James Axler – Gaia’s Demise

“I’ll get it,” Dean offered. Releasing the rope, he disappeared under the hot canvas to reappear with the fuel can.

“Pretty low,” he stated, unscrewing the cap.

Krysty cupped her hands, and the boy poured her a small splash.

J.B. stepped out of the muck onto the raft and pulled out his telescope. Extending the tube to its maximum length, he swept the horizon ahead of them.

“Could be land to the northwest,” he said, adjusting the focus. “Yeah, that’s green trees, pines and oak, which means dry land. Salt water would kill those.”

“Distance,” Ryan asked, removing the bandanna around his forehead and wringing it dry.

J.B. tucked the scope into his munitions bag. “Five miles, mebbe less.”

“Excellent.” Doc exhaled, spitting on his chapped hands and rubbing them together. “Under a spreading chestnut tree, the Deathlands warrior stands…”

“Stop misquoting, Longfellow,” Mildred snorted, spreading some grease on her lips from a small tin box. The bearings were still in the tires under the raft, the old grease a soothing balm for the thirsty people.

Doc arched a silvery eyebrow. “Laughter is the best medicine, madam.”

“Tell that to a person with rad poisoning.”

“Cynic.”

“Old coot.”

With a warning shout, Krysty fired her blaster, the S&W .38 booming in the eerie stillness of the Carolina swamp. The others spun about, weapons searching for danger.

“Sorry,” she apologized, mopping the sweat off her brow. “Thought I saw something move in the water.”

Fanning himself with the hat, J.B. squinted. “Just a log.”

“No, it isn’t,” Ryan said, wading around the raft. Drawing his panga, he stabbed the log and lifted it out of the muck. There were eyes and teeth. He twisted the blade, and the body dropped back into the swamp and sank from sight.

“A mutie snake,” he stated, sheathing the blade. “Bastard bushmaster. Poisonous. Nice shooting.”

“Thanks.”

J.B. sneezed loudly.

The companions turned fast, their weapons level.

“We have company,” the Armorer said, sliding the Uzi off his shoulder.

A humanoid being stood thirty feet away from them. It was dressed in tight clothing with most of its hairless body exposed. Tools hung off a net vest, and a sleek metal helmet covered its head, three red eyes staring out from the dark interior. The warrior was holding a long bamboo spear, tipped with a mirror-bright steel blade. Minutes passed in silence.

“Greetings,” Ryan said in an even tone. The SIG-Sauer was in his hand, but not pointing at the mutie.

The swamp dweller tilted its head and clicked loudly.

Surprisingly, Jak tried French. “Parlez vous fran-gais?”

The being craned its head forward on a long neck and clicked some more, then pointed its spear to the south, then the north.

“No farther,” Krysty translated, her hair waving nervously about. “He’s claiming the rest of the swamp.”

Surreptitiously, Dean moved his hand to the grip of his blaster. Instantly, the mutie leveled his spear, two hands gripping the shaft as if braced against a recoil.

“It’s a distance weapon of some kind,” J.B. said, working the bolt on his Uzi.

“Everybody relax and put the blasters away,” Ryan ordered, stepping between the mutie and the others. “Trader always used to say that it was easier to make deals than bullets. He hasn’t attacked yet, and we all know he had the element of surprise.”

“We are headed for the land,” Ryan said slowly, in case the creature could understand. This swamp was close to Georgia, and they once found a race of underwater muties there called Dwellers. They had trouble speaking, but easily understood human speech.

“Doesn’t look anything like a Dweller,” Mildred noted.

The creature clicked at Ryan and dropped its spear into the water. Finally understanding, Ryan slid the Steyr off his shoulder and hung it back on upside down, then he drew his blaster and dropped it on the deck of the raft. Empty-handed, the two stood face-to-face, then the creature clicked again and stepped aside.

“Thanks,” Ryan said honestly. “Much appreciated.”

The mutie clicked once loudly, then sank below the water, hardly making a splash or a ripple.

“Fascinating,” Doc said, and walking forward he probed the swamp with his stick. The ebony shaft hit mud until he reached the spot where the mutie had been standing. There was no detectable ground there. Deciding to test the depth, he found it was beyond the limit of his stick and arm combined.