James Axler – Gaia’s Demise

“Dry socks,” Jak added sternly. “Live in swamp, dry socks save feet.”

“He’s right,” Mildred said, respectfully appraising the teenager. “This place is a breeding ground for fungus. We’ll change our socks every time we break for food, and I’ll spare some sulfur to try and keep out infections.”

“Swamps,” Doc muttered, fluffing the muddy frills of his shirt. “Sweet nature’s toilet.”

Everybody laughed, but it was Mildred’s comment that struck a resonating cord within Ryan, and once again he debated the wisdom of their goal. Should they be heading for the town of Shiloh, or the site of the infamous Civil War battle? The historic Shiloh was only a few miles away from a redoubt. Shiloh ville won the debate because it was closer.

“Might as well get moving,” J.B. said, wiping off his palms with a moist towelette included in the MRE pack. “Miles to go before we sleep and all that, eh, Doc?”

“Without a doubt, my friend.”

As the companions rose, the raft moved unexpectedly, floating to the surface of the dirty water.

“Dark night,” the man whispered in surprise. “Salt water is more buoyant than fresh.”

“Is this deep enough?” Krysty asked, lifting a boot and inspecting the water-mark level.

Mildred pushed at the logs with a hand, and they moved. “Seems so, yeah.”

“There’s no current,” Dean said, crossing his arms. “Are we going to drag it behind?”

Splashing closer, Ryan was already at the rear of the craft, lifting the mooring lines from the mulch and testing their strength. “Half of us will push,” he stated, “the rest can drag.”

ROWS UPON ROWS of cots filled the makeshift hospital of Front Royal, temporarily located inside the long dining hall of Cawdor Castle. The great table had been moved to the end of the hall and converted into a surgical bed, leather straps draped over the bloodstained surface to hold down the sec men who needed limbs removed or other major surgery. The ville’s supply of predark ether had been used up the first day, and now the healer poured shine down the throats of his patients until they fell unconscious.

Thankfully, the screams of agony hadn’t been heard in days. The seriously hurt were out of their misery, dead and buried, either from the wounds they received in battle, or from the meatball surgery trying to save them. The rest of the brown shirts and civilians lay on the simple cots, waiting for medical attention to their bullet wounds and stumps. The air reeked of feces, whiskey and blood, and the painful moaning never stopped, day or night.

Several of the local gaudy sluts moved among the patients emptying bedpans into a wheelbarrow they pushed along. In this time of emergency, everybody in the ville worked. On the other side of the long hall, a pair of children carried a steaming wooden bucket of freshly brewed tea from the kitchen. Carefully, they filled the cup next to each cot. If the cup was full, they dumped it on the floor and filled it with fresh. Made from old willow bark, Healer Mildred had said the brew would help some of the wounded with their pain. Amazingly, it did with some, but others not at all.

Kneeling alongside a sec man who had been crushed by falling rocks during the war, the new healer adjusted the folded blanket under his head. “There, is that better?” Sullivan asked softly.

“No,” the sec man moaned. “Neck still hurts…”

Irritably, Sullivan grabbed the trooper by the throat and savagely twisted. There was a snap, and the patient went limp.

“See?” the mutie whispered in amusement. “I said that I could end your pain.”

There was no reply.

Moving to the next patient, Sullivan found the man soundly asleep. Good. They should all fall asleep, then die. There were plenty of troops in the world to replace them, so why did Baron Cawdor worry about a few damaged people. It just made no sense. But then Sullivan’s job wasn’t to be logical or reasonable, just to murder the baron and leave. Nothing more. Of course, the baron was surrounded by a squad of trigger-happy sec men, so the chilling would take some special planning.