Downrigger Drift (10 page)

J.B.’s sweating face greeted them. “How’d it go?”

Ryan swung into the driver’s seat. “We’re crossing the river—just not over that bridge.”

J.B. digested that for a moment. “They ask too much?”

Krysty glared sideways at Ryan for a moment. “Nothing we couldn’t afford.”

Settling into the driver’s seat, Ryan silenced her with his own ice-blue gaze. “That bridge might not support the wag’s weight—all eleven tons of it. If it breaks, we’re out our ride, might even die trying to get out. J.B., you said this thing was amphibious, right?”

“Manual said so. You sure about this?”

“Yeah, let’s move out.” Firing up the engine, Ryan left the road, driving parallel to the river.

Mildred’s voice called out from the back. “What’s going on up there? Folks’re climbing the bridge to watch us leave.”

“Both blasters keep watch front and back. J.B., stay on the 20 mil.”

“Hope you know what you’re doing, lover.”

“Don’t worry about it, we’ll be fine.” The slightly nervous feeling in Ryan’s gut belied his words, but he pressed on. “This should do.”

The waterway had probably been a small stream decades ago, but decades of the water’s relentless passage had widened it into a river, easily thirty feet across at this point, and probably ten to fifteen feet deep in the middle. The current was swift, the black waters bubbling and churning as it flowed toward the bridge. “Everyone
make sure all hatches are secure, because we’re about to go for a little swim.”

Ryan had picked a section of bank that sloped into the water on both sides, rather than trying to ford the water off a small cliff. He gunned the engine while waiting for a reply.

“Front hatches secure,” Jak called out.

“Rear hatches secure,” Mildred replied from the back.

“Top hatch is secure,” Doc said from the middle of the wag.

“Hold tight—here we go.” Ryan dropped it into gear and pressed the accelerator, feeling the wag lurch forward. The river grew larger in his view, until it took up all of his vision, then, with a jolt and sudden tilt, they rushed down the bank and into the water with a large splash.

Ryan swayed in his chair with the sudden rocking motion as the Commando entered the river, but it kept powering its way forward, although more slowly now. The current lapped at his viewport, but otherwise the V-150 was unaffected by the water. Indeed, they were already almost to the other side, and with another bump, the wheels found the riverbed and Ryan floored it, sending the wag rocketing up the other side in a spray of water.

“Worked better than I thought,” he said, turning back toward the town.

Krysty’s face was drawn. “Just hope we haven’t crossed into a whole mess of trouble with your little stunt.”

“Only one way to find out.” Ryan approached the bridge, slowing to a crawl as he came closer to the
town. “J.B., best lower the cannon. We might scare them otherwise.”

“Already doin’ it.” Ryan brought the wag to a stop a couple hundred yards from the bridge as the leader, who had already crossed the overpass, was trotting over, flanked by a half dozen men trailing him. Small children peeked out from around the corners of houses, and women hastily shooed them inside, slamming doors behind them.

“Let’s see what they have to say this time.” Moving to the top hatch, Ryan unlocked it, shoved it open and cautiously poked his head out again.

The bearded leader stood a dozen yards away, hands on his hips. “If you coulda crossed the river without us, why come out to barter?”

Ryan shrugged. “Wasn’t sure I could in the first place. Besides, needed to know if you folks were honest or going to try a double cross.”

“Ain’t no reason fer that. We do all right out here fer ourselves, and trade for the rest of what we need.” The man put one hand behind his back, and the rest of the men with him visibly relaxed. “Well, ya don’t need to cross our bridge anymore, but I bet we got other stuff ya’d be willin’ to trade fer. Why don’t you shut yer wag down and come on in? At the least you all can break bread with us, share any news ya might have from the west.”

Ryan considered the offer for a moment, then nodded. “Sure. Give me a minute, and we’ll be right out.” He disappeared into the cab. “Let’s head in, blasters only, keep them in your holsters. They seem friendly enough, but we’ll stick together. Watch their reaction to Jak. That’ll tell right off what we need to know.”

It took a few minutes of awkward scrambling, but at
last the group was able to exit the wag with a semblance of dignity. The guards greeted them with politeness, some hiding their surprise better than others at Jak’s unusual appearance. At least no one made the sign of the evil eye or spit at seeing him, as had happened in other villes they’d come across. It said a lot about the people here, and Jak accepted it with stolid silence.

Ryan walked over to the leader and began making introductions, saving himself for last. When he did, however, the leader’s eyebrows shot up. “Ryan Cawdor?
The
Ryan Cawdor?”

Now it was Ryan’s turn to be surprised. “You know me?”

“I knew it! I thought it was you! Lots of people here heard of you’n the Trader. Hell, I even met ya once, a long time ago. I was mebbe fifteen, and you were a few years older at the time. The Trader rolled into town and stayed here for a day or two. Good man—always treated us fair. Whatever happened to him?”

Ryan’s mouth twisted at the question about his former mentor, but he quickly calmed his expression. “He and I parted ways a while ago. I’ve seen him here and there across the land, last time down south several months back. For all I know, he’s still roaming around out there somewhere.”

The last sentence was only partially true. When Ryan had last seen the Trader, he’d sacrificed himself to save Ryan and his group, making sure they had gotten on a raft while he stayed behind on shore to fend off the folks pursuing them. Abe, one of the last men to follow the Trader, had stayed behind with him, surrounded by murderous stickies and hostile locals. At the moment Ryan had no idea if the man was dead or alive. Still,
the old man had an uncanny knack of wriggling out the tightest damn spots….

The leader’s words jolted Ryan out of his reverie. “Too bad. If ya ever run into him again, be sure to send him up our way. We’d be happy to see him agin.” The man held out his hand, which Ryan took and pumped once. “I’m Brend Towson.” He introduced the rest of the men, with at least three others sharing his surname. “Welcome to Toma.”

Half of the group peeled off to head back to the bridge, the others remained with the group as they headed into town. Before they left the wag, J.B. told Ryan he needed to check on the engine, and disappeared under the vehicle for several minutes. When he returned, he came up to Ryan and clapped him on the shoulder. “Runnin’ a little hot, but it’s fine now.” The words were a subtle sign that he’d removed a spark plug, ensuring that the vehicle couldn’t be stolen. They’d also removed the firing pins from all the blasters, rendering the wag an inert hunk of metal. But Ryan and his group would make sure to check on it during the night. Just because Brend and his closer relatives seemed friendly didn’t mean everyone here would be.

“You the baron of the ville?”

Brend laughed. “No, not really. We have a town council that meets once a week to handle any issues, but everyone here pretty much keeps the peace among themselves.”

“What about raiders?” J.B. asked.

“We’re pretty much off the beaten track. You all are the only ones we’ve seen in the past month. With the bridge and the river, we don’t see too much trouble, and all of the men are pretty good shots, so it’d take quite a force to actually do any damage here.”

Ryan held his tongue, figuring it wouldn’t do any good to mention that their lone wag could destroy the entire town if he’d chosen to do so. He simply nodded instead.

“So, where’d you folks come from? The I-90 road only leads to the ruins of Sparta and L’Crosse, then the big river.”

Ryan exchanged a quick glance with J.B. before replying. “We were following one of our usual trade routes, coming down from Canada, around the Great Lakes, and over to this side of the Big Muddy. Heard rumors of a cache of predark stuff somewhere around here, thought we’d take a look-see. You know of anything nearby?”

Brend forced a laugh. “If we did—and wanted to risk our lives tryin’ to get it—you think we’d be livin’ like this?”

Ryan frowned at the reply. “We passed some kind of base sign on the road west of here. Anything in there?”

Brend’s face darkened, and he turned to spit on the ground. “No one ever goes there. That’s from before, ya know? Got enough problems livin’ in the here and now. No need t’go stirrin’ up any more trouble.”

Now that Brend and the guards had cleared Ryan and his group, other members of the ville cautiously approached. Soon they found themselves surrounded by a small cluster of women and young children, all dressed in homespun garb in simple colors, mainly white, dark brown and dark blue. Jak attracted the most attention, his white hair and red eyes drawing whispers and stares. Doc also garnered his fair share of stares. With his antiquated clothes and manner of speech, he caused alternating consternation and fits of giggling from any of the women and girls he spoke to.

“Well, now we gotta start all over again with the barter,” Brend grumbled, though his tone carried no malice. “Since ya don’t need our bridge, is there anything ya
do
need?”

“Well…” Ryan drew the word out for a few seconds before smiling. “Actually, there are a few things we could use.”

“Food—real food,” Jak said, his arms folded, trying to watch everyone around them at once.

“And any information you might have about what lies to the east,” J.B. said. “Particularly near the Great Lakes area.”

“I think we kin do business—and at a price that works for ever’one. C’mon, we’ll show ya around.”

The rest of the day passed in strangely peaceful relaxation. Ryan was able to arm both women with plenty of reloaded .38-caliber bullets in exchange for a few original .308 slugs. Just to show there were no hard feelings about the bridge, he threw in a dozen shotgun shells, too. They traded more ammo and some of the spices for other food, dried fruits, canned vegetables in valuable glass jars, some fresh ones as well, and salted meat. Of particular interest were the crusty loaves of fresh-baked sourdough bread, baked from stone-ground wheat grown in the area and made from a starter that one of the wives boasted had originated more than fifty years ago.

The ville held a feast for the visitors that night, with everyone attending. There was plenty of venison, served several different ways, including several roasted haunches, a huge black pot of stew, and another pot slow-cooked and shredded for thick, sloppy sandwiches. They also served several other kinds of meat, including rabbit, squirrel, pig and chicken. There were plenty of vegetables: potatoes, tomatoes, zucchini, cucumbers and carrots. They even had fresh milk and butter, churned the day before. The real treat was thick, golden honey, collected from a large hive of mutie bees on the outskirts of town. The townspeople paid special reverence to the beekeeper family, who practically risked their
lives every time they went out to collect it. They also distilled a strong, sweet mead from the honey, which left a pleasant, warm burn in the back of the throat after each swallow.

Ryan and his company ate their fill, with Jak almost getting sick after wolfing down three huge plates loaded with food. Afterward, there was dancing and music, with several people bringing out ancient instruments, including a violin, tin whistle and a tarnished snare drum, all forming a bizarre combo that came together with the ease of years of practice. They were mostly limited to hymns, but when the violin player sawed the opening bars of a fast-paced waltz, Doc rose and walked over to Krysty, bowing from the waist.

“Master Cawdor, would you mind if this old man asked Miss Wroth for a dance?”

Feeling full and expansive, Ryan was chewing on a sliver of oak after using it to clean his teeth. He glanced at Krysty, who had covered her smile with the back of her hand. “Permission isn’t mine to give, Doc. The lady’s right here, why don’t you ask her yerself?”

The elderly man bowed again, all genteel courtesy, and held out his hand. Krysty rose to take it, and he led her out to the rough square formed by the rows of tables and benches. With a flourish, he drew her in close and swept the flame-haired woman around the floor in a whirl, his right hand around her waist, his left holding her right up and out at their side. Around and around they twirled, covering the floor in a series of circles, always moving counterclockwise on the floor.

“He waltzes well,” Brend observed from beside Ryan.

“Better him than me.” The one-eyed man thought about mentioning that Doc might have been around
when this particular variation of the dance had been invented, but decided against it. Instead, he turned the conversation to more mundane matters. “You’d said you’d let us know what to expect east of here.”

“That I did, but I’m not sure it’s gonna be much use. None of us have headed out that way in the past few years. Villes round here look out for each other, and each helps all in time of need. Occasionally a caravan passes through from the east, and almost all of them have been carrying fresh and smoked fish—large ones—so either they’re stocking up from the lakes, or someone over there is supplying them. But we’ve never taken that much interest—just trade with those that come through. It’s a hard life here, but a good one, and we aim to keep it that way. One way to do that is to not go courtin’ trouble.”

Ryan nodded as he watched the festivities before him—Doc kicking up his heels as he waltzed a laughing Krysty around the hardpacked dirt, Mildred sitting next to J.B. down the table, their hands no doubt intertwined underneath. Jak off to one side, talking with some of the braver older children. For a moment he saw what all of the people here saw—a sense of community, a sense of place, of growing up where their fathers and their father’s fathers had lived, of carving out a life from the land, of working with people you knew and trusted, and knowing that they would repay the favor when you needed it.

It could very well be a good life, but it wasn’t the one for him. Not here. Not now. Maybe not ever. Ryan wasn’t given much to introspection, but he knew himself well enough to realize that this sort of existence was, in reality, a trap. Although he could adapt to their simple existence well enough, it would chafe at him, the
sameness of it, day in and day out, with nothing new over the horizon but the sun, rising and setting as it put another endlessly similar day to rest. No thanks. While he wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for, he knew this wasn’t it.

The musicians finished the waltz with a flourish, and the dancers clapped in appreciation. Doc led Krysty back to the table, his eyes gleaming with what Ryan thought might be tears, but the old man quickly looked away.

“Thank you, Krysty. That was…that was wonderful. For a moment, I fair thought I was holding my dear Emily in my arms again as we did a turn around the floor.”

“Oh, Doc—” she began, but he cut her off with a sniff.

“Never you mind, my dear, you should forgive the ramblings of a senile old fool.” He straightened and cleared his throat with a phlegmy rumble. “I believe I shall take a brief constitutional down by the river.”

Krysty nodded, and Ryan spoke up. “Don’t go too far. Never know what animals might be out after dark.”

“Your friend should be safe. We’ve taken care of any large predators in the area. If he stays near the river and town, he’ll do all right,” Brend said.

Flourishing his walking stick, Doc strode away. The musicians were about to strike up another tune when a loud voice cut through the night.

“Horse shit! I’m tellin’ ya, no one can do that!”

Heads turned at the words, including Ryan’s and Krysty’s, to see Jabe, the young man who had come out with Brend at the bridge, pointing an accusing finger at Jak, whose pale ruby eyes glittered in the firelight. “I don’t care what ya say, yer a shit-eatin’ liar!”

Brend was on his feet in a flash. “Jabe! How dare you insult our guest!”

His son—for only a father would speak to kin that way—turned at the sudden silence, his feet shuffling on the dirt. He had one of the small mead cups in his hand, and Ryan figured it had been filled and emptied more than once that evening. He lifted his own cup at Jak in a silent question, and got a quick shake of the albino’s head.

“Not liar. Said can do it, and can.”

“Do what?” Ryan asked.

Jak nodded at the other teen. “Towhead said not hit thrown piece wood with knife. Said could.”

Ryan draped an arm over the back of his wooden chair. “Sounds like a challenge to me.”

Now both youths turned to him. “What’d ya have in mind?” Brend asked.

“I imagine your boy is a fair shot with a blaster.”

The other man’s chest puffed out. “None better. He can put out the eye of a chicken at one hundred yards.”

“All right, then. Each gets one chance. Jak with his knives, Jabe with his blaster. Whoever hits the target wins. To keep it fair, one of you will throw for Jak, and one of us will throw for Jabe.”

“Let’s find a suitable target for these two,” Brend ordered, his voice carrying across the square. Townspeople hastened to comply, some heading to the firewood pile, others scanning the ground for something that would fit the bill.

While they searched, Krysty leaned close to Ryan’s ear. “You sure this is a good idea?”

Ryan shrugged. “Hell if I know. I’m sure Jak’ll can win, no matter how good his kid is.”

“Yeah, but Jabe seems to be spoiling for a fight, and he’s been drinking, probably more than he should.”

“Which gives our boy the clear advantage. Too bad these folks aren’t the betting kind. I reckon we could clean up here.”

“Ryan!” Krysty smacked his shoulder in mock disapproval.

Several people had returned carrying a variety of pieces of wood. Brend sorted through them, discarding any the unsuitable ones, and finally coming up with a piece about the size of his hand. “All right, we have a target. If no one objects, I’ll throw for young Jak.”

Ryan looked around, but no one raised a voice in protest. Hefting the chunk of oak in his hand, Brend stepped around to the front of the table. “Are ya ready, Jak?”

The white-haired teen stood so still he might have been carved from alabaster, his face completely neutral, the imitation of a statue broken only by the tiniest nod. Ryan knew exactly what that utter stillness portended, and leaned back in his chair. More than once he’d wondered where the frail-looking albino youth had learned his incredible fighting skills, but couldn’t come up with any martial discipline or military program that would turn a teenager into such a devastating fighting machine. One thing he was sure of—he was damn glad Jak was on their side.

With a touch of the theatrical, Brend made sure all eyes were on him before continuing. “All right, I’ll count to three, and throw. One…two…three…go!”

With a heave, the town leader pitched the piece of wood high into the air, sailing almost out of sight in the darkness. The throw was perfect, a steep arc rising over Jak’s head. For a moment he just stood there, tracking it
as it rose into the night sky. Every single person watching in the square seemed to hold their breath as well. Then his hands blurred, and a faint thunk could be heard as the chunk of wood fell back to the ground.

Brend walked over and gasped in surprise. Bending, he picked up the wooden lump and held it aloft for everyone to see.

Not one, not two, but three leaf-bladed throwing knives were stuck in the wood.

Gasps and whispers started at several places in the crowd and swelled, the men and women murmuring in stunned disbelief. Ryan, watching Jak’s reaction, saw him frown, but the expression vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Brend seemed shaken himself, but held up his empty hand for quiet. “Ever’one settle down now! That was—that was some kinda marksmanship, young Jak. A fine display.” He removed the knives one at a time and handed them to the albino teen, who made them disappear with three twists of his wrist. “However, now we will be treated to a shooting ex’bition by one of the finest sharpshooters in Toma! Jabe, step forward.”

The hometown boy polished off the last of his mead and walked out into the empty square to loud applause and cheers. Most the girls were cheering for the lad, but Ryan noticed one slim, dark-haired beauty had eyes only for Jak. He nudged Krysty, who nodded to indicate that she had seen it as well.

Brend let his son bask in the accolades for a few seconds, then raised both hands for silence again. “And who among our guests this evening will throw for him?”

“I will.” Ryan was already standing, and he strode around the table to enter the square. Brend handed him the chunk of wood and retreated back to the table. Ryan
hefted the oak in his hand, getting a good feel for it. He looked at Jabe, alone in the center of the square. “You ready?”

The young man nodded, already sliding his blaster, a well-maintained matte-black Ruger SP100, out of its holster. “Just make it a good throw, One-eye.” His boots shuffled in the dirt, as if he was a bit unsteady on his feet.

Ryan’s answering grin was tight, and he resisted the urge to chuck the wood at the kid’s head or lobbing it so far into the night that no one would be able to see it. Instead, he leaned down and heaved the chunk into the air, straight up, the piece turning lazily end over end as it flew.

Jabe’s blaster was up and tracking the wood as soon as it left Ryan’s hand. His first shot split the night, and the wood lurched in the air, a puff of splinters bursting from it. A second shot followed as it reached the apex of its flight, but the wood only wobbled a little bit this time. A third shot came right after the second one, but now the piece was falling faster back to the earth. Ryan looked over at Jabe, who still had the piece in his sights.

At that second, Ryan realized the problem. In his zeal to beat the outlander, Jabe was either unaware or uncaring that his next shot would come perilously close to the people on the opposite side of the square. Certainly much too close for Ryan’s comfort.

He launched himself at the other boy, but before he could lay a hand on the kid, a white-haired blur appeared under Jabe’s outstretched arm and levered it up just as the youth triggered another shot, the bullet passing over the heads of a tight cluster of villagers on the
other side of the square, making them all duck away, several of the women screaming in fear.

“Son of a— Goddamn mutie made me miss!” His words slurring, Jabe wrested his blaster arm out of Jak’s hands and tried to bring the butt down on the albino’s head.

It was his last mistake of the night.

Dodging the clumsy blow as if his attacker was swinging through honey, Jak stepped close and slammed his fist into Jabe’s solar plexus. The other youth, although he stood seven inches taller and outweighed Jak by at least sixty pounds, dropped to the ground like he’d been pole-axed right between the eyes. His blaster dropped from his hand as he concentrated on trying to draw air back into his spasming lungs.

Jabe’s eyes fell to his weapon, which had landed in the dirt a few feet away. He rolled over to it, but before he could pick it up, Brend stood over him, leaned down and swept it up in his calloused hand in one smooth motion.

“Dad! You saw! He tried to cheat—”

“What I see is a brave man who prevented my son from making a very big mistake.” Brend turned to sweep the crowd with his piercing gaze. “And I’ll have words with anyone who thinks otherwise.” Opening the cylinder, he emptied the Ruger’s load into his hand, then tucked the blaster into his belt. “I’ll hold on to this until you get your wits about you. Right now, I’d suggest you git into the house and sleep it off. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

Turning, Brend stalked back to the table without a backward glance at his son. “Let’s have some music! Is this a cel’bration or what?”