James Axler – Demons of Eden

J.B. pulled the cord violently, stumbling over the saddles and almost falling. With a series of stuttering pops, the engine roared to life, filling the air with noxious fumes. Everyone nearly sprang overboard. Birds rushed up from the trees in a squawking flock, taking panic-stricken flight. The fan blades whirled, stirring hair and clothing.

“Spread the sail!” J.B. shouted.

Krysty and Doc struggled to open the heavy sheet of broadcloth. The wind caught it, billowing it out, and with a squeak and creak of wheels, the schooner slowly rolled forward.

The next few minutes were controlled chaos as J.B. yelled orders and instructions, and everyone concentrated on bringing the craft under control.

Ryan managed to figure out how to steer the ungainly craft with a crude wheel, and Doc, who had more boating experience than any of them, dealt with the sail, making sure it didn’t swell up with the artificially generated wind and rip loose from the rigging. As it was, he nearly brained Mildred by swinging the boom to and fro.

By the time the craft gained speed and rolled out of the little valley, everyone was at ease within it. The wind wag entered a broad, nearly treeless vista of high plains. Felicity gave directions, and Doc struggled to align the sail properly. The engine noise was too loud to have a conversation unless it was shouted, so to spare their throats, talk was kept to a minimum.

The wag sailed on, bouncing over ruts and rocks, the terrain changing very little. The area was filled with the ruins of old farms. Every mile or so they spotted a barn, leaning red and rickety on itself, its roof cocked sideways, tarred shingles flapping in the breeze.

As the sky began to darken with approaching twilight, Ryan became concerned. He didn’t fancy camping out on the plains, especially in one of the ruined barns or farmhouses. But there was very little other cover available.

Turning over the steerage controls to Krysty, he scanned the horizon in all directions for a collection of trees or even a good-sized boulder. What he saw instead was a faint smudge of wispy gray against the deep azure of the sky. Though it was too distant to make an accurate judgment, he guessed the smudge wasn’t smoke. It was trail dust.

Withdrawing a battered set of compact binoculars from his saddlebag, he went portside and squinted through the lenses. A little less than half a mile off, he saw four prairie schooners rolling in a fast, tight formation. They were several times larger than their own wag, and Ryan supposed theirs was a scout craft of some type. The bows of the approaching vessels were pointed on intercept course. He was able to make out a man standing at the bow of the center craft, a set of binoculars lifted to his eyes.

Though he was too far away to pick out details beyond a mane of blond hair, Ryan was positive the man lowered the binoculars for a second and flashed him a gap-toothed grin.

Sweeping the lenses across the four wags, Ryan made a quick head count. At least fifty figures appeared to be aboard the quartet of schooners. They were all long-haired and armed with knives, swords and muskets. From the top of each mast fluttered the crimson skull standard.

Ryan lowered the binoculars and hissed, “Fireblast.”

Chapter Three

The wind wag had skimmed across the plains for thirty minutes, and now the fuel tank was nearly drained.

Ryan’s hands tightened on the steerage, hoping his grip alone would coax at least one more mile out of the craft. He didn’t look behind him, focusing instead on the dark bulk of two hills a mile or so ahead. According to Felicity, the ville of Amicus lay on the other side of the hills, through a narrow gorge running between them.

The roar of the diesel engine faltered, broke its steady rhythm, coughed and died altogether. The fan blades slowly stopped spinning, but the sail didn’t drop. A steady breeze blew from behind them. It wasn’t very strong, but the current was powerful enough to keep the sail half-filled and the wind wag moving. Still, it slowed.