James Axler – Gemini Rising

“Hey! Where’s Stephen?” Dean asked, glancing around.

“Guarding the campfire.”

Jak made a noise. “Yeah, right.”

Gathering their weapons and clothing, the group climbed into the rear of the flatbed.

“What’s your name, lady?” Sara asked, holding the baby tightly. The gears engaged with a grinding noise, and the wag started to roll over the rough ground at a good clip.

“Wyeth,” answered the physician wearily. “Mildred Wyeth.”

The parents exchanged looks, and the woman nodded.

“Baby’s name is Mildred now,” Hector said.

“Thank you. That is the highest fee I have received from a patient in a hundred years.”

“Hey, I thought you guys were hunters,” Dean accused. “But that swampie sure caught you by the surprise.”

“Are hunters,” Bob responded patiently.

“We were watching the creek,” Clem explained, resting his chin on the flintlock of his musket. “But this mutie dropped out of a tree.”

Oh.” The boy blinked. “So that’s what was in the trees making all the noise.”

Bob shrugged. “I suppose.”

“Crazy thing must have been mad with hunger.”

“Get hungry enough, you try anything.”

“True enough.”

The mixed group settled into the rhythms of the rocking vehicle, confident that dry clothes and food were only moments away.

Over in the corner, shivering under her heavy coat, Krysty violently sneezed, then did it twice more. But nobody thought anything of it at the time.

THE PATCHED SIDES of the canvas tent moved with every gust of wind, but the flaps were pegged tight and the only breeze came through the front opening. An oil lantern gave off a wealth of light, but only faint traces of heat. A few wooden boxes were used as seats by the armed men, blasters were stacked neatly near ammo boxes and the carved wooden pole supporting the roof was decorated with clusters of dried human scalps.

“Any word?” one of the men asked, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. A long jagged scar traversed his face from his forehead down into his shirt and out of sight.

“Nope,” said the messenger, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Rode here fast as I could. Spotted them at the old farm. Tangled with a mud puppy.”

“Anybody die?”

“A kid, I think.”

“Not an adult. Good.” The big man dropped the butt onto the dirt floor and crushed it under a boot. “Still, I hate to attack without a signal. Mebbe Phillipe is working some angle we don’t know about. Don’t want to queer a good deal.”

“Could be the others found out and aced him,” suggested another man, chewing on a piece of salted meat.

“Could be,” Scarface agreed, lighting a fresh cigarette off the lantern flame. Sitting back, he drew in a satisfying lungful and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. “That would be too bad. He was good at the job. Guess we’ll have to find another cheese for the trap.”

“Trouble is,” the messenger said, frowning, “they keep stopping at random spots and are avoiding every trap we have.”

“Somebody in that group has brains. But no matter. They can’t reach Front Royal without going through the pass. When will the convoy reach it?”

The messenger gave a toothy grin. “Two days, mebbe sooner.”

“Then that’s where we hit them.” Scarface smiled, showing that his teeth had been filed to sharp points.

“Easy pickings,” the messenger agreed happily. “And food for the whole damn winter.”

Chapter Eight

Two days later, Ryan braked the lead truck to a rattling halt on a dirt road and stared hard around them, his hands white on the steering wheel. The land had been getting higher, more mountainous. The road they were taking now sliced along the steep side of a small mountain, a foothill compared to the rocky giants in the Shens, yet sloped enough to slow their travel to a crawl. Stephen keep insisting that the wags could take the inclines at full speed, but Ryan had no wish to blow an engine block and leave the convoy stranded in mutie territory.

But the section ahead of them was as level as a table, smooth and without potholes or rain gullies. The very fact it was in good condition made the man suspicious. A large grassy field rose sharply to the right, disappearing into a granite outcropping, and on their left was a dense wall of battered trees.