James Axler – Watersleep

Most of the people seemed to be dressed in similar loose-fitting jumpsuits.

“What kind of ville is this?” Dean asked, cocking his head in a quizzical fashion.

“Not a ville. It’s a commune,” a woman retorted. “What you see is what you get, so don’t go shooting off those blasters or trying to push people around. Mind your business like everyone else is doing, you’re welcome to stay.”

“A commune, you say? So, where are the flowers in your hair, madam?” Doc asked.

“Haven’t worn flowers in years, but it’s a nice sen­timent. I’m Shauna Watson. I run the place, such as it is.”

“Ryan Cawdor,” Ryan replied. “This here’s my boy, Dean. The older man is Doc Tanner. J. B. Dix is on his right. The lady’s Dr. Mildred Wyeth.”

Shauna Watson looked to be about forty years old. Her thick black hair was cut painfully short to the scalp. Blue eyes, the same color as the blades of the windmill the companions had first seen, were set in a tanned face. Freckles dotted the bridge of her pug nose. She’d been cute, once—that much could be seen. Now, approaching middle age had taken a new spin, giving her an elfin, gamine quality she’d carry to her grave.

Like the others in her commune, she was wearing a one-piece khaki jumpsuit with a zipper running down the length of the front from throat to crotch.

The zipper was open down to the navel, leaving little to the imagination regarding her small yet still firm breasts. The sleeves of the functional attire were rolled up high on her upper arms, revealing veined biceps. Shauna wasn’t a woman used to sitting back and letting others do the work. Knee-high boots with a flat heel and a wide utility-type work belt completed the ensemble.

“Two doctors?” Shauna said, looking at Doc and Mildred. “We could use a physician.”

“Only one to choose from, I’m afraid,” Doc in­terjected, having returned to his usual demeanor once more. “I am a doctor of letters. My colleague is the general practitioner.”

“Got a little girl broke her arm just yesterday. I’ve tried to set up a temporary splint, but I’m no medic. Would you mind?”

“Not at all, but I’ve got to get some kind of nour­ishment in my stomach,” Mildred said. “The shape I’m in right now, I wouldn’t be much help to any­body.”

“Fair enough. We can get together some food while your party washes up.” Her gaze fell to the holster of Ryan’s SIG-Sauer, as well as the other hardware the group was carrying.

“What is the story behind the blasters? You and your group are packing enough heat to burn down my entire place here without even emptying the clips.”

“Protection,” Ryan said. “The only man without a blaster these days is a dead one.”

“You free-lancing for Poseidon? Doing merc work?”

“No. We don’t even know who Poseidon is,” Ryan said.

“One of the men when we first obtained our vessel mentioned a Lord Poseidon,” Doc said. “They mock­ingly called themselves disciples.”

Shauna snorted. “Calling himself a lord now, is he? Guess it’s a good a title as any. Yeah, Lord Po­seidon is a real piece of work, showing up here all the time and bleeding us dry. Bastard. No naval ves­sels can enter this part of the coast without his say-so.”

“We did—” Mildred began to say, and stopped.

“Yeah, and then you found out the hard way about his paranoid little piece of the world,” Shauna added. “The Admiral doesn’t like surprises. He’s the one who blew your boat out from under you.”

Ryan’s eye narrowed. “He’s the one who caused the accident?”

“Unless you had a chart with the locations of the mines.”

Ryan felt like he’d just been knifed in the stomach and gutted up to his chin. The sensation was a mix of pleasure and pain. The mine that had wrecked the Patch had a source, and the source’s name was Po­seidon. His hand shot out and grabbed Shauna by the upper arm, pulling her close to him.

“I have a debt to settle with your Admiral,” he grated.

“Don’t we all?” a new voice said from the nearby tent. The group turned and saw not a person, but the twin barrels of a shotgun sticking out of a window flap. “Let the lady go, One-eye, and we’ll give you all the dope you need to know about Poseidon. Be­lieve me, we don’t exactly care for the son of a bitch, either.”