James Axler – Shadowfall

He went clean through, hurling up a wave of spray that obscured him for a few moments.

Unbelievably he surfaced, still alive, kicking in the boiling water, head strained back, the cords in his throat standing out like drawn wire.

“God help him,” Mildred whispered. “Take him, Lord, take him.”

The scabbie fought in silence, mouth wide open, pulling at the water with his right arm, legs thrashing, reaching out for the edge of the path.

But he was being cooked alive.

The searing heat of the lake was broiling him. The disfigured skin across his face and neck was blistered away, hanging in empty, ballooning sacks. His fingers had vanished as the flesh became grotesquely swollen. The eyes were gone, sealed behind a bloody pink puffiness.

It was impossible to imagine the unthinkable horror of the mutie’s suffering.

The nine companions watched him, silent, until Krysty broke the spell that held them motionless.

Drawing her Smith amp; Wesson double-action pistol, she put a .38 round into the middle of the suffering man’s skull, blowing him into eternity.

As his body floated, the only sound was Doc kneeling down and being sick. “My apologies,” he mumbled, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his stained frock coat. “But it was the smell of boiled meat that” He promptly threw up again.

“Best we go,” Ryan said. “Sound of shooting could have been heard. Might be others.”

The three scabbie corpses lying on the winding path were quickly manhandled over the edge into the seething yellow mud.

“DEFINITELY BETTER AIR,” Krysty stated, sharing the lead with Ryan on a wider, straighter path.

The battle with the muties was close on an hour behind them, lost in the lower ground of hot springs, geysers and poisonously yellow mists.

Now they could see the mountains more clearly, with a stretch of wooded valleys lying directly ahead.

A high, thin waterfall glittered over a shelf of rock; Ryan’s guestimate put it at around twenty miles east.

The sun was just past the halfway mark, starting its long, slow descent toward the west, over the distant ocean.

Ryan whistled between his teeth. “More like it, lover.”

She nodded. “It is. Look at the height of some of those trees ahead.”

They were giant redwoods, towering well over two hundred feet. Ryan stopped at the top of some rising ground, shading his eye. “Looks to me like some sort of camp down there among the trees,” he said.

Krysty probably had the best day sight of anyone in the party. “Think you’re right. Tents. Might be Native Americans.”

“Don’t reckon there’s many of them in these parts,” Trader said. “Never were.”

“Well, best way to find out is to go take a look.” Ryan eased the strap of the Steyr on his shoulder. “Slow and careful.”

Chapter Fourteen

“Something odd.”

They were lying in a straggling line along a ridge that hid them from the encampment, a quarter mile below them. There were groves of pinon pines scattered among the redwoods, filling the afternoon air with their scent. “What, Trader?” Ryan asked. “Counted the tents. Not too good with numbering, as you know. I make it up to forty.”

“Thirty-eight,” Dean said quickly.

“Remember that nobody in Deathlands admires a smart-ass, sonny,” Trader growled. “Specially them that tries to dump their olders and betters into the shadows with how bright they think they are.”

There was real venom in the words, and Dean wriggled a little farther from the older man, closer to the protection of his father.

But Ryan did nothing. “So what, Trader? What’s your point about this?”

“I sort of counted at the women and children and men running around down there. But Mr. Button Bright here probably done that, too.”

Dean glanced at his father, who nodded. “I made it eleven what I’d call children. Younger than me. Twenty-six women. And only about eight or nine men. Can’t be sure as they moved around a lot, going in and out the tents.”

“Close enough, Dean,” J.B. confirmed. “See your point, Trader. Too many women.”

“And not enough men. More to the issue, J.B., there’s not enough fighting men.” Trader shuffled to a more comfortable position. “Where the fuck are all their men? They ain’t muties, by what I can see.”