need?”

“I don’t know,” Krysty said, “but I figure now is the time to risk something she once told me about—she’s been out too long.”

“What?” J.B. asked worriedly.

“Adrenaline. Just a little shot. It may just jolt her out of this.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

Krysty shrugged. “We sit back and wait. Just the one shot, no more. That’s what she said.” Krysty opened Mildred’s shirt and pulled out one arm, the muscle still taut despite her state. The veins in the crook of her elbow stood out like a relief map.

Krysty wet her lips, dry with nerves. “Dean, look through Mildred’s pockets and try to find a shot of adrenaline. She must have some, otherwise she wouldn’t have told me about it or how to inject it. And let’s hope it wasn’t in her satchel.”

THE WARRIORS WERE SWIFT, silent and sure. This was their land and they knew every last inch of it. They picked their way across the foliage and roots in pitch black, using the darkness of their skins as extra camouflage. Their clothes were blacks, browns and muted shades of green, perfect camou for the woods in both light and dark. They carried their blasters across their backs and holstered, sure of themselves not to need them in hand at this time. The blasters were a motley collection of Glocks, Heckler & Kochs, and Colt handblasters that had been looted and garnered over the year before skydark by their ancestors, who had bargained and bartered for a stockpile of ammo that was still extant.

They didn’t often encounter outsiders on the island. It was a difficult place to get to or to get away from. So their community had been insular, aware of the outside and yet protected from it. Their ancestors had soon become wise to the problems of inbreeding, so the community was kept small, the breeding between them strictly monitored to keep any such problems to a minimum. It could be done if a people had discipline, and a cause.

They had such.

Yet despite the lack of outsiders to test them, they were a disciplined and slick community. Much of their meat was farmed, but some came from the wildlife on the island. And that wildlife was as likely to be predator as prey. The outsiders had been lucky to arrive on that stretch of beach at that time of day.

Perhaps not so lucky.

The warriors usually hunted with knives or bow and arrow. Rarely did they use the precious ammo, except in their practice, kept to a carefully worked minimum. They were sharp with both forms of chilling.

So when word had reached the ville that there were strangers landed on the south shore, the warriors had soon been ready and had tracked the strangers, keeping their distance.

The outsiders hadn’t spotted them, although the albino had seemed aware of something out of the ordinary. The others seemed to pose little threat. Two of them seemed hurt, two were either young or female and two were unconscious. One of these had since come around, but the other was a sister, and was still out.

Why did they have her? What could they want with her?

The strangers had moved away from the fire they had built and were clustering around her. The woman was leaning over the sister, tearing at her clothing. She had already handled her in a way that was undignified, and they talked of her in coarse terms—their whole language and mode of speech coarse.

Barbarians. They could only mean the sister harm.

They ripped her clothing, and now one of them—the young one with curly hair, not the older curly haired, one-eyed stranger—was rummaging through a jacket, looking for something. He produced a package, which he unwrapped to reveal a needle.

They were going to use it on the sister.

The warriors exchanged hand signals, their eyes attuned to the darkness by long nights on patrol. They moved around to circle the clearing, their progress swift and silent. At a signal from their leader, repeated rapidly from man to man, they moved forward, blasters ready.

“WAIT!” JAK BARKED, suddenly turning as Krysty was about to plunge the needle into Mildred.

“What?” she snapped, feeling her hair tighten as danger suddenly signaled itself near.

“Men closing,” Jak returned, palming another knife so that he had one in each hand. “All around.”

“Fireblast,” Ryan cursed as he moved stiffly. His reactions were slowed, but then, so were the reactions of the others.

Before any of them had a chance to adopt a fighting stance, they were surrounded by warriors who emerged stealthily from cover. They were holding blasters. One of them stepped forward. More than six feet, broad and muscular, and with an air of authority, he was obviously the leader. When he spoke, it was in a rich, dark voice of deep timbre that carried that authority like a prize in front of him.

“Though the night is dark it seems that your purpose is like the day. You will leave the sister alone and move away from her. Any of a wish to linger too long will be like the pig who lingers too long near the butcher’s knife, and so does not live a life for long. Be aware and learn, my friends.”