“We’re okay,” Ryan replied. “Battered, but no serious damage.”
“Good.” Mildred hawked and spit to clear her mouth. “Looks like we’re in a runoff swamp,” she said. “Better than a rad pit, I suppose.”
Quickly, Ryan checked his lapel and saw no readings from the miniature Geiger counter. “Clean,” he reported, then actually smiled as he noted the disheveled appearance of his friends, dark mud covering them like camou armor. “Well, sort of anyway,” he added.
Favoring his right leg, Doc struggled to stand, the black-powder charges from the LeMat dribbling out of the holster and down his leg like black blood.
“How inconvenient,” he rumbled in annoyance, then addressed the others. “By any chance, does anybody see my stick?”
“Over here,” Dean cried, and splashed across the water. By a rotting tree, he plunged his hands into the silt and pulled the ebony swordstick free.
“I saw the light flashing off the silver,” he said, returning the weapon.
“Thank you, lad. Good show.” Doc twisted the lion’s-head handle and pulled out the sword for inspection. The steel was foggy with condensation, but otherwise undamaged.
Dean shrugged. “No prob.”
His limp fedora perched on a stick to dry, J.B. was sitting on the undamaged raft, holding his glasses by the stems and rinsing them in the seawater.
Knife in hand, Jak stood nearby, staring hard at the desolate land stretching before them. It resembled his home of Louisiana.
“Clean blasters!” the pale teenager barked as an order.
Sliding the patch to the front of his face, Ryan looked about and saw nothing of possible menace. “Explain,” he commanded.
Jak frowned. “Swamps alive. Lots life, snakes, rats. Not here, but could be.”
Heeding the sage advice, the companions moved to the raft and got busy. Sparingly using the clean water from the canteens, they cleaned their weapons and made sure each was in working order. Then with guards posted, they attempted to clean themselves. Dean found a depression in the land two feet deep, and they washed as thoroughly as possible in the makeshift tub.
“What’s wrong with the soap?” J.B. asked, trying to work up a lather in his hands.
“This is salt water,” Mildred said, pouring another skimmed cup of swamp water over her hair. More silt rinsed out of her beaded plaits. “It takes a special kind of soap to foam in brine.”
“Swell,” he grumbled.
After the ablutions, somewhat cleaner and pounds lighter, the companions sat on the raft eating cold MRE rations. The warm water rose to their knees, and they closely watched the surface for undulating ripples that meant the presence of snakes. Swamps were the worst kind of terrain to cross. Mud weighed you down, great holes could open beneath you at any step, the air was thick and difficult to breathe, plus most of the animals were poisonous.
Chewing a ration bar, Dean glanced at the waterfall. “Looks like we walk from here.”
“Where is here?” Krysty asked, her hair flexing and waxing around her as if drying itself in the pale gray sunlight.
“I checked earlier,” J.B. replied around a mouthful of peanut butter and graham crackers. He took a pull of water to clear his throat. “We’re still in North Carolina. About twenty miles from the Tennessee border.”
“That’s good news,” Ryan said, wiping the inside of a metallic foil bag with a finger to get the last of the military cheese. The stuff was gray, but he knew that was the normal color of cheese. Carrot juice was normally added to make it more appetizing, but he guessed the MRE packs were designed to be cheap, as well as last forever.
Placing aside an empty envelope of corned-beef hash, Mildred rinsed her spoon clean and tucked it into a pocket. “Well, if it’s any comfort, there’s no way the blues will ever find us out here.” She gestured at the empty expanse.
Removing her coat, Krysty hung the garment over a dead tree. It had felt as if she were carrying another person on her shoulders. “Hate to leave the supplies,” she said, stretching. “But I suppose there’s no way to haul them along.”
“We can make backpacks,” Ryan said, standing. Wading around the stationary raft, he peeled away the canvas sheet and took stock of the jumbled boxes. “Bare essentials. Only food and ammo. We each get one gren, J.B. gets the rest of the explosives, Mildred any medical supplies. Leave the rest.”