Haven's Blight. James Axler
my man up there,” she snarled. “And I know how to shoot.”
She aimed at the nearest monster, a mound twenty feet long and almost ten broad, heading toward the port stern of the stalled Hope. She triggered a short blast. Spray flashed from the wide back. Another burst. With a steam-whistle wail the monster slid below the pool’s greasy surface.
Bleeding from deep gashes generated by Ryan’s panga, the first monster reared up from the Hope’s bow. The movement tossed Jak away like a watermelon seed. But the albino youth had sensed its muscles bunching and read the beast’s intent. As it snapped its vast bulk up he sprang, using its motion to hurl himself up into the rigging of the Hope’s foremast. He caught the mast one-handed, like a monkey on one guyline, then planted his feet on another.
Ryan had stuck his big knife back in its sheath and was retrieving his Steyr rifle from the deck where he’d laid it. As lethal as the big scoped bolt-action was at range, it was a liability in a close-in fight.
Krysty fired another burst at a monster closing in on the Hope’s midship from the left. As her ears rang from the Browning’s roar, she heard a snarl and a curtain of pink-tinged spray shot upward from the beast’s back. Stork had apparently hand-cranked his Gatling around to bear.
He also got a touch too enthusiastic. Krysty’s heart leaped into her throat as Ryan dived aft to avoid the burst of bullets that raked across the Hope’s prow. She heard Smoker, the Finagle’s black, burly and bearded captain, roaring angrily at the Gatling gunner as the squat steamboat passed between Egret and her stricken comrade.
A multichambered thunderclap from right behind Krysty made her duck her head instinctively. She spun to see Isis three feet behind her, a thin trail of blue smoke unspoiled from the muzzle brake of the BAR she’d just fired. Another fat tail like a giant beaver’s paddle was just vanishing into a roil of water.
“Don’t forget it’s this ship you’re mainly supposed to be protecting,” the long, lean woman said. She sounded neither reproachful nor excited, just matter-of-fact, as always. There was a reason her crew called her “Ice.”
Krysty nodded. For a few moments she concentrated wholly on shooting at any of the great gray shapes that presented itself, always keeping mindful of what lay behind them, as Ryan had taught her. No point in trying to help your friends if you chilled them yourself with your own blasterfire.
She burned through three of the 20-round magazines so fast they might have been strings of firecrackers. Though she also knew to shoot in short bursts the long black barrel quickly grew so hot the heat shimmer interfered with her sighting. Even on such gigantic targets.
“Give it a rest,” Isis suggested from right beside her. So focused had she become on her own shooting Krysty had been all but oblivious to the roar of the tall, lean woman’s own big Browning, and the muzzle-blasts that buffeted her like a stiff wind. “We don’t want to burn out the barrel. Or even have to take time to swap it out.”
Krysty nodded. She looked around. The Finagle was running back on a reciprocal course along their starboard side. Before view of any of the steam craft but its stacks and radio masts vanished behind the Egret’s cabin, Krysty saw Stork with his Gatling swiveling and blasting away as fast as his long, wiry legs could revolve the barrels.
Beyond the wake the steam boat left in the black water, topped with yellow foam, an object like an overturned whaleboat floated to the surface near the reeds of the far bank of the little lake. Red streamed down its blubbery sides. It was clearly dead.
But the death of one of their own only redoubled the aquatic muties’ fury. The Egret was suddenly torqued counterclockwise by simultaneous impacts at bow and stern.
Krysty heard Isis’s teeth grind. “Dammit!” the captain groaned as if in sympathy to the noises of the tortured hull. “Even if we wound the monsters fatally, most won’t die quick enough to help.”
Despite the fact she could still feel the heat from her BAR barrel on her skin, Krysty had to shoulder the heavy longblaster and open up again. She fired toward the port quarter, where a monster was charging, attempting to ram again. Some of the Egret’s crew joined in with fancy compound bows and crossbows, feathering the animal’s back like an elongated seagoing porcupine. Krysty’s powerful .30-06 slugs literally ripped bloody chunks out of the broad back.
The creature submerged before it struck, and Krysty staggered as the deck lurched beneath her bootsoles. The beast had clearly slammed against the keel in passing below, trying to break Egret’s back or turn her turtle.
Instead a huge basso roar of agony vibrated up through the very timbers of the former yacht. The mutie had succeeded in driving some of the arrows stuck in its hide deeper by hitting the boat. It was clearly in great pain.
As she popped another empty magazine from the BAR’s well and stooped to grab a new one from the rapidly dwindling stock in the messenger bag Isis had dropped at her feet, Krysty grimaced.
“I hate the thought of wounding them without killing them.” She was untroubled by killing when it was needful. To eat, or to prevent whatever you were chilling from chilling you—man or beast. But she deplored wanton killing.
And she abhorred cruelty. She’d seen more than enough of it, known her share of it. That was one of the reasons she loved Ryan as she did: he was never cruel, never inflicted pain for its own sake.
“Me, too,” Mildred said.
She had gone green. Despite the blood dripping from the gauze she’d hastily tied around her wounded thumb, she had kept up the fight. She was clumsily jamming a fresh 8-round spring clip into the top of her M-1 receiver, impaired by her wound.
“The Deathlands just seem to find something awful to throw at you every single day.”
A shout from the bow made Krysty look. The water around the Hope seemed to boil. As she watched in horror a mutie with a good head start rammed its blunt head into the rotor-ship’s hull just aft of the bowsprit.
She heard the crunch as wooden planks gave way.
Then she tensed as Ryan went over the rail, right on top of the gray back.
But the man hadn’t been knocked overboard to his death. Or at least he wasn’t giving in to Death. In an instant he had jumped up to stand with boots planted wide on the monstrous back, holding the panga with its long, heavy blade downward, both hands wrapped around the grip.
An enormous single-fluked tail whipped up out of the water as he plunged the blade almost to his hands in the creature’s flesh. A cascade of water surged over Ryan, momentarily hiding him from sight. Krysty’s heart almost stopped beating.
But the waters receded and she saw him still there, ripping his panga free, leaving a trail of gore in the heavy humid air as he cocked the weapon over his head again. She realized the splash had been produced by a reflex reaction to the pain of having the knife bite deep, more than any attempt to wash him off. Though she could barely believe it hadn’t, so violent had the wash of stinking dark-stained water been.
Three times more Ryan plunged his panga into the horror’s back. The beast backed away from the hole it had stove in the Hope’s hull. Its big blunt head snapped up, venting a squealing roar of pain and fury.
It dived with breathtaking speed. But like Jak, Ryan felt the creature’s muscles bunch in preparation. Clutching the panga in his teeth, he threw himself toward the rail of the damaged boat, flinging out a hand.
His fingers reached just short of the rail. Then a bone-white hand gripped his wrist, his other hand clamping on Jak’s wrist. Ryan’s boots thumped into the white hull. A moment later he was clambering over the rail, helped by a dozen hands, which shortly were clapping him on the back.
“Whew,” Mildred said explosively.
Krysty let loose the breath she’d unconsciously been holding, as well. “That man just doesn’t do anything that isn’t heart-stopping, does he?”
But Ryan