James Axler – Watersleep

“How soon before he can walk?” Ryan asked.

“Now—if he wants to. He may look like hell, but there’s no real damage to keep him off his feet. I wouldn’t recommend a long march until he’s had some sleep and a chance to build back his blood sup­ply, but he’s good for a while. I had some antiseptic to clean out where the leech attached to his foot and face. Luckily the teeth on his face didn’t go deep. Those marks should fade soon without any scarring.”

Looking at Doc’s bandaged foot, Dean held a men­tal picture of the wound beneath the gauze and sup­pressed the urge to vomit. If he had any say-so in his lifetime again, the boy knew he would never venture into another swamp. They were triple-bad luck.

Mildred pulled a dry sock onto Doc’s injured foot and over the bandages—the extra pair had been squir­reled away by Dean in a pocket. Although too small for Doc’s long feet, the donated hosiery had the ad­vantage of not being sodden.

J.B. assisted Mildred with pulling on Doc’s long boots. Using their shoulders as a brace, the older man pulled himself to his feet. Krysty handed Doc the sil­ver lion’s-head swordstick, and he began to hobble around.

“Funny seeing Doc use stick for walking ‘stead of sticking,” Jak commented.

“Good as new?” Krysty asked hopefully.

“Not hardly, but I am not ready for the scrap heap of the broken-down bodies and minds of the elder folks’ home as of yet, madam,” Doc replied, balanc­ing himself carefully and holding up his injured ankle. “The good Dr. Wyeth has managed to patch my hide yet again, and for that, I am grateful.”

J.B. was peering around the grassy jungle. He turned and waved Ryan over to where he was stand­ing.

“See something?” Ryan asked, holding his blaster in a defensive position.

“Through this murk?” J.B. replied sourly, taking off his glasses and glaring down at the rain-streaked lenses. “Not much. Glad we’re not under attack by some marauders right now. Chopping up mutie leeches under my nose is one thing, but I’d hate to have to try and aim my blaster at something smaller than a barnyard door.”

“So, what did you want?” Ryan said. “You’re fac­ing in the wrong direction. I don’t feel like backtrack­ing.”

“Glance over there to the right, back a little from where we came,” the Armorer replied. “I can’t be sure without my glasses, but I believe there’s a break in a wire sec fence over there. That’s a fake backdrop on top. Must’ve been to fool folks out here. If we can squeeze through, should bring us right out in the park.”

Ryan peered at the spot. “You’re right, J.B. I’ll tell the others.”

ONE QUICK EXPLANATION later, and the party col­lected at the torn fencing.

“Once was trail here. Short cut,” Jak said, kneel­ing. He stood and halfheartedly brushed the mud off of his knees. “Not used in long time.”

“I’ll go through,” Ryan said, pulling aside the rusted mesh and stepping through.

On the other side, he extracted himself from the fencing as carefully as possible, enjoying the feel of hard asphalt under his feet. He saw some machinery and a lone open control panel; deep, dark grease and oil stains that time and the rain still hadn’t managed to clear away; faded white and yellow lines on the ground. Ryan decided he was behind one of the me­chanical attractions of Boss Larry Zapp’s amusement park.

Ryan made his way around to the front, seeing a fallen mass of painted metal. Some cables were still attached, spiderlike, to a scaffolding above. The ride looked small, like a thrill-cart adventure that spun in a tight circle for the thrill junkie.

He gave a tuneless whistle, and the rest of the group joined him.

“I’d say the baron’s place is closed for the sea­son,” Mildred said.

Ryan was about to agree with her assessment when a new complication presented itself. He inwardly cursed himself for not being more thorough in his initial check of the area.

“I remember you,” an unfamiliar leathery voice said from behind Ryan’s left ear. “I remember you all.”

Chapter Seven