James Axler – Deathlands

RYAN HAD CALLED his private council of war with his own six friends.

“Time’s the problem. I don’t know how long before they make the move against us here.”

“Us?” Jak said. “Village is us?”

Ryan nodded. “Sure. For the time being, the village is us. Unless anyone here wants to break and run?” Nobody spoke. “Fine. So, we are us.”

“Main thing is to work fast,” J.B. said. “My guess is that they’ll take a couple of days to regroup. Spend some time in their camp. Clean their blasters. Sharpen their knives. Rest. And they’ll have to make contact with their own masters at the silver mine. Confirm orders. Yeah, three days.”

J.B. WAS IN CHARGE of the conversion of the village into a sophisticated mantrap. It was vital that everything should look like it always did. Nothing should arouse the suspicion of the slavers.

Itzcoatl said that in big raids the Anglos generally came in on horseback, which pleased the Armorer. “We can hit animals more easily with pits and nets. Build some internal walls. They don’t have to be high to block off freaked horses. Give shelter for us to do some shooting.”

The actual armory of the natives was disappointing, consisting only of a couple of old Portuguese Savage pistols and three Mauser-Vergueiro rifles, with virtually no ammunition.

J.B. checked them and dismissed them out of hand. “Been neglected for a hundred years. Breeches worn and every part’s looser than a sow’s tits. Good chance that they’ll blow out and take a hand and half the face off anyone using them.”

He explained to Itzcoatl that it would be more efficient if everyone used their bows and their blowpipes, used the time to make plenty more arrows.

“And more poison,” the chief added.

“Poison?”

Mildred was with J.B. at that moment. “You mean, like curare?” she asked.

Itzcoatl looked puzzled. “I do not know that name,” he said. “Never known it. The poison comes from a mix of the blood of a secret plant.”

“Sap,” Mildred said.

“I do not know that word, too. What bleeds when you cut into this plant. It is fed to a dog. Dog goes” He pulled out his hands wide like a straight stick. “Stiff,” J.B. suggested.

“Stiff,” Itzcoatl agreed. “Dies with eyes open and bloody and jaw wide. We keep body until it has gone rotten. Very quick. Quicker than ordinary dying. Boil body and keep boiled until only little sticky water is left. Use that wiped on points of arrows and darts from blowpipes.” He rubbed his hands together, grinning, showing his filed teeth. “Is very good.”

Ryan agreed with his old friend’s judgment, and the men of the village busied themselves with making dozens more arrows while the priests and older women brewed up vile-smelling cauldrons of the poisonous gruel.

And there was endless practicing, as J.B. sought to improve the already impressive marksmanship of the warriors.

The younger men and most of the women were set to digging traps and trenches, stringing up nets across the two main trails into the village, rigging them under Jak’s supervision so that they could be pulled by hidden ropes at a moment’s notice.

And in his spare time, J.B. worked with Doc on getting the recipe right for the thermite.

The fourth demonstration came toward the evening of the second day since Ryan and Krysty’s safe return to the village. Like the other attempts, it was held a short distance from the perimeter fence, on a strip of level ground between lake and forest. Another of the small metal tubes was buried for three-quarters of its length in the dirt, with the curling end of the fuse protruding an inch from its top.

The second and third tries had both been total failures, with nothing more than the wisp of white smoke from the fuse, followed by stillness.

This time, only Ryan and Dean bothered to come and watch, the rest of the friends busy with the work of readying the settlement for the slavers’ attack. A couple of the older women had also wandered by, stopping to watch the four mad Anglos at their incomprehensible games.

J.B. scratched the self-light, and the wavering flame was applied to the fuse. He waited until the white smoke told him that the potential bomb was lit, then scampered away to join the others.