Whistling a sea chantey, Doc was on the larger craft, testing the ropes holding down the canvas-covered piles. Jak stood on the other with his back to the shore, taking care of business.
“Well, that’s it for the supplies,” Krysty said, wading to shore from the front raft. She stomped the red river mud off her boots, sending the crabs scurrying away, dragging their breakfast along with them.
“All the fuel’s on board?” Ryan asked.
“Yes.” Krysty shook her head, her hair spreading out a corona of fiery glory to rival the coming dawn. “Food, blankets, all six of the rocket launchers. I’m surprised how much the rafts could hold.”
“Just hope it’s enough,” Ryan said grimly, then glanced at the nearby APC. “Better wake Dean and Mildred, and get going. We can each catch some more sleep once we’re far from here.”
“I’ll get them, lover,” she said, and walked off.
“Lend me a hand, Ryan?” J.B. grunted, dragging a lumpy duffel bag toward the water.
“What is it?” Ryan asked, grabbing the rope and helping to lift the bag off the ground.
“Battery from the APC,” J.B. replied as they waded into the cold water and splashed toward the nearer raft. “I’m going to wire a headlight to the thing so we can see at night. Scare a lot of folks and save us a pile of killing.”
With the morning breeze ruffling his silvery mane of long hair, Doc watched the two men approach from the second raft, his .44 LeMat held tight, the hammer cocked back and ready.
“The halogen bulb will explode,” Ryan stated. “Won’t be able to take that much direct current.”
“I used different thickness of wires to cut the voltage so the headlight wouldn’t blow. I can make it work. Shit!” J.B. shifted his balance, nearly going under as his boot slipped on a smooth rock. “Close call.”
Ryan changed their direction away from the cargo raft. “Then we put this on the lead raft, so we can see where we’re going.”
“Sounds good.”
Zipping his pants closed, Jak turned and gave the men a hand hauling the heavy bag over the ring of splinters.
“Good for fishing,” the teenager commented, lacing the bag to the ropes covering the canvas mound. “Fish see light at night, come close, spear all we want.”
“We never made any spears,” J.B. said, heading for the cargo raft.
Jak jerked a thumb. “Doc has. Long ones.”
“You made spears?” Ryan called out, climbing on board. He was dripping wet from the waist down, the water trickling down between the log deck and back into the basin. “Good thinking.”
“These are not spears, my dear Ryan, but poles for punting,” Doc replied, trimming small branches off a sapling with his pocketknife.
“Barge poles,” J.B. translated as the older man gave him a boost on board. A thick piece of canvas draped over the splinters gave easy access to the deck of the homemade craft. “We can use them to push the raft along, in case we get stuck on a sandbar.”
“Exactly.” Tilting the pole, Doc visually inspected the shaft, rotating it this way and that. “A bit off plumb but nothing serious.” He tossed it onto the deck.
“Punting,” Ryan said as he changed into dry clothes and socks. He laid the wet garments on top of the canvas mound to let the sun dry them.
Trimming another sapling, Doc shrugged. “It is an Old English word, and I disremember its origin. Sorry.”
Sliding on his boots, Ryan saw that Dean was walking backward along the shore, unraveling a greasy length of knotted rags from a slopping bucket. The other end of the line went through the top hatch of the LAV and down inside. Backpacks perched on their heads, Mildred and Krysty were already wading across the basin, heading for different rafts. Once the boy played out the length to the end, he lit the end with a butane lighter. The shredded blankets began to burn fiercely, giving off huge volumes of greenish smoke, the fire crawling up the length very slowly.
Dean waited a moment to make sure the fire had caught, then waded into the river. As soon as he was in the water, the crabs came out of hiding and began to finish the last few scraps of the dead sting-wing, rooting in the sand for every tiny gobbet of flesh.