James Axler – Watersleep

Still, Ryan remained absolutely motionless until the sailor spotted him.

“Hey—” came out of the man’s mouth as Ryan sprung like a ravenous tiger leaping for its shocked prey. He had snapped the muscles of his legs taut and let his body spring hard and direct. He hit the man just at his knees, driving his feet out from under him, plowing him onto the wet deck.

The sailor was a fighter. He responded to the attack with a ferocity to match, beating on the one-eyed man’s shoulders and back. The two of them locked together for a moment of sheer animal fury before the man broke free, kicking out with one of his feet. Ryan was able to roll to the left and dodge, his body and clothing making wet slapping sounds in the puddles beneath him.

Ryan scuttled backward, planning to rear up on his feet, when the younger, already erect sailor pulled a long screwdriver from his belt.

“Come on, you hump,” the young man said with a grin. “Come on. I’m ready for you. I can dust your ass and still get out of here before I start glowing green.”

“Is there a problem with your shiny new toy?”

“Look around you. The reactor’s leaking radiation in two spots, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. Won’t be long before all systems start going off-line.”

The sailor brandished the weapon, making sharp, stabbing motions. The deadly-looking tool was just as good as a knife in close-quarters fighting like this, and while Ryan wasn’t frightened of going up against someone with a blade, he wasn’t exactly thrilled, ei­ther, since he was knifeless at the moment.

Ryan decided he wasn’t in the mood for this. He damned sure didn’t want to get sick from rad poison­ing, and the fighting sailor man was starting to get on his nerves.

He slid the AK-47 off his back and into his capable hands.

“Say hello to the fishes,” Ryan said, and pulled the trigger.

There was a soft click, followed by a triple click. Ryan and his screwdriver-wielding foe realized at the exact same time the blaster wasn’t loaded.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Dean and Doc warily approached the ruin that was once a tidy wood-and-glass guard’s shack on the far end of the Kings Point naval base. The boy and man had made good time, following the remarkably well preserved two-lane blacktop down the coastline. Their steed had done well and they left him behind at the gas station inside a long-stripped garage.

The base was still some distance away, but Doc had found yet another hidden reserve of inner strength, and had kept up with the boy, both of them walking as quickly as possible without any delays.

Doc had surprised himself. “Amazing what a few day’s rest and relaxation will do for a man, even one as brittle as I,” he said.

“Save your breath for walking, not talking, Doc,” Dean replied, getting a slight lead on his older com­panion.

Doc almost gave back his own comment, but then decided the boy was right.

Ryan would have told Doc the same thing in this sort of situation.

They had increased their speed the moment the ex­plosions began to occur on the other end of the base. Tendrils of red fire and plumes of smoke reached into the night sky, giving Kings Point a look of a hellpit on earth.

“Twelve o’clock,” Doc said, checking his old pocket watch. “The witching hour is upon us.”

Dean held his Browning Hi-Power ready as he stepped closer to the sec gate next to the shack. The gate, which once could be opened electronically from the wrecked shack, was normally used for allowing wheeled transportation such as the wags to exit and enter. Now the gate was hanging open, a meshing of metal shadows hanging in the dusky air.

Dean glanced at Doc and mouthed a single word of question. “Dad?” he said, cocking his head toward the bullet-riddled checkpoint.

“Undoubtedly,” Doc replied. “If I had any doubts about our being in the right place, this path of battle has quelled them.”

Dean stepped onto the slab of concrete used as flooring for the checkpoint and peeked inside the re­mains. Inside, the primary color on the standing walls was the rusty red of dried blood. A sec man with a silly-looking hat was crumpled inside, his body twisted in the distinctive and peculiar posture of the dead.