Roaring in wild fury, Sullivan managed to stand under the combination of nets and men, struggling to reach the edge of the drawbridge and the moat below. Already the gills in his throat were opening for oxygen. Sullivan could breathe underwater, but the pitiful humans would drown.
The brown shirts struck him from every direction, but he forged onward and reached the cobblestones edging the bridge. Searing pain lanced through his shoulder, and he saw the barbed point of an arrow sticking out of his shirt. Mentally forcing away the pain, he lurched forward again and another arrow slammed into his boot, pinning his foot to the planks.
Reaching through the netting, Sullivan grabbed a knife from a brown shirt and tried slashing his way loose, when another wave of humans swarmed over him.
Pain filling his universe, he fell to the planks, never losing consciousness as he was trussed with ropes, then bound with chains.
Cradling a broken arm, a sec man spit in Sullivan’s face, and another aimed a handcannon. A sergeant slapped the blaster away.
“He’s trapped now, so don’t chill the bastard,” the brown shirt growled. “We’re gonna haul his ass to the docks and hang him before the whole ville. Baron Cawdor himself is gonna tie the rope around its stinking neck!”
Cheering in victory, the joyous brown shirts lifted their captive off the bridge and hauled him back inside the ville. Masked by the nets, the mutie managed to hide a smile and calmly waited to meet the man he had been sent to kill.
Chapter Nine
Mindless miles of flat swampland stretched before the companions. In hard labor the slow hours passed, noon coming and going as they trod the sticky mud. The raft floated through the salty water, only occasionally catching on sandbars and submerged tree trunks. Rumbling storm clouds offered scant protection from the sun, and soon the swamp was steaming from the heat, sweat pouring off their bodies. Everybody stripped down as far as they dared, the bare necessities being boots and gun belts, although J.B. clung to his fedora and Mildred her med kit. Fat mosquitoes buzzed about them constantly, stealing sips of their blood until Ryan opened the fuel can and splashed some about as cologne. After that, they were left alone with the flies and the itching bites.
The barge poles hadn’t been found, and none of the local trees were of any use, so Doc was on the point position, testing the unseen ground ahead of them with his swordstick. A rope was tied around his waist as a precaution, and twice he dropped into sink holes and had to be dragged back to the surface.
“I have had fun before,” Doc muttered, stabbing the water and taking another step forward, “and this is not it.”
“Could be worse,” Mildred grunted, both hands holding tight to the rope over her shoulder. The physician had removed her damp pants and tied her shirttails in a knot between her breasts so she could take off her sports bra. Support wasn’t an issue here; the temperature was. Winter in Virginia, summer in Carolina, how had any people survived when skydark destroyed the weather patterns of the world this much?
“Worse? Hades only has nine levels, madam,” Doc reminded her, a half smile growing in spite of himself. He stabbed more water and found the ground acceptable. “And this would be five, or six?”
“No more than four, surely.”
Holding tightly on to the wet rope over his shoulder, Ryan leaned into the task of hauling the raft. Privately, he appreciated the banter. It helped relive the boredom of the endless walking.
Just then, something bawled across the swampland, the noise echoing into the distance to be answered by another of the same.
“Gator,” Jak stated, dropping the rope and drawing his Colt Python. “Stay sharp. They fast.”
Checking the draw on the SIG-Sauer, Ryan heard the harsh breathing of some of the companions and decided he was pushing them too hard.
“Ten-minute break,” he announced. “One sip of water each. If you’ve got to use a bush, go in pairs.”
“Rather have some more gasoline,” Krysty said angrily, slapping at a fly that landed on her bare arm. Her respect and love for life didn’t quite extend to the creatures that feasted on her blood. She kept her pants on, as none of her underwear was dry enough to wear, and removed her thick shirt. The bra she had found in the California redoubt was thin lace and kept her cool enough, even if the underwire did itch a bit.