“Any other way inside?” Ryan asked.
J.B. snorted. “Not that we could find. Lighthouse has got solid granite walls. Need a C-4 satchel charge to even dent the place.”
As Ryan limped over to the lighthouse, Doc started to offer the man his ebony stick, then thought better of the gesture. Ryan would never take it. Not from foolish macho pride, but with one of them possibly in danger the man wouldn’t have the time to spare thinking about his own pain. In the New York Herald of his day, Doc sometimes read of officers whose troopers claimed they would charge with them straight into hell. The scholar had never met such a person until Ryan freed him from a slave pit so very long ago.
Another crab scuttled by, and Jak caught the mutie in his hand, keeping well clear of the scorpion tails. “Wonder if good eat?” the teenager asked. The eye stalks of the creature extended fully, and it stared at the albino as if in open hatred. It unnerved him slightly how much intelligence there seemed to be in its steady expression.
With a gentle laugh, Krysty pointed to the east. “There’s an oyster bed in a tide pool some hundred yards that way with enough to feed an army.”
“Excellent, madam. Exemplary!” Doc stated, lifting an imaginary hat to the redheaded woman. “Once more you are the source of our succor.”
Jak tossed the crab away, uncaring where it landed. The mutie hit the beach on its back just in time for a wave to flip it over, and it hastily disappeared into the briny foam.
“I fill sack,” the teenager stated, and took off at a run.
“Speaking of which,” J.B. said, walking over to a slab of bare rock and lifting up a canvas bag. “Here are your backpacks. They washed ashore near us couple of miles down the beach.”
Krysty took them both and passed one to Ryan. The packs were torn in spots, probably from coral reefs, and still damp from the ocean, but were still okay.
Easing the longblaster free from the tangled straps, Ryan briefly checked the Steyr SSG-70 sniper rifle for damage. He worked the bolt a few times to make sure sand and salt hadn’t gummed the works. The carriage moved smoothly, chambering a 7.62 mm brass round from the transparent plastic clip.
“Some sand in the barrel,” Ryan announced, sliding the weapon over a shoulder, “but no blockage.” He had actually felt off balance with the long-blaster gone.
Going through the backpack, he used his big hands to squeeze excess moisture from the stiff canvas. Everything inside smelled dank, especially the dog-hair socks, but nothing seemed seriously damaged. Satisfied for the moment, Ryan stuffed some more rotary clips for the Steyr into his jacket pocket and filled the ammo pouch on his belt with clips for the SIG-Sauer. He was still very low on ammo, but better armed now then he was before.
Closing her backpack, Krysty tossed away a handful of soggy mush that had once been dried fish wrapped carefully in banana leaves. The sagging glob of food smelled rancid, and she heaved it into the weeds. Immediately, insects began to converge on the unexpected bounty.
“Any idea where we might be?” Krysty asked, sliding her pack onto her back.
“Got no idea which island this is,” J.B. answered, touching the minisextant hanging around his neck. “The sun has been behind clouds since I woke up. Never once got a chance to fix our position. This doesn’t look like Spider Island, though. Too barren. No mountains.”
But the woman barely heard the man’s reply. Her hair wildly flexing, Krysty was listening to the wind. What was that odd sound? It was like hard rain hitting a tin roof, only lower, softer. How odd.
“Well, we can’t be too far away,” Mildred said. “Without a raft of some kind, we couldn’t have stayed afloat in the water for very long, even if the currents were with us.”
Ryan started to explain about the dead spider when a pistol shot rang out and Jak burst into view over the low sand dune. He paused at the crest to fire two more rounds, then raced toward the companions.