“She’s…gone,” a pirate whispered, staring at the flotsam sinking into the churning ocean. The surface was littered with bits and pieces, most of them sinking as they became waterlogged.
“We’re trapped,” another snarled, raising his blaster.
“Then we take this ship!” a bald pirate shouted, and the desperate men charged the wounded defenders.
Lying on the deck, Ryan emptied his blaster at the pirates, chilling two more before they were past him and charging the others. They clearly wanted no part of the raven-haired man with the battle-scarred face and a working blaster.
The two groups converged, each choosing a person to fight. A single blaster roared, and then it was swords, axes and knives in total bloody chaos, the individual screams and curses mixing into the muted roar of mob warfare.
Weapon in hand, Ryan couldn’t find anybody to chill. The people were so well mixed the Deathlands warrior would only ace the sailors he’d promised to protect. Then he noticed a movement out of the corner of his good eye, and saw a chance.
“Crew of the Connie.'” he bellowed. “Hit the deck!”
The private name of the ship caught their attention, then sailors and girls reluctantly did as ordered. The pirates stood above the supine crew, confused by the sudden halt to the battle.
“Ya surrendering?” a burly man asked.
In reply, J.B. triggered the Uzi from a hatchway. On full-auto, the stuttering stream of 9 mm Parabellum rounds tore through the stationary men, mowing them down. Slapping in his last clip, Ryan started to fire, and the rest of the companions cut loose with their weapons. Then thunder was heard above the crackle of gunfire, and Doc appeared at a hatchway recklessly fanning the LeMat, the barrage of .44 mini-halls slamming through one pirate and chilling the one behind him. Then Dean was at his side, the sleek Browning steadily banging.
Caught in the withering cross fire, the pirates were slaughtered and soon the last man fell, bleeding from a dozen wounds. An odd peace reigned over the bedraggled vessel, the crackling of the burning pirate ship the only sound.
“Any more?” a girl asked, struggling to her feet. There was a blistered wound on her thigh from a blaster that missed, a bad slash across her bare shoulder, but the ax in her grip was smeared with red blood and pinkish brains.
“We beat them,” a sailor said in disbelief. Then he shouted, “We beat them!”
Standing amid the score of dead, the rest of the survivors raggedly cheered.
“Outlanders did,” Abagail retorted weakly. “Took ya long enough.”
Ryan started to hotly reply when he was cut off by the captain.
“Shut the fuck up, everybody,” Jones commanded, holding his side. With every breath, he could feel the broken bones grind against each other. “Somebody go check the starboard hull!”
As he was the closest, Ryan went to the railing and glanced over the side. Then cursed. There were several large holes in the side of the ship below the waterline, the waves flowing into the hold, barrels and wicker baskets floating out in a yellowish cloud.
“We’ve been damaged,” he reported, now noticing that the deck was listing slightly, spent brass and other small loose items starting to slide across the planks.
Favoring a leg, Jones hobbled over to the railing and studied the damage. “Can’t patch that,” he announced bitterly. “The ribs of the Connie are busted clean through. Bastard shrapnel from the explosion. Must have been hit by one of their cannons, maybe a couple. Nuking hell!”
“Orders, sir?” Daniels asked after a few moments. He had waited for O’Malley to ask, but then recalled that he was pilot and chief of the crew now.
Silently Captain Jones looked over the valiant craft, every plank, every rope known to him. There wasn’t an inch of the vessel he hadn’t stood watch on, helped repair or scrubbed clean.
“Abandon ship,” he said softly.
Chapter Eleven
The sky was slowly turning purple with the approach of night, the ever present storm clouds thinning enough to allow the moon and stars to shine upon the small tropical island.
At the lee of a wide smooth beach was a crude dock of tree trunks and piles of stone. Beyond was a ramshackle ville, its protective wall live bamboo woven with tree vines. A living barrier with lovely blossoms on the outside, hell flowers that spit deadly spores and pulsed with acid-based sap.