James Axler – Starfall

“I won’t let that happen,” Ryan said. He put an arm across her shoulders, pulling her close and holding her tight. “Long as you’re with me, you’re going to be safe.”

But he had to wonder how true his words were.

“GOING TO NEED some ammo and supplies,” J.B. said.

Ryan stood near the sailor, watching as the man handled the boat with ease. The green water of the river stretched out before them, alternately sandwiched in between stony banks and areas where pockets of trees and brush filled out in early summer growth.

“We’ll get them,” Ryan said. Nearly two hours had passed since they’d left Idaho Falls. There’d been no sign of the coldhearts or anyone else. The area upriver from the ville appeared pristine and uninhabited.

The Armorer took out his minisextant and took a reading from the sun. They were starting to lose the daylight now. When he finished, he made a few brief notations on a map of the area from his pack. “River’s changed locations.”

Ryan understood. They wouldn’t be able to use the river as a marker to the other areas on the map. And coming back down the river past Idaho Falls to return to the redoubt they’d come through in wouldn’t be a wise idea at the mo­ment, not with the Slaggers marking territory.

“River changes every fifteen or twenty years,” the sailor said as he piloted his craft around a sandbar that stuck out nearly to the center of the river.

“Every once in a while, the river even changes direc­tion,” the sailor went on. “Thirty years ago, when I was just a boy, it flowed the other way. And my grandpop, he told me that it changed direction when he was a boy, too. But quakes somewhere along the way shifted things so much that the river started going the other way. Made things interesting around the ville for a while because my da and grandpop salvaged a lot of predark things for a few years. Made a handsome living at it trading with folks.”

“What’s your name?” Ryan asked.

“Morse,” the man answered. “My boys are named Bud and Sandy.”

Seated ahead of the wheel, the boys both nodded at Ryan, but they didn’t seem overly friendly about it. Their skin had been browned by the sun, and they were whipcord lean from the hard life they led. They’d stripped down to cutoff denims and carried broad-bladed knives at their waists in plastic sheaths. Their hair trailed well past their shoulders, done up in braids that kept it out of their faces.

“River still come from the north?” Ryan asked.

“There’s a fork about forty miles north and east of here. Comes from north on into what used to be Montana there, and the other fork comes out of Wyoming.”

“Those areas populated?” J.B. asked.

“Some,” Morse said. “Mainly people who don’t like being around other people. Get back in the woods, live by themselves, taking what they need from the land.”

“That, old salt,” Doc said, walking up, “does not sound like such a bad dream to hang on to whilst in this nightmare of apocalyptic life.” The old man took a deep breath. “Why, friend Ryan and John Barrymore,” Doc added, “I do believe the wind carries with it a freshness of the earth rather than the stench of the ville we so recently debarked.”

Ryan took a breath and silently agreed. “What kind of supplies do you have on board?” he asked Morse.

Moving the wheel slightly to alter the sailboat’s heading, Morse gave the one-eyed man a harsh stare. “Take my boat and steal from me, too? Fuck, we’re going to have to talk about my wages at some point.”

Ryan’s anger gave way to the humor of the situation. The red mist cleared from his vision as he smiled. “You must have a set of brass balls big as your head.”

J.B. gave a short grin, then doffed his hat long enough to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Man’s got a price in mind, usually first sign of a professional.”

“You ain’t going to find no son of a bitch knows this river any bastard better than I do,” Morse crowed. “And that’s a damn fact.”