James Axler – Gaia’s Demise

“Behold, madam,” Doc announced, dropping a load of gnarled gray sticks on the ground. “Driftwood a-plenty. Is this enough, or shall you require more?”

“That’s enough,” Mildred announced, starting to whittle on a piece of driftwood with her belt knife. She piled the shavings together and carefully lit them with a single match. The flickering flame almost died, then brightened and spread across the dry wood.

“There we go,” she said, adding small sticks to the growing fire. “Just need some water for the pot.”

“I’ll go get some,” Dean offered, setting down the last fuel container. “The wag is topped off.”

“Fine. Get it from the basin,” Mildred directed him, opening a second envelope and pouring the contents into an iron pot. “The water here is fresh, fed by the river, not salt.”

“Be right back,” the boy said. Grinning, he grabbed a bucket and dashed around the APC.

Thrusting his stick into the hard packed sand, Doc squatted on his heels. “Ah, the vigor of youth.” He chuckled. “Pity it’s wasted on the young.”

As Mildred fed the fire, Ryan watched the growing shadows, maintaining a constant vigil. The moonlight on the water gave a clear field of fire in case somebody approached by boat, or swam toward shore. There was no smell of salt here. This water fed from several inland rivers and flowed to the sea in a sort of natural harbor. The light from the fire had nearly disappeared to the east, the shoreline was empty for more than a mile to the south and dense forest was to the north. It wasn’t the best of spots for a camp, but good enough for one night. Nobody could get close without being detected.

Carrying a brimming bucket, Dean returned to find Doc breaking sticks of driftwood over his knee and adding them a piece at a time to the crackling campfire. Mildred was already stirring a pot of stew, a row of tin mess kits laid out with salt and forks. With his back to the APC, his father stood guard, the AK-47 balanced in his hands.

“Over here,” Ryan called.

The boy complied, and his father checked the water with a rad counter. There was only the usual background reading. “Clean enough,” he decided. “Better filter it anyway.”

“Okay.” Carefully, Dean poured the fluid through a clean piece of cloth and filled a large coffeepot. Placing it next to the fire, Mildred added a handful of crystals and soon the smell of beef stew and coffee spread across the site, the campfire throwing shadows on the aide of the APC as night slowly claimed the smoky Carolina sky.

“Hey, is that coffee I smell?” J.B. called out, wiggling the toe of a combat boot.

“Sure is,” Ryan answered. “Want some?”

“Pretty soon,” he replied to the tune of metallic pounding. “Is Krysty inside?”

“Yeah.”

“Ask her to try the main engine.”

“I heard,” she replied from above. Climbing down from the turret, the redhead took the driver’s seat, turned the ignition and pumped the gas pedal as the engine struggled to catch.

“Nothing,” she shouted out the side blaster port. Only a slice of the road was visible through the tiny slit, showing the legs of the Armorer underneath the APC and Ryan standing near an open toolbox.

There was some more clanging. “Again!”

With little hope, Krysty turned the key and was astonished when the big Detroit power plant roared into life, gray smoke puffing from the louvered exhaust ports.

“Damn, I’m good,” J.B. said from under the wag.

Turning off the engine, Krysty waited a few moments, then turned it on again. She did this several times.

“We have an engine again,” Krysty announced. “Runs smooth as silk.”

“Good work,” Ryan told J.B., giving the man a hand as he crawled out into view.

Standing, J.B. placed the lantern aside. “No, not good news. ‘Cause engine is all we have.” He was inspecting a shiny ring of metal.

“What’s that?” Ryan asked curiously.

“A bearing cone.”

Ryan moved closer. “Never saw one before.”

“Folks aren’t supposed to. These are sealed units and don’t come off, or apart.”

“From the Hummer?” Mildred asked.

“No, it’s ours and I found two more on the ground. That was the grinding noise. The bearings are busted.” J.B. placed some tools in the kit and closed the box. “We took shrapnel damage from that satchel charge. The minor engine is leaking coolant from a bad crack in the block. I used some parts from the main engine to patch the second, so we have lights and heat. But as for going anywhere, the wag might as well be sunk in concrete. The transmission assembly is in pieces. Don’t know how we got this far.”