Blood In the Water (27 page)

“Those guys are good!” Miles hissed with genuine admiration.

The lizard seemed to collect itself and charged again, swiftly galloping toward the same 'Cat it had seemed so fixated on. The 'Cat was quick, no doubt about it, dodging a lightning lunge, but he stumbled on something in the grass and fell on his back with a cry of alarm. His
comrades redoubled their fusillade, but there was no distracting the thing. With an almost jaunty hop to the side, it changed direction to pounce on its victim.

“Now!” Chack shouted.

“Cold, cold!” Silva muttered, but he centered his sight on the big lizard, raised his aim a tad, and squeezed the trigger. Bullets pattered across its back and . . . it did! It
flattened
itself in the tall grass like a puff adder, its color quickly surging to green-brown stripes.

“Everybody!” Chack said. “Open fire! Chief Silva has startled it, maybe even hurt it, but I do not think he can kill it with the Thompson! Open fire!” His and Courtney's Krags fired almost as one. Courtney was much quicker on the draw these days. Miles and Lawrence both fired their Allin-Silvas, their big bullets striking the thing and causing it to spin around, snapping at the painful wounds. That's when it saw them, outlined above it against the rising sun. With an almost whimpering shriek, it charged, its hide quickly darkening once more.

“Damn, Larry! Don't you wish you could change colors like that?” Silva asked as he dropped an empty magazine and slammed another in the well. Twenty more rounds clattered out, bright brass arcing away and glittering in the sunlight. Lawrence fired again, almost keeping pace with the bolt-action Krags. “Break its bones!” Silva growled. “Break its damn head! That puff lizard makes a big target, but the vitals ain't so big!” That didn't come out how he wanted, but he figured everyone knew what he meant. Chack was empty, and he flipped the loading gate of his Krag to the side. Grabbing a handful of cartridges from his pouch in a well-practiced manner, he quickly trickled five of them into the magazine and slapped the loading gate closed. Tossing the Thompson on the ground, Dennis twisted his mighty Doom Stomper off his shoulder and brought it up. The muzzle bobbed as he found the monster's charging head in his sights, but it was getting awfully close.

“Damn it, Silva!” Miles shouted, his voice high.

Dennis fired. A jet of flame stabbed out amid a great white cloud and Silva's shoulder jerked brutally backward, the rifle muzzle rising nearly thirty degrees. The bullet hit the thing near the point of its bottom jaw, and the bronze penetrator acted like a piston, expanding the lead around it to twice its diameter. A Borno super lizard's jaw would've shattered into something resembling bloody salt but might've stopped the lead
before it reached much deeper. That's when the bronze penetrator, itself the size of a .50-caliber machine gun bullet, would shed the lead and churn onward, deep in the skull and possibly out the back of the head. But this creature, though nearly as large as a Borno super lizard, wasn't as heavy or dense, and the entire projectile, radically expanded lead and all, turned the thing's head into a canoe.

Silva saw none of this through the smoke, the dust, the fluttering grass caused by the monster's high-speed impact, and the momentary vertigo he always felt after firing the big gun. Muscle memory took over, though, and even before the morning breeze could whip his smoke away, he'd flipped the breech open, ejecting the huge powder-blackened shell, and slammed another in its place. Closing the breech and cocking the hammer, he raised the gun again.

“Cease firing!” Chack called. “Dennis, stop,” he added. As quickly as that, with a thunderous exclamation point, the attack was over. The monster lay twitching and lashing its tail a mere dozen yards away, its hide flashing through a riot of colors beneath the blood that spattered it and the grass all around.

“Take that, sucker!” Miles exclaimed triumphantly, nervous energy washing away to be replaced by the shakes. Lawrence lowered his rifle and, with uncharacteristic tenderness, patted Silva on the arm. For his part, Silva's face remained grimly set, possibly hiding the pain in his shoulder from the quick, awkward shot, but he lowered the hammer to half cock.

“Oh, look at it! Isn't it marvelous?” Courtney exclaimed, rising to gaze happily at the dead monster. Chack restrained him before he could step closer. “Look at
them
, Mr. Braad-furd,” he cautioned. Only then did Courtney realize that five 'Cat warriors had rushed to encircle them, joined by ten others, beautified with paint, feathers, claws, and other adornments, who'd suddenly appeared from behind. All held bows with arrows nocked and pointed nervously in their direction. Petey reemerged from his hiding place in the grass and scrambled back onto Silva's shoulder. “Goddamn,” he practically whispered.

“Oh. Of course, Colonel Chack,” Courtney agreed dryly. “And our band of hunters is home from the hill as well, I see. By all means, let's see if we can reassure these fellows just a bit, first thing.”

The 'Cat that fell had joined the others now, and judging by the white
fur on his otherwise brindled face—colored remarkably like Chack, as were most of those nearby—he was the oldest present. He was also the only one not menacing them with a weapon, though he held his ready. Without hesitation, he advanced beyond the others.

Slowly, carefully, Chack slung his Krag on his shoulder, muzzle down, and took a step toward him. Raising his right hand, palm outward, in what he hoped remained the universal sign of the empty hand even here, he repeated much the same greeting he'd made on the river under strikingly similar circumstances. To Chack's relief, the 'Cat returned the gesture with a practiced familiarity and took a step closer. Then he hesitated and glanced at the dead monster. “Your meat,” he said simply.

Chack looked at Courtney but waved expansively. “For all. We are happy to share it—and other things—with any friends we meet.”

“So it is true?” the 'Cat asked, blinking with great interest. “You are of the Big Boat People who fight the Gaa-rieks in the North alongside the Aan-glis forest folk?” He looked at Silva, Miles, and Courtney, who, with their beards, would easily pass for Maroons. His gaze lingered sharply on Lawrence but moved back to Chack.

Chack was no longer surprised he understood the stranger, but was amazed by something else. “It is true,” he confirmed. “But how do you know? How
could
you know?”

“We know many things, you will see, but first, be welcome! We have been expecting you! These others were sent to find you,” he said with a scolding gaze at one of the ten 'Cats that had joined them. “Lower your weapons!” he ordered, and they did. He looked back at Chack. “That you could evade our finest hunters speaks well for you.” He flicked his ears at the dead monster. “And your magic is just as great as we have heard.” He grinned at Silva and carefully formed the words, in Maroon-ish English, “Gad . . . Maaskit!”

Courtney was flabbergasted. “But . . . but how?”

“We have some contact with the Aan-glis. They are very strange,” he added, “but we are at peace with them. We know the eastern river tribes too, the Erokighaani and others like them. They are . . . even stranger,” he said with a disquieted blink. “We are not always at peace with
them
, but they stay on their side of the mountains and we stay on ours—and tales must be passed. All peoples must have tales.”

Odd that the Maroons haven't told us this,
Chack reflected,
but then, the ones we're in contact with may not know these—whoever they are.
Maroons have clans too
.

“Soon we will trade tales with you,” the 'Cat said. “But first, my name is Kaam and I am, ah, ‘cap-i-taan of the guard,' as you might say, of the Naa-kaani Clan of the Shee-ree people. Our High Chief is Ror'at-Raal.” Kaam grinned again and blinked. “He is interestingly mad.” Without further explanation of that, he proceeded to introduce the others present, some of whom had started skinning the great beast—but not before pausing to urinate on its shattered head. Courtney stared at that, eyes wide, but didn't protest. Miles snickered. A few of the hunters disappeared back the way they'd come, probably to get the rest of their gear. None seemed particularly concerned that their homecoming had been upstaged by the arrival of visitors, evidence they actually had been sent to look for them. Chack was intrigued by their names and particularly by the fact that Kaam had only one, a convention usually reserved for Sky Priests among his people.

“Come,” Kaam said. “You must meet the Great Ror'at-Raal! Your questions will be answered—and perhaps you can answer some of ours.” Noting their hesitation, he added, “Keep your weapons. You have already proven we have nothing to fear from them and that you will use them on our behalf.” He turned and took a few steps, but paused to shift his breechcloth so he could urinate on the dead beast's head as well, and he seemed to do it with considerable satisfaction. When he was done, he glanced expectantly at them.

“Um, Colonel Chack?” Courtney whispered urgently.

“Beats me,” Chack replied defensively. “I never saw anybody do that.”

“Clear as day.” Silva snorted out loud, in English, and regarded Chack with a half grin. “I swear, most of the time I forget that 'Cats ain't just regular folks—with tails—but then they do stuff like that.”

“I don't!” Chack insisted. “Why would I? Why would
they
?”

Silva rolled his eye. “They're claimin' it by pissin' on the part they ain't gonna eat. Can't make it smell any worse. That booger's ripe! But I bet they piss on trees an' rocks wherever they go, markin' their territory. I seen 'Cats, hunters like Moe, do it sometimes.” He nodded at the head. “They'll prob'ly leave it here as a warnin' to others too.”

“That actually makes perfect sense,” Courtney agreed, “and no wonder
Chack's seagoing clan has abandoned the practice, as well as the more, um, civilized clans we're accustomed to.”

“Yeah.” Silva chuckled. “In Chack's case it'd be like ever'body on
Big Sal
pissin' on every fish they caught! I can see it now. Long lines o' 'Cats drinkin' water like crazy an' marchin' up to ol' Adar, standin' there in his Sky Priest suit holdin' a flasher fish in each hand by the tail—”

Chack growled and Courtney interrupted impatiently, “But what does he expect of us?”

“Piss on it. It's part ours, right?”

*   *   *

A larger group of younglings and females had emerged from the gate in the palisade to help round up the sheep pigs that had scattered. Many stopped and stared at the procession making its way to the village. Chack continued speaking to Kaam, but Courtney waved enthusiastically at the gawkers. “Goodness gracious! How exciting!” he enthused. He glanced back behind them. “A great pity they're dismantling that amazing creature so quickly, but perhaps they'll allow me to examine its skull.” His expression turned bleak. “What's left of it—and after it's been cleaned, of course,” he added distastefully. He brightened. “I wonder if they'll let me boil it. But really, Mr. Silva, you should try to be less destructive to the more scientifically pertinent features of the various specimens we encounter, in the future.”

“I'll try, Mr. Bradford,” Silva replied dryly. “It just seems that them ‘most pertinent parts' are always the ones most int'rested in gettin' us.”

“Indeed.” Courtney frowned, but his smile quickly returned. “Still, quite exciting! Was this how it was when you met the Khonashi in North Borno? I so envied you that!”

Silva looked at the broad prairie surrounding them and the isolated, mountainous clumps of gigantic trees dotting it here and there as far as he could see, but they seemed most common along the meandering river. He thought about it.
No, this has been a cinch. A lot shorter trip, an' we haven't run into near as many bad boogers. An' maybe we discovered more unfriendly folks this time, along the other river, but we didn't have to fight 'em. I
feel
pretty good,
he suddenly realized, his aches having begun to diminish once he'd descended from the mountains,
an' I been eatin' decent grub—instead of raw grubs an' other bugs
. “Not so much,” he finally replied. “The trip's been easier so far, but folks here seem just as
friendly as the Khonashi. We'll see about that. Seems they know stuff about us too, but they ain't had any direct contact we know of.” Unlike the Khonashi, who'd made a lost, crippled destroyerman named Tony Scott their
king
. Silva didn't mention that. He didn't know if Tony had turned himself in yet.
Prob'ly has, an' got treated like a hee-ro. But he was afraid they'd hang him for a deserter, an' I promised not to blow
. “Other than that,” he continued, “we gotta still be the better part of a hundred miles from the west coast of the island. We're smack in the middle of it now, about as secluded as we can get. So I don't think there's been any direct contact with our old world here, an' we ain't as likely to wind up in a full-blown battle alongside natives armed with bows an' arrows against a Jap destroyer full o' murderin' maniacs.” He grinned back at Courtney.

The first evidence that Silva was wrong on at least one count was revealed almost as soon as they entered the gate, for there, perched atop a wooden scaffold like the centerpiece of a town square, was the battered, weathered carcass of a medium-size aircraft. The scaffold was largely covered with animal skins, and bright birds and lizardbirds swirled around the dingy thing, streaking it with their droppings.

“Well, shit,” Silva muttered with a sinking feeling.
Have we scattered that much junk around this world?
An' ever' time we find some, things go straight in the crapper
. “Looks like one o' those new Army B-Twenty-fives,” he said resignedly. That B-25s would no longer be “new” back on the world he came from was immaterial, but what remained of the plane, the forward fuselage, the inboard wings and engines, was similar. The port engine, propeller, and landing gear looked intact, but the starboard nacelle had been savaged behind a bent-back prop, and its lost landing gear had been replaced by part of the scaffold. The Plexiglas was mostly gone from the nose, although there was a rust-dusted machine gun there, pointed as if guarding the gate. Both wings beyond the engines were gone, as was the tail behind the wing roots. Courtney was walking hurriedly around the plane, gazing at it in amazement as more and more 'Cats gathered around.