Deathlands 118: Blood Red Tide (20 page)

“Smith Model 25, .45 caliber. You’ve got six shots. Just put the front sight on the enemy’s chest and squeeze. When we get back, have J.B. tune it up for you.”

Strawmaker made a face, but he went to the table and picked up the blaster.

The tool chest, radios, computer and tech, the highly suspect meds, the two generators, candles, kerosene, gasoline, lanterns, cots and linens were all earmarked for the ship. Ryan looked over at Doc. The old man was in a corner by a small writing desk and a shelf of books. He perused the volumes with interest. Ryan checked the ring of keys. He’d raided many a predark house and recognized keys by size and function. He pulled off a small brass one and tossed it. “Doc. Desk.”

Doc looked up and caught the key with his fencer’s reflexes. “Ah, of course.”

The old man opened a drawer. “Oh my.”

The shore party looked over. “What?” Ryan asked.

“Pornography.”

Ryan and Jak knew what porno was. So did Hardstone.

“What kind?” the sailor asked.

Doc sighed and began slapping down old ’zines.
“Oui, Juggs, Hustler.”
Doc squinted at one in shock. “Hardcore Lithuanian, lactating, unwed lesbian—”

Hardstone lunged. “Dibs!”

Doc opened another drawer. “Oh my stars and garters!”

Ryan read the look of shock and pleasure on Doc’s face. “What?”

Doc pulled out a clear bottle with an orange label and filled with amber-colored liquid. Miss Loral pointed a finger. “All spirituous liquor is to be handed over to the purser once aboard ship, Doc! You know the creed and you know the code.”

It was a rare thing to see bemused defiance on Doc’s face. “But First Mate, are we not still ashore?”

“What are you saying, Doc?”

Skillet stormed forward with his thick fingers through the handles of a set of teacups. “He’s saying he’ll share his loot with his shore mates and let’s us have a tot against the cold!”

“That is exactly what I am saying, friend Skillet.”

“I don’t drink.” Miss Loral raised an eyebrow at Ryan. “And you’re acting shore commander.”

Ryan eyed the bottle. As loot, predark booze ranged from pure pleasure to gut-busting horror. “What is it?”

Doc caressed the bottle with pleasure. “Why, it is a ten-year-old Glenmorangie single-malt whisky.”

Jak made a noise. “Be least hun’erd.”

“It was ten years aging in the cask, dear Jak, and then bottled at its finest. Though many spoke of the twelve and eighteen year olds with deserved reverence.”

Jak eyed the bottle. “Still good?”

Doc gave a rare deep smile as he cracked the bottle and expertly poured two fingers in each cup. “I believe it should be nearly immortal and fit for one.” Several frowns met him as he cracked his water bottle and gave each cup a splash. The crew did not want their grog watered while ashore. “I beg of you to trust me—if you have not had scotch before, it is a great aid in discerning the subtleties.”

Hardstone snorted. “I’ve had corn whiskey, Doc. Back in the Deathlands, in the hill villes, deep southeast. Ville stilled. Wasn’t much fine, fit or subtle about it, ’cept its power to crack a man’s skull. I’ll give it that.”

Ryan had too, but he knew Doc was in his element.

“Oh, good Hardstone.” Doc smiled. “Many a man has crawled into a jar of whiskey and never returned, but now, a man who drinks scotch is as different as is his choice of drink. He rarely if ever drinks it simply to get drunk. Good Scotch was expensive back in the day. In my experience, a man opened a bottle of scotch at the birth of a child or at another great, portentous event. It was an accompaniment to fine reading, fine conversation or contemplation. You might pour a splash for a friend who came to you with his troubles, or enjoy a dram after a fine meal with a cigar and bosom companions. It was salutary, celebratory. Many believed that Scottish whisky was the penultimate form of the distiller’s art. The techniques derived over untold centuries of trial and error, from that first clear liquid the ancient Celts called
uisce beatha,
the water of life.”

The shore party stared at Doc in awe.

Doc raised his teacup. “And I can think of no better fate for this fine bottle than to be shared with my shipmates.”

Strawmaker was openly moved and raised his mug.
“¡Salud, amigo!”

The shore party clinked cups. “Salute!”

Jak snapped his back, gave one short hard cough and licked his lips. “Good.”

Doc deliberately unbunched his brows and poured Jak another dram.

Ryan sipped his. It had been a while since Ryan had gotten drunk. His friends’ lives depended on him too much. But he did enjoy a good drink, or even a bad one in his few moments of leisure. He felt the burn and let the flavors play across his tongue. A small, nostalgic corner of his heart yearned for a better past he had never known. Ryan knew without a doubt he tasted it now. “Thanks, Doc.”

“You are welcome, my dear Ryan. Scotch was born to be shared with friends.”

Manrape called down the staircase. “Company, ma’am!”

Ryan was leader of the shore party, but he let it slide for the moment. “Everyone stay down here! Miss Loral?” Ryan and Loral strode up out of the quarantined time capsule. Manrape had his shotgun to shoulder. Ryan snapped out his longeyes and observed the armed convoy staring down at them along the hill line.

“Strawmaker! Get up here!”

Chapter Eighteen

Ryan counted more than two score of gaucho bird riders. Each had a lance resting in a stirrup cup, and each had a blaster across his saddle bow as well as a bolas, a whip and the ubiquitous giant Argentine knife. Each gaucho also had a spare bird tethered behind him. The gauchos were eyeing Ryan, Manrape, Miss Loral and Strawmaker with a great deal of interest. Several had binoculars. They had two wags drawn by oxen laden with supplies. Ryan scowled at the twenty men linked by forked boughs of wood bound to their necks in a coffle. They were tall, and all had long black hair. They wore little besides ponchos and tattoos, and most were hobbling on bloody bare feet. Behind the wags a number of gauchos herded what looked to be fifty creatures that to Ryan’s eye looked like a cross between a camel and a goat. “Slavers?”

“
Si,
Ryan. You might loosely cut this country into north and south, pampas and Patagonia. The north?
Ranchos, estancias
and
plantacións
. It is a place of ñandús and cows. The south? Hotter in summer and colder in winter. Nearly a desert. It is hard, dry country. The people are, how would you say, semi-nomadic? They are horsemen, and hunt the wild boars, the ñandú’s smaller cousin, and herd scrub cattle and guanacos.”

Ryan gazed on the giant goat creatures. “They’re like llamas.”

“Very much like a llama,” Strawmaker agreed.

“You said the north preys upon the south.”

“
Si,
Ryan. A horse stands no chance against a ñandú, except that they can live and thrive where the ñandús cannot.” Ryan watched the caravan form a hostile arc on their side of the vale. Gauchos were pointing at Strawmaker. Miss Loral was attracting attention as well.

Ryan frowned. “Manrape, how’d they see you?”

Manrape shrugged carelessly. “I let them.”

Miss Loral’s voice dropped to a hiss. “Bos’n, I will see your spine.”

Ryan very reluctantly came to Manrape’s defense. “I see what he sees.”

“And what is that, Mr. Ryan?”

Ryan stared at the slaves. “Twenty able-bodied men who might prefer to be sailors than slaves. Forty plus sets of capes and winter garments. There’s got to be
maté
in the wagons, and every gaucho is carrying his own personal supply as well. Half a hundred hoofed animals to salt away for the Horn, and their woolen pelts. More ñandú meat than anyone can eat for the next three days before it rots. We need them more than we need anything in that cellar. I say we take both and use their wags to carry it.”

Manrape grinned. “We are of a mind, shore commander.”

“There are lots of them,” Miss Loral observed.

“Si.”
Strawmaker chewed his lip. “And while I am sure Ryan and Manrape have already surmised this, when you fight a gaucho, you must fight him and his bird.”

Ryan scowled as he heard the sound of Doc’s boots at the top of the stairs.

“Hmm,” the old man observed. “Speaking of birds, I believe—”

“Doc...” Ryan grated. “I didn’t ask anyone else to come up. I want our numbers unknown.”

“Oh, bother.” Doc was crestfallen. He’d been doing well at not making mistakes since coming down from the shrouds.

“What do you believe about birds, Doc?” Ryan hoped it was something useful.

Doc pointed at the rear wag. “Oh, well, that fellow, the one riding shotgun, as it were. Notice the birdcage beneath the buckboard and—” The man riding shotgun threw up his hands and a pigeon erupted from between them, flapping hard for lift.

“Ryan, I believe that pigeon is carrying a message, and I strongly believe it is about us.”

Ryan was aware of carrier pigeons, though given what they had to survive once they were released, most people in the Deathlands simply raised them in coops for food.

“Good eye, Doc.” Ryan snapped his Scout longblaster to his shoulder. When he’d first found the weapon in Canada, J.B. had enthused that before skydark it was claimed a good man with a Scout could take a clay pigeon out of the air. Ryan had needed that explained to him, but he’d become deadly adept with the Scout. The pigeon raced across the vale between the two parties. With the forward mounted scope the bird was both a spec in Ryan’s peripheral vision and a well-detailed bird in his reticule. He put his crosshairs on the racing bird and tracked.

Miss Loral made a noise. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Ryan led his target by another hair and squeezed the trigger. The longblaster bucked and the pigeon tumbled in mid-air. The bird’s head fell away as its body tumbled.

“You knocked its head off!” Miss Loral was awestruck. “In flight!”

The slavers regarded this feat of marksmanship with a stony silence. Miss Loral snapped open the stock on her AK and threw the selector lever from safe to semi-auto. “You think that might’ve been enough for them?” The bird riders suddenly fanned out to either side of the vale, taking their tethered birds with them.

“No,” Ryan answered. “They’re circling us.”

“¡Comer!”
the gauchos shouted.
“¡Comer!”

Manrape cocked his head. “They want us to come there?”

“
Comer
means eat,” Strawmaker corrected. “They are talking to the ñandús, and they are talking about us.”

The riders released the tethers of the riderless birds. The ñandús dipped their heads low, and their talons ripped up turf as they streaked down into the vale. The mounted gauchos disappeared into folds in the land. “The spare mounts are meat shields!” Ryan snarled. “The gauchos will be coming in right behind them!”

“Correct, Ryan!” Strawmaker confirmed. “Ammunition is precious here in the south! They want you to waste ammunition! They want to count your guns!”

Ryan was mildly surprised. “They’re willing to waste mounts like that?”

“A ñandú reaches maturation in six months. It is winter. Untold numbers of last spring’s hatchlings are being trained to the saddle in the north as we speak.”

“Down the stairs!” Ryan ordered. “Let them think we’re holing up!”

Ryan liked that the
Glory’s
officers and crew snapped to orders without question. He crouched at the bottom of the stairs and checked the grens he’d been issued. He had five. J.B. had ascertained they were Dutch and had probably been obtained in the Antilles. One was OD green, shaped like a ball and clearly a fragger. Another was shaped like a short, fat, black water bottle and was an offensive gren. The other three were shaped like ancient gray soda cans with flaking red, purple and white paint on the top, indicating a smoke gren. Ryan heard the strange, booming hoots of the riderless ñandús closing in. He yanked the pin on the fragger and the cotter pin pinged away. “Gren!”

Ryan heaved the deadly egg up onto the foundation.

Nothing happened.

Three riderless ñandús craned their scimitar-beaked heads down into the stairway and peered at Ryan.

The one-eyed man yanked the pin on the offensive gren and hurled the bomb. “Gren!”

The birds turned their huge heads to look back at what had been thrown, then returned their attention to Ryan as he stuck his thumbs in his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. The concussion gren went off like a thunderclap. Heat and blast washed down the staircase. Ryan opened his eye and watched the three ñandús collapse with their necks flopping against the sides of the stairwell and their eyes rolling back.

Ryan shouted over the ringing in his ears. “Loral! Manrape! Doc and Strawmaker! With me! Everyone else wait for it!”

The Deathlands warrior charged out of the staircase. Three more ñandús lay smashed onto their sides. About another half dozen on the periphery staggered about in mortal devastation from the blast wave. The rest of the giant ratites streaked out of the vale in all directions at nearly fifty miles per hour. Guachos waved their hats and whistled piercingly. Some of the ñandús stuck out their stub wings and spread their feathers like braking airplanes and started to bank back toward the fight. At the lip of the vale a gaucho with a wider black hat and more silver jack on his belt than the others appeared and swung his bullwhip in a huge arc and cracked it.

Every fleeing ñandú jumped at the sound and turned.

Ryan whipped his longblaster off his shoulder and shot the man out of the saddle. For a moment there was no sound other than the fwap-fwap-fwap of the ñandús’ webbed talons tearing up the soft earth and the echo of the shot. In Ryan’s experience, slavers didn’t like a stand-up fight. They were bushwhackers and night creepers. He’d hoped the death of their leader would send the raiding gauchos into retreat, leaving most of their gear behind. He clenched his teeth as the gauchos screamed in bloodlust. They had flanked the shore party’s position, and now they charged from all directions. The birds that had fled followed their angry flock back into battle by instinct.