Genesis Echo (Deathlands 25) by James Axler

THE FOREST WAS THICK on both sides of the trail white the game was noticeably diminished.

Buford wasn’t capable of making much speed, and the time dragged by for some of the party, particularly for Dean.

With his father’s permission he kept scampering off ahead of them, investigating side trails, reappearing perched high in the branches of a lofty spruce, flicking cones at the sec men, who ignored him.

“The boy has great spirit,” Buford observed. “When we are a little nearer the institute, he must remain with us or he could come to harm.”

IT HAD RAINED on the part of the woods they now walked through, water still dripping off the long needles of the pines, making the path muddy and treacherous.

“Fallen tree ahead,” Ellison called, coming forward to join Ryan and Buford.

“Ah, yes. It has come down very recently and blocks the path. We must detour.”

Ellison tapped a finger to his forehead. “I’ll warn the others, sir.” Ryan had noticed that the man had an unusual curling scar that rugged down the corner of his mouth, partly hidden by the luxuriant mustache.

As the word was passed along, Krysty called out to Ryan. “Dean’s somewhere up front of us, Ryan. Should you go and call him back?”

“Don’t fuss about the kid,” Trader said. “Boy needs adventure. Way of the flesh. Can’t raise him as some little wimp who only wants to cook and sew.”

Mildred laughed. “I see that political correctness is a concept that never reached you, Trader.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a sort of idea that being a misogynist redneck peckerwood isn’t necessarily being wise and godlike.”

Jak interrupted the argument, pointing ahead of them where the trail dipped into a shallow valley. “Dean,” he said. “In dropped tree.”

It was a tall spruce, the dry brown of its foliage showing that it had already been dead before its roots lost their grip on the soil beneath it. It was a tangle of jagged branches, some of which had already snapped off, some of which were now perched at dangerous angles.

Dean was sitting astride it, as though on a horse, waving to his father and the others. “Come on. Safe enough to crouch under,” he called.

“Come down,” Ryan said, seeing the way that the big tree was perched at a perilous angle, its broken tip swaying on top of a bank of loose earth.

“No, Dad, it’s”

There was a deafening crack, like a dozen large gren mortars being fired simultaneously. The spruce dipped and rolled, its branches exploding into flying shards of splintered wood, sending everyone ducking out of the way.

When Ryan opened his eye again, his son had vanished.

“Dean?” He started to run toward the tumbled giant, boots slipping in the mud, feeling his heart leap into his throat, almost choking him.

There was a cry from beneath the tree that was so piercing and shocked that it didn’t seem to bear any resemblance to any human sound.

Ryan stopped, fighting against a blood rush of panic, knowing that he had to overcome his own fear for Dean’s life before he was able to do anything to help him. He stood a few yards off and studied the horror of the situation.

Once the mud and dust had settled, it was easy enough to see Dean. Or part of the lad. His head, shoulder and arms were visible, pinned beneath a massive branch, that was itself poised and restrained by the main trunk of the fallen spruce. One wrong move and it would rock free and roll all the way down, crushing the boy.

The rest of the group, including the sec men, were moving behind Ryan. He held up his hand and shouted for them to stop. “Everyone keep the fuck back out of the way!” he yelled. “Krysty and J.B. here.”

Buford insisted on joining them, stooping and peering owlishly over his glasses. “Most perilous,” he lisped. “If the fulcrum is disturbed, then the pivotal motion will rotate about the long axis and it will”

He stopped as Ryan turned on him. “That’s my son, you pissant little bastard. Get out of the way or I’ll snap your neck like a rabbit’s.” When the man still didn’t move, Ryan called to Trader. “Shift him for me.”