James Axler – Deathlands

There was no point in climbing to the top.

If anything got into the tree, it was better to know about it straightaway. If it could climb to them, it could easily climb all the way to the trembling, feathery top.

“We both sleeping?” Krysty asked, easing herself out, full length.

Ryan thought about that one. “How do you feel?”

“Bushed.”

“Me too. Odds are that we’ll wake if anything comes by. Let’s both snatch some rest now and then play it as it lays later in the night.”

“Fine by me.”

Ryan was surprised at how exhausted he felt. It made sense that the sleepless labors of the previous night, against the ant army, would take its toll. But he’d rested some and would have expected to feel sharper.

“Mebbe gettin’ old,” he muttered to himself as he slipped into his own personal darkness.

There was a confused dream.

He stood in what he figured was a predark railroad terminal, with dozens of platforms, glittering steel rails stretching away into the distance. Ryan knew that he was supposed to be meeting Krysty and Dean there, and they were going to travel to one of the ancient steam locomotives.

But he didn’t know which platform, didn’t know the destination, didn’t even know where he was.

A tall man with silver eyes, in a deep blue uniform dripping with gold braid, was tugging at his sleeve, asking him for his authority to travel.

“Don’t have” he muttered.

He snapped from sleep as Krysty laid her hand softly across his lips. He could feel her hair brushing at his face, the breath from her voice whispering in his ear.

“Think it’s slavers, just below us. Lighting a fire. Look, there.”

Ryan rolled off his back, making sure he kept his balance in the tree. “See them,” he breathed.

They had to have brought dry wood with them, as all the surroundings were still sodden from the rain. But there were bright flames showing in the blackened place on the grass by the perimeter of the pool.

Ryan could just see shadowy figures, moving around the edges of the growing fire, but it was still too dark to make out any of them clearly. All he could be sure of was that they were certainly Anglos and not natives.

The night was still and quiet, and he could make out a babble of words, some of it in the language he guessed was Spanish or Portuguese, most of it in a bastardized American. But it was impossible to hear properly what was being said.

Krysty moved softly through the branches of the tree to crouch at his side.

“I count ten of them,” she said.

“If you say so. Your night sight’s always been much better than mine.”

“Could be eleven.”

Ryan patted her on the arm. “Doesn’t much matter which. With handblasters we aren’t likely to start a firefight. Way too many of them.”

“We wait quiet.”

“Sure. Might even hear something of where they’re going and what they’re doing.”

The next fifty minutes or so were desperately frustrating, with the delicious scent of cooking meat drifting through the trees. The fire burned brightly enough for Ryan to make out some of the original gang of slavers that they’d encountered. The orange flames danced off the gold teeth of the grossly fat Manuel, and showed the leader of the heavily armed group, reclining and fanning away persistent insects with the ribboned panama hat. Rodrigo Bivar.

“They staying the night, lover?”

“Likely. Can’t see any reason for them to move on from here.”

“If we sleep, I just hope you don’t snore.”

“Best we stay awake.”

The meal was over, followed by noisy belching and farting from the slavers.

“Think they must’ve had beans,” Krysty breathed. “Glad the wind’s blowing the other way.”

Now that the eating was done, the general conversation slowed and it became easier to hear the individual voices. Bottles were being passed around the group of ten men, which rapidly had the effect of loosening tongues.

“Too much fuckin’ hard work, my old amigo, Rodrigo! Mucho mucho !”

“You get plenty jack, Jesus. I don’t hear you make the big moan about that.”