“Looks like a small trans. J.B. what d’you reckon?”
“Could be. Antipersonnel, mebbe. Pick up intruders by the gateway. Fire gas? Looks like it’s well iced by now.”
Doc stopped to peer at it, running his gnarled fingers over the carved numbers.
“Upon my soul, but this rings a far-off and tiny bell in some back room. I believe no, it eludes me, I fear.”
The next two posts along the causeway had rotted away to mere stumps. At a curve in the trail, many of the logs had collapsed into the murky swamp below, and they had to leap the gap. Doc surprised everyone by leaping across like a startled gazelle, but Lori found it harder, eventually removing her high boots and throwing them across first, and finally jumped with little difficulty.
Finn slipped on landing and opened a small cut on his hand. He bent over to wash it in the swamp. “Water’s warm,” he said, raising his hand to his lips and licking it. “Warm and salty.”
“Not that far from the sea. Only a few miles from Gulf o’ Mexico. Few years back they had vicious acid rainstorms here. Strip a man to his bones in a few minutes if’n you got caught in one. Seems calmer.”
“Them clouds is gathering,” said Hennings, pointing with the muzzle of his gray HK54A submachine gun.
The sky was blackening, the violet becoming a deep royal purple. The sun ducked and dived behind the clouds, sending shadows racing across the water.
“Best move faster,” urged Ryan.
Passing more wooden posts, he automatically noticed the numbers. They stopped at a post numbered 18.
“You are approaching the end of the Audubon self-guiding nature trail. Remember, the planks may be slippery, so use the handrails and ropes where provided. Children should hold the hand of an adult.”
The disembodied voice was so sudden and shocking that Ryan slipped and came within an ace of tumbling head over heels into the turgid slime.
“Fucking fireblast!” said Ryan, recovering his balance and his composure.
The voice went on, creaking a little like an old farm gate in need of oiling, occasionally fading and then rising again.
“In the basin directly in front of you are thousands of tiny green turtles. If you see or hear something slithering in the water, then it just might be old brother alligator. But they have been carefully selected to prevent them growing too big, so don’t be frightened.”
There was a click as the tape loop reached its end.
“Activated by a low-intense beam,” said J. B. Dix. “Works like a basic gren trap.”
“A hundred years old and still working,” said Krysty Wroth, moving close to Ryan.
As the seven continued to walk along the wooden causeway, they passed several of the stumps, but only a couple were working.
Number 7 “Wandering along the Audubon self-guiding nature trail, most visitors will have, even in this vast solitude of mud and water, a sense of kinship and friendliness with the environment.”
“Like a hole in the fucking head,” spat Finnegan, slapping angrily at one of the insects that had settled on his neck for its afternoon fix of fresh blood.
“Remember, no picking or taking, please! The delicate ecostructure can easily be damaged by the careless hand of man. Some creatures here are real messy housekeepers, so watch where you step.”
This time the tape didn’t stop. It just began to repeat itself, gradually slowing down, drawling and blurring its speech until it died with a crackling, hissing mess of static.
They walked on in silence.
“LOOKS LIKE DRY LAND,” said Hennings, pointing ahead with the muzzle of his blaster.
The cathedral of towering trees that surrounded them was thinning out a little, occasionally letting the sun dart through, creating pools of brightness all over the tangled roots of the mangroves. They spotted several large birds swooping among the upper branches. Ryan had never seen creatures like some of these. Brown-feathered birds, with great leathery bills that hung like sagging shopping bags.
“How deep d’you figure this swamp, Doc?” asked J.B., leaning out over the side and shading his eyes with his hand, peering into the clouded depths.