James Axler – Shadowfall

Ryan interrupted. “Yeah, Dean, it was a real good story. And I know for a fact that Doc’s got himself several hundred more adventures.”

“All of ’em the same,” Mildred muttered.

Ryan carried on. “But we’ll hear some more of them at a better time. Right now we have to go in and get some timber out of the sea, along with that rope. And get started on building ourselves a good raft.”

“THAT SMELL REALLY SEEPS into your heart,” Krysty said. “Gets so you don’t want to draw in a full breath.”

“Yeah.” They were all soaked to the skin from the battle to retrieve their raft-building materials from the stubborn, weed-bound bay.

The dark green coils were up to a hundred feet long, and they had suckers that attached themselves to the lengths of driftwood that were needed to construct their ramshackle craft. It was impossible to tear them loose, and every bit had to be cut away by hand, using knives, hacking through the coarse lengths of weed, some of them thicker than a man’s wrist.

“Mebbe a jump would be easier,” Abe panted.

“Like wrestling with a shack full of drunk stickies,” Trader said, sitting down in the shingle to take a breather.

“I reckon we could have used this creeper stuff instead of ropes to tie the raft together.” J.B. took off his fedora to wipe sweat from his forehead.

“Soon be dark.” Jak was trying to restore an edge to one of the short throwing knives, rubbing the steel against the flat side of a smooth stone.

Ryan glanced up at the sun, seeing to his surprise that it had already started its final plunge out over the western border of the ocean. The shadows had lengthened, and the air had become noticeably colder.

The raft was taking shape, but there was no possible way that it would be finished before night came swooping in.

“We could go back up to the redoubt,” he suggested, “or build a fire down here. Not much danger. We haven’t seen any kind of life that can threaten us.”

“Steep climb,” Trader said. “Have to say that this is harder work than I’d figured it would be.”

“Stay here with a fire?” Nobody raised an objection. He turned to Dean and Abe. “We’ll carry on until the light goes. You two start collecting some of the drier wood from higher up among the rocks. Get it piled ready for a fire.”

J.B. BROUGHT OUT ONE of the self-lights that he always carried to get the flames started. Dean had found a vast bundle of dried seaweed that he’d hauled across the rocks, using that as the base. Abe piled some of the smaller pieces of dry driftwood that he’d picked out from the higher rocks, placing them carefully among the crackling, yellowed weed. Then both of them had hauled some larger hunks of wood and stacked them on top.

With the sun well down and the light almost gone, Ryan called a halt to the raft-building, ordering everyone to the party to scavenge for more wood to try to keep the fire going during the chill of the night ahead.

Trader queried the need. “Island isn’t inhabited, Ryan, and I don’t think seals are going to give us much trouble. Unless you figure there’s some sort of marine stickies swimming around out yonder, just waiting their chance to creepy-crawl in and haul one of us off to their undersea caverns?”

Ryan ignored the heavy-handed attempt at sarcasm. “You and me’ve seen stranger things than that in our life, Trader. And it wouldn’t be impossible for someone on the mainland, on the coast, to see the light of the fire and come out in their boats to investigate.”

“If they did, we could steal their boats,” Dean said.

“Raft’s nearly finished,” J.B. protested. “Not having all that work for nothing.”

“Post a watch?” Jak asked. “There’s fog coming offshore. Doubt they’d see fire.”

“Better not to take a chance,” Trader insisted, unexpectedly changing tack. “With nine of us, it’ll only be a short while each on lookout.”

THE FLAMES BURNED BRIGHT, the golden smoke circling on the thermals, mingling with the thick mist that had descended over the California coast, bringing with it the strongest smell yet of rotting eggs.