Rolling over the wrecks, smashing bodies and cracking windshields, the LAV-25 plowed relentlessly through a hanging wall of creepers, passing a tiny island in the shallow water. A few trees covered with moss partially hid a ramshackle hut of tin and plywood. Rusty license plates shingled the roof, strips of fibrous material from the dashboard firewalls peeking out from underneath, and shiny hubcaps dotted the walls, but there was no way of knowing whether those were for protection or merely decoration.
A hairy man clothed in rags and mirrored sunglasses stood by the hut, a homemade blaster made from exhaust pipes tightly clenched in both hands. As the wag neared, he cocked back both hammers until the rocker-arm springs clicked into position, ready to drive the nails forward and set off the twin charges. Loaded with window glass squares and lug nuts, the man braced himself against the numbing recoil of the big bore weapon.
Having no interest in wasting ammo or time, the driver rolled past the hermit, Brandon calmly eating his sandwich as he tracked the man with the 25 mm cannon merely for fun, but with no intention of firing.
THE HERMIT WATCHED the wag until it was a tiny mote in the distance, then as it disappeared into the vines and moss.
“Damn fools,” he mouthed over toothless gums. “Think that toy’s gonna save them? Haw!” The laugh startled some birds, and they took to the sky on ebony wings. Faraway, a stinger called for its mate, and something large splashed into the water.
“Idiots,” the man snuffled, and went inside the tin hut to start to cook dinner. The nets had caught a lot of catfish this day, and he planned to fry the whole batch. He’d make stew from what he couldn’t eat at one sitting, and the rest he’d poison and feed to the gators. About time to make some new clothes.
As he was rattling the pots and pans, an odd sound made the man turn, and he gasped in shock.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, reaching for his makeshift weapon. The lance took him full in the chest, going completely through and burying itself halfway through the back wall.
Stealthily, the lone barb entered the hut and started to eat the raw catfish quickly. There was no dry earth in the wetlands, and he needed food badly. The men in blue shirts were near. Soon he would have them and the feasting would truly begin.
AS THE SWIRLING electronic mists faded, Ryan and J.B. rolled limply on the floor. Opening the door, the other companions rushed into the chamber and checked them for damage.
“No wounds,” Mildred stated, running her hands expertly over their forms. “No broken bones, either. Just jump sickness. Help me get them into the room across the hall.”
“Not control room?” Jak asked, surprised.
“They might be asleep for hours,” the physician said. “A double jump can hit hard. Only be in the way in the control room if there’s any trouble.”
The teenager grunted in agreement.
“Unfortunately, I see no new blasters,” Doc noted, taking Ryan by the shoulders, while Jak got his feet. Krysty and Mildred did the same for J.B. The unconscious men mumbled while they were hauled out of the chamber, but the words were too low to understand.
Laying them on the carpeted floor in the office across the hall, Mildred slid sofa cushions under then-heads to make the men comfortable. “Sleep is the best thing for them now,” she said. “I have a big pot of black coffee warming in the kitchen for when they wake up.”
Tenderly, Krysty brushed a hand along the scar that ran down Ryan’s face. “I’m just glad they came back alive,” she stated softly.
“Me too,” Dean said.
“Both tough,” Jak praised. “Hard chill.”
Standing, Doc rumbled, “Hard is not the same as impossible, my young friend.”
“Guess it’s our turn now,” Krysty said, taking the AK-47 from Ryan and checking the clip. Not a shot had been fired. Good. She took the spare clip from his pocket, along with the two grens. Dean took the other blaster from J.B. and the grens.
Slinging the blaster over a shoulder, Krysty undid her gun belt and gave the Colt .45 to Jak. “Stay sharp,” she warned.