Chapter Nine.

Mindless miles of flat swampland stretched before the companions. In hard labor the slow hours passed, noon coming and going as they trod the sticky mud. The raft floated through the salty water, only occasionally catching on sandbars and submerged tree trunks. Rumbling storm clouds offered scant protection from the sun, and soon the swamp was steaming from the heat, sweat pouring off their bodies. Everybody stripped down as far as they dared, the bare necessities being boots and gun belts, although J.B. clung to his fedora and Mildred her med kit. Fat mosquitoes buzzed about them constantly, stealing sips of their blood until Ryan opened the fuel can and splashed some about as cologne. After that, they were left alone with the flies and the itching bites.

The barge poles hadn't been found, and none of the local trees were of any use, so Doc was on the point position, testing the unseen ground ahead of them with his swordstick. A rope was tied around his waist as a precaution, and twice he dropped into sink holes and had to be dragged back to the surface.

"I have had fun before," Doc muttered, stabbing the water and taking another step forward, "and this is not it."

"Could be worse," Mildred grunted, both hands holding tight to the rope over her shoulder. The physician had removed her damp pants and tied her shirttails in a knot between her breasts so she could take off her sports bra. Support wasn't an issue here; the temperature was. Winter in Virginia, summer in Carolina, how had any people survived when skydark destroyed the weather patterns of the world this much?

"Worse? Hades only has nine levels, madam," Doc reminded her, a half smile growing in spite of himself. He stabbed more water and found the ground acceptable. "And this would be five, or six?"

"No more than four, surely."

Holding tightly on to the wet rope over his shoulder, Ryan leaned into the task of hauling the raft. Privately, he appreciated the banter. It helped relive the boredom of the endless walking.

Just then, something bawled across the swampland, the noise echoing into the distance to be answered by another of the same.

"Gator," Jak stated, dropping the rope and drawing his Colt Python. "Stay sharp. They fast."

Checking the draw on the SIG-Sauer, Ryan heard the harsh breathing of some of the companions and decided he was pushing them too hard.

"Ten-minute break," he announced. "One sip of water each. If you've got to use a bush, go in pairs."

"Rather have some more gasoline," Krysty said angrily, slapping at a fly that landed on her bare arm. Her respect and love for life didn't quite extend to the creatures that feasted on her blood. She kept her pants on, as none of her underwear was dry enough to wear, and removed her thick shirt. The bra she had found in the California redoubt was thin lace and kept her cool enough, even if the underwire did itch a bit.

"I'll get it," Dean offered. Releasing the rope, he disappeared under the hot canvas to reappear with the fuel can.

"Pretty low," he stated, unscrewing the cap.

Krysty cupped her hands, and the boy poured her a small splash.

J.B. stepped out of the muck onto the raft and pulled out his telescope. Extending the tube to its maximum length, he swept the horizon ahead of them.

"Could be land to the northwest," he said, adjusting the focus. "Yeah, that's green trees, pines and oak, which means dry land. Salt water would kill those."

"Distance," Ryan asked, removing the bandanna around his forehead and wringing it dry.

J.B. tucked the scope into his munitions bag. "Five miles, mebbe less."

"Excellent." Doc exhaled, spitting on his chapped hands and rubbing them together. "Under a spreading chestnut tree, the Deathlands warrior stands..."

"Stop misquoting, Longfellow," Mildred snorted, spreading some grease on her

lips from a small tin box. The bearings were still in the tires under the raft, the old grease a soothing balm for the thirsty people.

Doc arched a silvery eyebrow. "Laughter is the best medicine, madam."

"Tell that to a person with rad poisoning."

"Cynic."

"Old coot."

With a warning shout, Krysty fired her blaster, the S&W .38 booming in the eerie stillness of the Carolina swamp. The others spun about, weapons searching for danger.

"Sorry," she apologized, mopping the sweat off her brow. "Thought I saw something move in the water."

Fanning himself with the hat, J.B. squinted. "Just a log."

"No, it isn't," Ryan said, wading around the raft. Drawing his panga, he stabbed the log and lifted it out of the muck. There were eyes and teeth. He twisted the blade, and the body dropped back into the swamp and sank from sight.

"A mutie snake," he stated, sheathing the blade. "Bastard bushmaster. Poisonous. Nice shooting."

"Thanks."

J.B. sneezed loudly.

The companions turned fast, their weapons level.

"We have company," the Armorer said, sliding the Uzi off his shoulder.

A humanoid being stood thirty feet away from them. It was dressed in tight

clothing with most of its hairless body exposed. Tools hung off a net vest, and a sleek metal helmet covered its head, three red eyes staring out from the dark interior. The warrior was holding a long bamboo spear, tipped with a mirror-bright steel blade. Minutes passed in silence.

"Greetings," Ryan said in an even tone. The SIG-Sauer was in his hand, but not pointing at the mutie.The swamp dweller tilted its head and clicked loudly.Surprisingly, Jak tried French. "Parlez vous fran-gais?"The being craned its head forward on a long neck and clicked some more, then pointed its spear to the south, then the north.

"No farther," Krysty translated, her hair waving nervously about. "He's claiming the rest of the swamp."

Surreptitiously, Dean moved his hand to the grip of his blaster. Instantly, the mutie leveled his spear, two hands gripping the shaft as if braced against a recoil.

"It's a distance weapon of some kind," J.B. said, working the bolt on his Uzi.

"Everybody relax and put the blasters away," Ryan ordered, stepping between the mutie and the others. "Trader always used to say that it was easier to make deals than bullets. He hasn't attacked yet, and we all know he had the element of surprise."

"We are headed for the land," Ryan said slowly, in case the creature could understand. This swamp was close to Georgia, and they once found a race of underwater muties there called Dwellers. They had trouble speaking, but easily understood human speech.

"Doesn't look anything like a Dweller," Mildred noted.

The creature clicked at Ryan and dropped its spear into the water. Finally understanding, Ryan slid the Steyr off his shoulder and hung it back on upside down, then he drew his blaster and dropped it on the deck of the raft. Empty-handed, the two stood face-to-face, then the creature clicked again and stepped aside.

"Thanks," Ryan said honestly. "Much appreciated."

The mutie clicked once loudly, then sank below the water, hardly making a splash or a ripple.

"Fascinating," Doc said, and walking forward he probed the swamp with his stick. The ebony shaft hit mud until he reached the spot where the mutie had been standing. There was no detectable ground there. Deciding to test the depth, he found it was beyond the limit of his stick and arm combined.

"This is the end of the swamp," Doc stated, wiping off his stick on a damp handkerchief. "We've reached deep water. Mayhap a lake, or even the original river of this area before the nukes reshaped the landscape."

Swatting at flies, Ryan studied the raft. "I think we lost enough supplies that it'll float with all of us on board."

"Only one way to find out," J.B. said with a grin, dropping his rope.

Pushing the raft ahead of them, the companions trod water until no longer able to touch bottom. Carefully, they climbed onto the craft and saw that the salty water washed over the logs, but they stayed afloat.

"Some of us could swim alongside," Dean suggested, precariously balanced on the very edge of the raft.

Harshly, Ryan vetoed that idea. "Everybody stays on board. There could be anything swimming around down below."

"Bullets can't go very far through water," J.B. commented. "Nothing can, really."

"So we move fast," Ryan stated. "J.B., use your shotgun. I'll use the Steyr."

The Armorer stared at the water with scorn. "I guess we have to."

Going to opposite sides of the raft, the men flipped their longblasters over and started using the wooden stocks as oars, steadily stroking in unison. The others kept watch as the men slowly paddled away from the swamp and into the hidden sea. Despite the crudeness of the oars, they soon built up a good speed, and the dot of greenery expanded to a wide strip. Soon they could discern a faint smell of living plants.

"Land," Krysty said, sighing. "I'll cook dinner if somebody else gets the wood."

"A deal, dear lady," Doc said. "Chopping wood will be a delight after dragging the Cornucopia through mud for ten miles."

"But, once we get to dry land," Dean said, "this raft will be useless. Too bad there isn't some way to keep the cargo with us. I like having enough to eat and spare ammo."

"Too true, lad," Doc rumbled.

"Got three wheels," Jak suggested, thumping the bottom of the raft.

Paddling in easy strokes, J.B. chewed the inside of his cheek, "Yeah, mebbe. If there's enough wood, we could make a cart and roll the stuff along. But we'd be traveling slower than shit in winter."

"Better dump the excess, and only take what we can carry," Ryan decided, muscles rippling in his powerful arms as he pulled the blaster through the water. Thankfully, the Steyr had a plastic stock, but J.B. was doing irreparable harm to the tiger wood of his scattergun. "If we travel too slowly, the blue shirts will find us, rather than the other way around, and they have too many advantages as it is."

Resting his back against the canvas mound, Doc barked a bitter laugh. "Too much ammunition. I daresay this is a problem we have never faced before."

"Hush," Mildred said urgently, staring into the murky depths. "I saw a disturbance underwater."

"Snake?" Jak asked, drawing his blaster.

"Could be."

Ryan and J.B. continued paddling, but watched the surface of the water carefully for any unusual movements.

Suddenly, a hundred of the beings resembling the humanoid they had encountered earlier silently rose from the water, completely surrounding the raft and its startled occupants. Each was armed with a long spear and what seemed to be a needle-thin knife made out of intricately carved bone.

"It's a trap!" J.B. shouted, hefting the shotgun and pumping a round into the chamber. But before he could act, the strange beings turned their backs on the humans, forming a line around the raft, their bamboo spears leveled as if for battle.

"What the-? They're here to protect us," the Armorer said in realization, lowering the scattergun.

"We do have permission to be here," Ryan noted, placing the Steyr on his lap.

"Protect us from what?" Mildred demanded suspiciously. Few folks these days knew the word honor, and even fewer obeyed its simple rules.

"Look there!" Krysty pointed. Something large was moving through the lake, coming straight toward the raft, the water foaming white in its wake.

The mutie from the swamp rose into view as smoothly as if it were riding an elevator. Excited, the creature waved its arms and gestured at the land, clicking so fast the noise was like a stick dragged across a picket fence.

"Thanks again," Ryan said with unaccustomed feeling. "Okay, move with a purpose, people! We've got to get to land if there's going to be trouble!"

Ryan and J.B. put their backs into stroking, and the rest of the companions started paddling with their bare hands.

"Mebbe we should stay and help," Dean suggested, bent at his task.

"Too vulnerable out here," his father barked. "On land, we can offer them assistance. But out here, we're only a liability, making them protect two things."

The boy nodded in understanding and redoubled his efforts.

With excruciating slowness, they gradually pulled away from the line of clicking beings when the raft violently shook as if it struck a rock. For a heartbeat, the companions thought that's all it was, just a rock. Then the tiny craft heaved upward, going higher and higher to finally flip over and spill them overboard.

Desperately holding his breath, Ryan grabbed the sinking Steyr before it got out of reach and started for the surface. Stroking with one arm, he got a brief ; glimpse of a dark shape moving among them at incredible speed. Whatever their attacker was, it wasn't one of their guardians or a rock. A submarine? '

Reaching the surface, Ryan caught his breath and saw that the raft was destroyed. The logs were smashed and floating away freely, the thick chains snapped apart, the precious supplies sinking to the depths below.

"Gator!" Jak shouted, splashing around, a knife in his hand.

Kicking to stay afloat, Ryan looked at the dry land so terribly far away. "Back to the swamp!" he shouted, and started swimming in that direction.

With every kick, every stroke, the man waited to feel the crushing bite of the alligator seizing a limb. But he reached the muddy banks alive and struggled into the knee-deep water. The others were only seconds behind, and the companions moved away from the invisible border and checked their weapons.

"Everybody here?" Ryan demanded, working the bolt on the Steyr.

"Looks like," J.B. announced, cleaning the droplets off his glasses. "Dark night, was that a gator? The bastard thing must have been over thirty feet long!"

"Seen bigger," Jak commented, shaking the excess moisture out of his Colt Python.