James Axler – Judas Strike

“That’s just an old wive’s tale,” Mildred retorted. “The Mongols put raw steaks on their horses to help heal saddle sores. Nothing more.”

“Work?” Jak asked, stroking the neck of his mount. The horse whinnied in response and bent closer to the teenager’s touch.

“Works fine, or so I’ve been told,” Mildred replied.

“Raw meat as a bandage,” Colonel Mitchum muttered. “Pretty smart. Must remember that.”

Reaching level ground, the group found grass for their horses and let them eat their fill, before kicking their mounts into an easy gallop. The riders had no wish to tire the beasts after the long walk over the mountain.

The sun rose toward its azimuth as the miles flew by without incident. Birds exploded from the trees as they rode by, and monkeys of various sizes chattered furiously at the invasion of their territory and threw handfuls of fresh feces at the riders to seriously discourage them from returning. A near hit made a sec man fire his flintlock, and the chimps disappeared into the thick canopy of flowers of vines, screaming and chattering in fear.

“There!” a corporal called out, gesturing ahead of the group. “Tide bridge, sir! We’re nearly home.”

Brushing the hair out of his eye, Ryan could see they were approaching another shallow bay like the one on Crab Island. But here rocks had been piled in the water until forming a wide bridge over the ocean. Old rusty pipes stuck out of the rocks below the surface to allow the tide to flow freely.

“Will that support a horse and rider?” J.B. asked in concern. The bridge had no mortar or concrete. It was just a pile of rocks, nothing more.

“Always has before,” Mitchum said, guiding his mount down the bank and onto the rocks. They moved at every step, but the sec men rode their animals along the crude construct with no real difficulties, so the companions soon followed. There was no sign of crabs anywhere.

Reaching the far side, Ryan noticed a wide area where there was no grass, and in the center was a deep hole. Checking his rad counter, he saw no dangerous readings, and there wasn’t any glassy slag at the bottom from a tac nuke.

“See that? Our fathers killed a tin can there,” a sergeant said with pride, slowing so the others could take a look. “Fifty sec men died, but they aced the mofu.”

“Tin can,” Krysty repeated. “Some sort of machine?”

“They say it was a crazy thing,” Mitchum answered grimly. “Didn’t resemble a wag, or a boat. It was built like a cartridge, round and flat on the bottom. Had rotating red eyes and floated off the ground like a soap bubble, but it was made of steel. They say miniballs only dented it at close range.”

The companions knew the description well. It was a sec hunter droid, and it had to have already been damaged for a bunch of sec men with blasters to bring it down. Ryan had one chase him and J.B. for miles a while back, and it had been a triple bitch to stop. Damn near aced both men.

“I assume it detonated once damaged sufficiently,” Doc inquired politely. This was clearly a site of great importance to the local sec force, and it was only wise to pay it proper respect. In his own time period, Doc would expect no less of a visitor from another country upon viewing Gettysburg or Bunker Hill.

“Detonated?” the sergeant snorted a laugh. “Naw, that’s what everybody thinks, but it’s the other way ’round.”

“Our fathers dug a hole, filled it with kegs of black powder and lured the tin can there, then lit the fuse,” Mitchum said, his vision unfocused as he imagined the past event. “The blast blew it to dreck.”

“The shrapnel aced most of the sec men,” Mitchum said. “Lost my father and two uncles in that fight. But they saved the ville.”

“Good men,” Ryan said.

“Damn straight they were.”

Riding onward, they found a path leading through the jungle, the dirt road speckled with a layer of loose gravel pounded into the soil under countless hooves. Protection against erosion from the rain.