Crimson Waters

NUKE SPAWN

Everyone who lives in Deathlands must endure the hellscape of a world mutilated by nukes and madness. Survival is a grim pursuit, achieved only by the most ruthless means. Yet Ryan Cawdor and his companions remain determined to persevere by doing whatever it takes to survive.

DEATH INFESTATION

When a mat-trans malfunction strands Ryan Cawdor and his friends in a gutted redoubt in the West Indies, the crystal waters offer them a tantalizing glimpse of untouched splendor. But the oasis is abruptly shattered by violent and ruthless pirates, and Ryan has to barter with a young guide, a teenage boy on a blood quest against a sadistic local warlord, to navigate a land teeming with predators—mutie, human and animal. The race is on to find a second redoubt, buried deep in the inhospitable heart of Monster Island. As pirates, mutie sec men and monsters converge, the kill zone widens, blood flows...and the group rushes to escape paradise before it destroys them.

Because even paradise has claws in Deathlands.

J.B. raced up the gangplank

He traveled its length in heartbeats, covering left as he sprinted past the cabin, but nobody lay in wait for him. He let the Uzi drop to the end of its sling and waved Mildred to follow from cover.

As she started up the gangplank, J.B. kicked aside the dead pirate sprawled behind the Browning and took his place.

A few seconds passed before Ryan appeared, running flat out, his longblaster slantwise across his chest. As he headed west from the street, a mob of pursuers burst onto the waterfront behind him.

Roaring in triumph, they leveled their blasters at Ryan’s fleeing back.

Crimson Waters

James Axler

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent. The slogan “press on” has solved, and always will solve, the problems of the human race.

—Calvin Coolidge,

30th President of

the United States

THE DEATHLANDS SAGA

This world is their legacy, a world born in the violent nuclear spasm of 2001 that was the bitter outcome of a struggle for global dominance.

There is no real escape from this shockscape where life always hangs in the balance, vulnerable to newly demonic nature, barbarism, lawlessness.

But they are the warrior survivalists, and they endure—in the way of the lion, the hawk and the tiger, true to nature’s heart despite its ruination.

Ryan Cawdor: The privileged son of an East Coast baron. Acquainted with betrayal from a tender age, he is a master of the hard realities.

Krysty Wroth: Harmony ville’s own Titian-haired beauty, a woman with the strength of tempered steel. Her premonitions and Gaia powers have been fostered by her Mother Sonja.

J. B. Dix, the Armorer: Weapons master and Ryan’s close ally, he, too, honed his skills traversing the Deathlands with the legendary Trader.

Doctor Theophilus Tanner: Torn from his family and a gentler life in 1896, Doc has been thrown into a future he couldn’t have imagined.

Dr. Mildred Wyeth: Her father was killed by the Ku Klux Klan, but her fate is not much lighter. Restored from predark cryogenic suspension, she brings twentieth-century healing skills to a nightmare.

Jak Lauren: A true child of the wastelands, reared on adversity, loss and danger, the albino teenager is a fierce fighter and loyal friend.

Dean Cawdor: Ryan’s young son by Sharona accepts the only world he knows, and yet he is the seedling bearing the promise of tomorrow.

In a world where all was lost, they are humanity’s last hope....

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter One

“Smoke!”

The cry penetrated the fog of ache and confusion that enveloped Ryan Cawdor’s brain and body.

“Need go! Now!”

Jak Lauren. He recognized the albino youth’s voice.

Also his urgency. Jak said little, even less than J. B. Dix, the group’s armorer. When he did speak, it was even more to the point.

Ryan made himself sit up. He wobbled. His head spun like a gyroscope. The mat-trans unit swirled with the usual jump mists, but the stench of ozone and burning insulation was cutting through the physical haze as well as that in his brain now. It made his eye water and his stomach feel even worse.

Jump sickness, he thought. The jump had been a rough one. Jumping outside normal space via mat-trans gateway was always a wrenchingly disorienting experience, but it seldom hit him as hard as this one had.

Someone tugged his arm. By sheer iron will he forced himself to move, despite the pain and nausea. He lurched unsteadily to his feet.

Another hand clutched the back of his coat. Before he could get his balance, he felt himself being towed forward. He had to speed-stagger to keep from falling on his face on the hard floor.

He tried to fight off his assistant. “Krysty!” he cried.

His voice came out a croak. Dense brown smoke watered his eye and scorched down his throat like lye.

“I’m fine, Ryan!” he heard her call. Her hoarseness didn’t encourage him to believe she was exactly telling the truth.

But the fact that she was awake and aware enough to respond reassured him. He put a hand down briefly to keep from collapsing despite what he was pretty sure was the wiry strength of Jak—a young man half his size—holding him up. Then he banged his left shoulder on the frame of the six-sided chamber’s door and was out.

At once the air cleared. He fell to his knees, coughing hard enough to bring up a lung. Jak let him go.

When the hacking fit passed he shook his head to clear it, then raised it to look around.

They were in the gateway’s antechamber. A few feet away his redheaded mate, Krysty Wroth, stood with one arm around the shoulders of Mildred Wyeth, helping her keep her feet.

Mildred was a black woman in her late thirties, with hair worn in beaded plaits. She was stocky, but after a few years of hiking across the Deathlands very little of that was fat. Despite Mildred’s weight, Krysty didn’t have much trouble holding her up. Mildred was also a freezie from predark.

Ryan became aware of Jak hovering at his side nervously. “Thanks,” he said to the youth, whose white hair had fallen forward to almost obscure his face. “I’m fit to fight. Help the others.”

“At last you rejoin us, my dear Ryan,” a deep voice said. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

Dr. Theophilus Tanner stood by a darkened bank of camp consoles, looking dapper, and surprisingly hale for a man who normally looked as if he were on his last leg after a jump. A tall stork of a man with silver-white hair hanging down to the collar of his old-time frock coat, he carried a black swordstick with a silver lion’s head.

His head still feeling as if it might go spinning off his shoulders at any moment, Ryan looked back at the mat-trans. The walls of the chamber were made of armaglass tinted a dull, nasty-looking mustard color. Smoke of a similar but darker hue still snaked out into the antechamber of the redoubt that housed the mat-trans.

“Not good,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

“What do we have here?” Doc asked.

“Looks like a map,” J.B. said. He was a little banty rooster of a man, in a battered, dusty bomber jacket, steel-framed specs and a fedora. In addition to being the group’s armorer and general gadget master, he was also Ryan Cawdor’s oldest and best friend.

It was a map, Ryan saw. Or at least part of one, anyway, hung on a sheet of particle board that showed a mess of holes. Some were small and precisely round. Others were more irregular.

“Somebody blasted the map for some reason,” J.B. said. “Bullets ricocheted off the wall behind. They tumbled and deformed. That’s why the funny holes.”

“Maybe it wasn’t the map they were shooting at,” Mildred said. “Maybe there was somebody standing in front of it at the time.”

J.B. shrugged. “Triple-stupe idea, either way. The ricochets were as like to chill the shooters as whoever they were shooting at.”

“From the scrap of map,” Doc said, reaching up to almost touch the faded colors of the paper with the tip of a finger, “we would appear to be here, in the Leeward Islands—the northern segment of the Lesser Antilles, in the Caribbean.”

“How you reckon that, Doc?” Mildred asked.

“Behold the symbol here,” he said. “An ocher hexagon. Does that suggest anything to you?”

He smiled, his winter-pale blue eyes dancing, and nodded toward the gateway.

Ryan stepped close. “So mebbe this one in the mountains is another mat-trans gateway?” he asked.

“It would certainly appear so. If that is indeed the case, my dear Ryan, then it would seem to be located on the island of Puerto Rico.”

He frowned. “Curiously, the mat-trans in San Juan we jumped to once upon a time isn’t shown. Perhaps it postdates this facility and the map was never updated.”

Ryan shrugged, uninterested. Knowing, not knowing—wouldn’t feed him, either way.

“So where are we now?” Krysty asked. She smoothed back her hair from her flawless face.

Doc shook his head. “Alas, dear lady, that I cannot say. The geography of the region was never of more than passing interest to me.”

“Well, let’s get rolling, people,” Ryan said. “Finding some kind of supplies in this rad-blasted redoubt is of more than passing interest to me.”

* * *

“WHAT COULD DO?” Jak asked.

A quick search had showed the redoubt’s stores were well looted, so empty they might never have been stocked in the first place. But that wasn’t what had them all standing and staring openmouthed in awe and surprise.

The albino youth asked a good question, Ryan judged. The walls of a redoubt could shrug off blaster bullets like spit, and it would take a powerful blaster to seriously scratch them.

The corridor ahead of them was pinched shut, like an old length of hose with a swag-bellied sec man standing on it.

“Seismic activity, at a guess, dear boy,” Doc said.

“Talk plain, Doc!” Jak admonished.

“Earthquakes,” J.B. said.

“I thought most of the really massive quakes happened along the Pacific Rim,” Mildred said.

“The West Indies and Central America have been traditional hotbeds of such upheaval,” Doc said, used to Jak’s outbursts.

While he could sit stone still for hours on guard or on a hunt, Jak wasn’t known for patience where his fellow humans were concerned, particularly the time-trawled professor. Still, Ryan eyed the old man closely. He also had a habit of drifting in and out of reality.

Mildred grunted. “Oh. That’s right. I remember back in the early twentieth century there was a terrible eruption that killed tens of thousands of people. Mount Pelée, the volcano was called. Wiped out the city of Saint-Pierre the way Vesuvius did Pompeii.”

“On the island of Martinique, then,” Doc said. “That would lie south and perhaps somewhat east of here, if my reading of that map fragment was correct.”

J.B. rubbed the back of his neck. “We sure got bellies full of eruptions when we were in Mex Land,” he remarked.

“Gaia is restless here,” Krysty said, frowning. Her emerald-green eyes were pointed at the crushed corridor, but Ryan saw they were focused on nothing in particular.

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. We need to find a way out of here.”

“Find food,” Jak said. “Hungry.”

“How can you even think of food?” Mildred demanded. “My stomach’s still doing slow rolls from that damned jump.”

J.B. squinted critically into the dark depths of his upended canteen. “I wouldn’t sweat the grub, Jak,” he said. “The water’s about gone. Dehydration’ll chill us before hunger gets a proper start gnawing our vitals.”

“So,” Ryan said. “Out.”

“I hope the doors aren’t blocked by the same forces that did this,” Mildred said. “Whatever they were.”

Jak shook his head. “Open. Air fresh.”

Mildred eyed him. “You sure about that, Jak?”

“Power’s still on,” J.B. added. “Or didn’t you notice we’re not stumbling around in darkness blacker than twelve feet up a stubbie’s bowels?”

Jak shook his head irritably. “Air fresh,” he repeated. “Not filtered. Not smell?”

J.B. drew in a deep breath. “Mebbe not,” he said, “compared to you.”

Ryan grunted. “So lead the way,” he said to Jak. “Get us out of here.”

* * *

J.B. SQUINTED THROUGH his minisextant at the sun, which was about halfway up a blue sky free of chem clouds. “You were right about the map,” J.B. said, lowering the device. “We’re in the Caribbean, all right.”

The companions stood on the highest point of the island, which was as bare as a baby’s backside and not a whole lot larger, if not nearly so smooth. In fact, the rock beneath their feet was black, hard and porous—lava. Though it didn’t rise more than forty or fifty feet above the dancing green water that surrounded it, its regular shape unpleasantly suggested that it was the cinder cone of an actual volcano.

The breeze up the west side of the island, off a beach where stretches of white sand alternated with rusty-brown, smelled of salt and decaying sea life.

“What now?” Krysty asked.

“We could try the mat-trans,” Mildred said. “It hasn’t exactly taken us a long time to find out there was nothing but rock and sand on this damn island. Might be able to get back inside the time limit of the LD button.”

The gateways had a feature that allowed a user to return to the originating point by pressing the “last destination” button within half an hour of a jump.

J.B. frowned at his wrist chron. “We’d be crowding it,” he said. “Anyway, I’m not rightly sure I want to trust a malfunking machine.”

“Do you like the idea of dying of thirst here, with water, water everywhere, and not a drop to damn well drink?” Mildred asked.

“Not starve, anyway,” Jak said. “Sea here—food always.”

* * *

MILDRED GLARED AROUND at the others. “Why not try the gateway? We can always jump to a random destination. It got us here, after all.”

J.B. shook his head. “Bad idea, Millie. There’s something wrong with it. I don’t think it’s safe.”

“Safe?” Doc whinnied the word like a laughing horse. Mildred noted the way his blue eyes rolled. He was losing his grip on reality, which was never rock solid to begin with. “Jumping through time and space by such unnatural means is never safe, J.B.! Never safe at all.”

Doc slumped suddenly, his face crumpling like an old newspaper. Mildred knew he was remembering his lost family and life, before he’d been time-trawled away from everything he knew or held dear by the scientists of Operation Chronos.

“We’re not trying the mat-trans,” Ryan said. He wasn’t a man who minced words; while he might consult his friends on decisions, once he spoke in that tone, as flat and hard as slate, it was final. “We’re getting off this nuke-withered rock. Alive.”

Krysty had walked down toward the beach to the northwest. It wasn’t a long trip.

“There are islands off this way,” she said. “Some of them have trees.”

“Might be game,” J.B. added.

“Trees mean fresh water,” Jak said.

“Not necessarily where we can get at it,” Ryan said. “But yeah.”

“This is an area, as our youthful friend so astutely points out, that abounds in edible sea life,” Doc said. He seemed to have snapped back to the present; he tended to do that when confronted with a problem he found interesting, Mildred had noticed. “That suggests humans live here, too.”

“That’s so,” Ryan said. “People go where there’s chow. So we start working our way from island to island. Only question is, how?”

“Nearest island’s a good mile, mile and a half off,” J.B. said. “Anybody feel like a swim?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me, John Barrymore,” Mildred said. The armorer was her lover. “I can’t swim that far. We don’t know what the current’s like, anyway.”

“Sharks,” Jak stated.

“Just joking, Millie,” J.B. said.

“Down here!”

Everybody looked to where Krysty was standing on the beach with her back to the sea. She was waving.

“I think I found a way!”

Chapter Two

“What way?” Jak said. “Only see water.”

Ryan stood at Krysty’s side on the white coral sand. The others had gathered nearby.

“You have to learn to look below the surface, Jak,” J.B. said.

Ryan was doing so, and frowning. The water close to shore was shallow and as clear as glass, but he wasn’t sure what it was he was seeing.

“It would appear to be a road,” Doc said, bending over like a feeding crane to peer into the water. “Made out of cyclopean blocks. Limestone, I would say.”

Mildred’s forehead creased into a frown. “That sounds like the Bimini Roads,” she said. “Except aren’t they off the Bahamas? And I don’t think the Bahamas are all that near to here, are they?”

Ryan polled the others with his eye. They looked as blank as he felt.

Doc blinked at Mildred like a newly hatched baby bird. “Dear lady,” he said, “I fear the rest of us have little idea what you are saying. Except that, yes, the Bahamas lie far to the northwest of here, beyond the island of Hispaniola. Quite near the east coast of Florida, in fact.”

“So, what would subsurface blocks like this be doing here?” Mildred demanded.

“Who knows?” Ryan said. “Why care?”

“The road, if that’s what it is, seems to lead right past that next island,” Krysty observed. She flashed that smile Ryan loved so well, as dazzling as late-morning sun breaking bright off the wavelets.

“If the road leads to the next island,” Ryan said, “it’s the closest thing to a way off this sorry bare-ass rock that we’ve got. I’m going.”

Doc straightened and shot the cuffs of the white shirt he wore beneath his frock coat. “And we shall follow,” he said. “As usual.”

* * *

“OW! SHIT.”

“What is it, Mildred?” Krysty asked.

They were wading through thigh-deep water, following the big oblong blocks of pale stone. Ryan led, holding his Steyr Scout Tactical longblaster at the ready. Behind him marched J.B., cradling his Uzi. Then Mildred, Krysty and Doc, who flourished his swordstick in the hot air with every sloshing step. Jak brought up the rear, scowling around at the water as if expecting something to dart through it and bite them.

As it appeared, something just had. “My leg,” Mildred said. “Something stung me just now. Right above my right boot.”

Jak pointed. “There!”

What he was pointing at moved fast, but Krysty had good reflexes. She looked in time to see something like a silver shadow, long and slim as the concealed blade of Doc’s sword, dart away through the water.

Looking back at Mildred, she saw a dark cloud puff into the water by her leg.

“’Cudas!” Jak shouted.

“Barracuda,” Doc said doubtfully. “I didn’t think they were known for attacking humans. Swimmers, perhaps. But certainly not walking ones. Or even waders.”

Balancing precariously on one leg against the slow ocean current, Mildred hoisted her right leg out of the water. “Somehow I don’t think this one got the memo, Doc,” she said.

Evidently not. Krysty saw a red slice, vivid against the coffee-with-cream skin of Mildred’s calf. Blood flowed freely to drip into the water.

“Ace on the line,” J.B. said. “That blood could draw sharks.”

“Screw sharks!” shouted Jak. “More ’cuda coming!”

Quickly Krysty looked around. Sure enough, the shallow Caribbean waters, so deceptively peaceful on the surface, swarmed with sinister shiny shapes just below. Some circled just out of range. Others...

Mildred jumped one-legged straight out of the water. “Fuck!” she screamed. Through the roiling water Krysty saw a lean shape lance past, just where the woman had been standing.

With a rattling roar J.B. cut loose a burst from his machine pistol. Water spouted in an arc twenty feet from where Mildred was splashing back down. She came down on both feet but teetered. Krysty grabbed her wrist and kept her from toppling.

The fall itself was no danger, obviously, but to be floundering around, depending on her own modest human swimming abilities, while contending with a shoal of killer fish could be deadly.

A corpse bobbed to the surface. Its belly was white and showed the tips of black tiger stripes. Jaws filled with razor-edged teeth gaped. A round eye stared blankly. An inky cloud surrounded it.

“Good shooting.” Ryan hefted his Scout but didn’t find any targets worth a precious 7.62 mm round.

“Strike, more like,” J.B. called. “I was mainly looking to scare the nuke-suckers off. Or at least back. Bullets don’t travel for shit in water, anyway.”

“These barracuda seem unnaturally large,” Doc said. He had his sword drawn and pointed toward the water. “I do not recall them growing significantly longer than six feet, yet yon specimen is a good nine or ten feet long, and some of his kindred seem longer still.”

“Mebbe muties,” Jak said with a snarl of distaste.

“Keep moving, everybody!” Ryan said. “They’ll chew us to bits if we just stand here gaping like a pack of stupes!”

They moved into a slow-motion run, raising hip-high waves. Krysty held her snub-nosed Smith & Wesson Model 640 in her hand, but their wakes made it difficult to spot the finny horrors close by.

Then again, if they were that close it was probably too late to do anything about them, anyway. Seeing a shape arrow at her from about thirty feet off to her right, Krysty snapped a shot at it. The .38-caliber slug kicked up a foot-tall jet of water. Whether the bullet hit the ’cuda, or even came near, she didn’t know. The fish sheered away.

And she felt an impact against her own left calf. She looked down to see another ten-foot fish whip away from her. By reflex she looked down. It had ripped the tough denim of her jeans, but she saw no blood and felt no sting of salt water on a fresh wound.

“Go!” Jak shouted from right behind her.

J.B.’s Uzi snarled again. Ryan’s Steyr went off with a hard crack that seemed to hit the water and skip like a stone; Krysty felt the shock wave on her cheek as she started into forward motion again.

“They don’t like the bullets hitting near them,” Mildred said in satisfaction, letting her big, ZKR-551 handblaster settle back online from a shot.

“Yeah,” J.B. said. He fired a single shot from his mini-Uzi. “But when I said we had plenty of cartridges, I didn’t mean enough to keep blasting them into the ocean all day to frighten fish.”