Just then a man screamed, clawing wildly at his face; Then another did the same, and another. Caterwauling people fell off the roofs of buildings, untriggered rifles exploded, loose ammo crackling like popcorn and Hummers burst into fireballs.
A FEW MINUTES LATER, the battered door to the bunker was forced open by sec men who immediately retreated, covering their mouths and noses and trying not to gag. The portal was closed posthaste, the edges sealed with rags and anything that could be shoved into the jamb to keep out the horrible stink.
The blue shirts knew they would have to wait a few hours for the stench to dissipate. But there was no rush. The rebellion was over. Everything within a mile of the bunker was now stone dead.
INSIDE THE MAIN LAB of the complex, Silas Jamaisvous stood at a control panel, an empty syringe of adrenaline sticking out of his arm.
Woozy, he pulled down the switch operating the bus bar disconnecting the main relay assembly from the power grid.
“It worked,” he whispered in delight. “It really worked!”
“Yes, it did,” Sheffield said from the corner of the lab. “And we really need to talk about that.”
Chapter Eight
Ryan awoke, still hearing the thunder of the waterfall.
“Son of a mutie bitch,” he muttered. “We survived after all.”
Struggling to his hands and knees, the man realized half of his face was cold and the other side painfully hot. He been lying facedown in the mud with the sun baking his blind side.
Painfully sitting upright, Ryan felt like the loser in an ax fight. He remembered going over the waterfall and not much after that. Sluggishly, the one-eyed man felt for his SIG-Sauer. He was amazed to find it still there. Trembling fingers jacked the slide, and he holstered the useless blaster. It was coated with mud. Firing a round now might make the weapon explode.
Drawing the curved panga, he stood and surveyed the landscape. They were in a shining sea of smooth water, tiny tufts of brown grass dotting the surface, and farther out was the occasional dead tree draped with moss and green with mold. The smell of salt was strong. The water was about a foot deep, the ground underneath the soft muck of decaying plants. It was a swamp formed from the runoff of the ocean river. To the east rose a high cliff, a waterfall cascading from the top, filling the air with a fine mist and a beautiful rainbow.
The Deathlands warrior frowned. Cliffs behind, swamp ahead, not much choice of direction to take.
Wiping the salt mud off his face, Ryan counted off the rest of the companions and was relieved to find everybody present. They were lying limply about, but no limbs jutted at odd angles, and no pools of blood were visible. Krysty lay near him, with one cowboy boot missing, her fur coat looking like it had drowned itself. A few yards away, Mildred was draped over a piece of the raft. The unconscious physician still gripped her med kit.
The smaller raft was intact. One of the logs was broken in two, but the canvas still retained the supplies within. But the cargo raft was destroyed, boxes and timbers strewed everywhere for hundreds of yards.
Nobody dead, one raft still whole. With this little damage, Ryan realized it couldn’t have been a proper waterfall with a straight drop. It had to have been merely a steep incline, and they were flushed onto this muddy field like so much shit. Vaguely, Ryan had disjointed memories of swimming, fighting to reach the surface, people shouting. After that, it was blank. One raft lost. Could have been worse, a lot worse.
“Krysty?” he asked, sloshing closer to the woman.
“I’m alive, lover,” she replied, struggling into a crouch. “Just barely, but still pulling air.”
Finding the other boot, Ryan gave it to her, then helped the woman to stand. “It’s a miracle we survived,” he stated.
“Thank Gaia.” Krysty coughed and tried to wipe the clinging muck off her sodden clothes.
Resembling a corpse escaping the grave, Mildred arose from the watery mud. “Anybody hurt?” the physician asked wearily, feeling her own arms and chest for broken bones.
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