James Axler – Watersleep

Mildred was a leading expert in the field of cryo­genics by the time she was in her early thirties. A few short years later, she was admitted to the hospital for a routine operation three days before the advent of the year 2001. During the surgery, the anesthetic trig­gered a near fatal reaction. To save her life, the phy­sicians used Mildred’s own experimental techniques to freeze and place the woman into suspended ani­mation, where she had remained until Ryan and the others found and awakened her. Surprisingly the cryonic process had reversed the negative effects of the anesthetic.

The constellation game was interrupted when the first signs of the storm arrived in the slender form of Krysty, who had been unable to continue sleeping be­low.

“Air’s wrong,” she said quietly, stepping into Ryan’s arms. “There’s a storm coming. A bad one.”

Ryan was dubious, as the night sky was cloud free.

But he knew from past experience not to dismiss any of Krysty’s feelings. Her exterior might reveal noth­ing more than a tall, strikingly beautiful woman, but what lurked behind her intelligent emerald eyes was more than human.

Nothing was ever what it seemed to be in Deathlands, and Krysty was living proof.

Krysty Wroth was a mutant. One of her powers was the empathic ability to sense danger, whether from man or nature. Her vibrant mane of fiery red hair was the outward manifestation of this power, stirring, curl­ing, moving as if it were a separate, sentient organism as she became entranced with the vision of a pre­monition.

It was a handy ability that had saved their lives more than once.

“Let me take a look, see what the instruments say,” Ryan said to her.

He walked over and checked the old-style brass barometer mounted on the exterior bulkhead, tapped the glass and frowned. The needle was showing 25.5 inches of mercury. Krysty was right. Between the needle’s drop and the stillness in the air, even a lander like Ryan knew they were in for a bad spell.

“Oh, dear,” came Doc’s voice from behind. The old man’s curiosity had gotten the best of him when he noticed Ryan checking the barometer. “That does not look good at all, my friend.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Ryan said. “And we don’t have time enough to turn back.”

THE PARTY BROKE UP quickly after that. Jak was awakened and given the bad news. The good feelings shared quickly dissolved into the tension of worry with the discovery of the upcoming storm.

“I knew this peaceful scene was too good to last,” Mildred said, her voice bittersweet. She hugged J.B. tightly before heading down below.

Doc, Jak, Dean and Krysty followed, all staying close to the handrail along the passageway. Already the seas were becoming choppy.

“Why do we have to slink down here?” Dean asked. “Hiding out like a bunch of scared night stalk­ers at sunrise.”

“Don’t let your father hear you talking like that,” Krysty said, her keen ears picking up on Dean’s monologue. “He’s doing the right thing.”

“Why isn’t he coming, then?”

“Ryan knows if we’re below, we’re safe. He doesn’t have to worry about anyone being thrown overboard or hit by lightning or falling down on the deck and breaking a leg. This way, he can fully focus on keeping us on course.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right, Krysty,” Dean said as he sat down on a wall bunk. “Still sucks, though.”

“I must stress even at this early juncture that your slang is most vile, young Cawdor, but I have to agree. This does indeed suck,” Doc said weakly.

“Doc, you look even paler than usual,” Mildred said. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Dr. Wyeth. Put away your medical bag.”

“You’ve been acting funny since we came on board. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were—”

“Seasick,” Jak interrupted with a snicker of delight. “Right, Doc?”

“Affirmative.” Doc stumbled over and sat down on a folding chair. Both man and chair wobbled as the boat encountered choppier waters.

“Glass stomach’s bad,” Jak said. “Worse than jumping.”

“As you might recall, young Lauren, I am usually not the only one stricken during our mat-trans excur­sions,” Doc said tightly, rubbing his stomach.