James Axler – Shadowfall

“Might have to do some work on it before we go back to the island,” Trader said, kicking at the timbers.

Ryan nodded. “Unless we can find us some alternative transport.”

Mildred looked at the raft. “Think it’s safe there? How about if the tide comes in?”

“Should be up far enough,” Abe said. “The piles of weed there show high water.” He looked up at the deep blue bowl of the sky, unsullied by a single cloud. “And there’s no sign of any sort of storm.”

Dean coughed, hawking and spitting. “The smell gets on your chest,” he said, pulling a face. “And it makes your eyes sting, as well.”

J.B. was busily wiping salt spray off his spectacles. “It looks clear farther inland,” he said. “Depends on how far we have to go to get clear of the fumes.”

“And the rad hot spot,” Ryan reminded.

“Yeah, and the hot spots.”

THEIR FIRST STROKE of luck came when they reached the building. As they drew nearer they could see that there was a rough concrete slipway running from it, toward the sea. The double doors were badly weathered, bleached by the onshore wind. A plain bolt and hasp held them shut.

Inside the dark hut were a clinker-built boat, about fifteen feet long, with an unstepped mast and a set of oars in each. A hole marred the hull.

“Sails,” Jak said, pointing to some shrouded bundles on a shelf running along one wall of the window-less shack. “Lover?”

“Yeah, Krysty?”

“Is this God telling us that we should fix that hole, cast off this ruined place and go north or south?”

Doc laughed, a harsh, booming sound in the muffled stillness of the boathouse. “I confess that I have always been puzzled by that aspect of the omnipotence of the Almighty.”

“How, Doc?” Mildred asked.

“When people say that God is trying to give them a sign or a warning. If our Divine Creator is truly all-powerful and all-knowing and all-seeing, then why does he have to resort to such clumsy methodology to pass on his messages? Why not a neat little card pressed into your hand by invisible fingers?” He put on an even deeper voice. ” ‘To Krysty Wroth and friendsIt is my wish that you sail north of here and I have provided a craft for your journey, though it needs a slight repair.’ Why not be up front about it?”

Most of the party laughed. But Krysty wasn’t to be deterred. “Doesn’t answer my question, Doc. If there’s bad nuke radiation here, mebbe we should simply take the boat and move away from it.”

Ryan bit his lip, balancing the options. “Orange isn’t too serious, providing we don’t stay for days. I don’t like the idea of moving away without exploring at all. I’ve never been here to this part of the western islands. None of us has.”

“Do we need to see some stinking hot springs when we can smell them?”

“You got a bad feeling about it?” Ryan asked her. “That why you want to move on?”

Krysty stepped into the early-morning sunshine, the brightness accentuating the living flames of her brilliant hair. She looked out to sea before replying. “No. Can’t say that there’s a bad feeling. Not like danger from anyone. But this seems such a foul place.”

Ryan joined her, laying his hand on her arm. “Tell you what. We know about this boat if we need it. We’ll see what it’s like for a mile or so inland. If we can’t get through, then we’ll come back and fix it up. All right?”

She nodded, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “All right.”

Chapter Twelve

Doc tried to lift flagging spirits by recounting an anecdote of the time that he and his wife had visited Yellowstone in March of 1892, when it had been open as a national park for precisely twenty years.

But the oppressive nature of the region through which they were walking lay heavy on the old man. He started to become confused, repeating himself, frequently losing the point of the tale, which seemed to center on an extremely plump mother and unmarried daughter, a hungry brown bear cub, two tubs of pecan ice cream and Old Faithful.