James Axler - Shadow Fortress

“Anybody hurt?” Mildred demanded, hugging her med kit.

“Only an MRE,” Krysty said, lifting the dripping backpack, red fluid oozing from the bullethole. “Spaghetti, I’d say.”

“Scorch! Don’t talk about food,” J.B. muttered huskily, mopping the sweat off his pale face. Dark night, he felt awful. What the hell was wrong with his guts?

As the craft entered the cool spray, the Pegasus lost height and was seized by a cross current, abruptly changing direction to race directly for the southern shore, a solid line of tall trees looming ahead.

“The branches!” Mildred warned, fumbling for her belt knife.

But Ryan already had his in hand, and cut away a weighted bag, just as Dean did the same on the other side of the rope basket. Instantly, the Pegasus flew higher and missed the row of trees by less than a yard. A flight of birds exploded from the branches at their passing, cawing angrily at the aerial invader.

Doc muttered something in Latin, and Mildred nodded agreement, thinking that had been much too close for comfort. Maybe the balloon hadn’t been such a great idea. Only an hour in the air, and already they had been nearly aced a dozen times.

Leaving the waterfall in its wake, the Pegasus caught the western winds once more and sailed away, free and safe again.

Looking behind, Ryan could see the trees along the edge of the cliff mixed with the misty cloud of the waterfall to perfectly hide the ville from any passing vessel. The layer stone of the ridge was only a couple of yards high, no more then three or four, and the sides sloped gently to a sandy beach. Jutting into the ocean waves, smooth spurs of volcanic rock formed natural docks for fishing boats and visiting ships.

Slinging the Steyr over a shoulder, Ryan grunted in approval. Mighty good location. Under the right hands, it could be quite a formidable settlement. Too bad it was under the control of some spineless futz brain who was loyal to Lord Baron Kinnison. He would never willingly bend a knee to a fool, no matter how much power and arms some baron wielded. The Deathlands warrior would rather die as a man than live as any form of a slave.

“Have at thee, stout hearts,” Doc announced, staring straight down. “And let loose the dogs of war!”

The companions looked in the same direction and saw that moored to the stony jetties were several of the lord baron’s PT boats, the decks full of men staring in fright at the balloon passing by overhead. Several raised their blasters, but none fired, some of the navvies taking refuge behind the pod of Firebirds, the smokestack of the engine or the big .50 cal machine gun.

“They’re no danger,” Ryan said in some satisfaction. “Too damn scared of us to try anything.”

The two groups stared hard at each other as the Pegasus moved over the open sea. Beyond the cooling influence of the falls, the airship steadily rose and built speed once more. Soon the peteys were left behind, far beyond blaster range.

Majestically, the balloon continued along the ragged coastline, following a volcanic peninsula of broken lava spurs that formed the eastern boundary of the large harbor. To the west was a vague palisade of forest and boulders forming a barrier to blunt the crushing waves and killer winds of tropical storms.

Yanking off his hat, J.B. stuffed the beloved fedora into his jacket, then did the same with his glasses.

“Hot pipe, I like flying.” Dean beamed in delight, holding on to the woven sides of the rope basket with both hands. “Makes my stomach feel like I’m steadily falling. Kind of tickles.”

Krysty smiled at the boy; there was still a lot of child left in the young warrior. Hopefully, that part of him would never die. She loved Ryan with all of her heart, but the man had dark places buried down deep inside that she’d never reach. Ryan was a steel blade, forged in emotional fires that would have melted most men. He survived, but would forever carry the scars of his own brutal creation.

“I say, John Barrymore, are you quite all right?” Doc rumbled in concern, studying the trembling man. “You seem rather pale.”

“Catch round?” Jak demanded, checking the man’s clothing for any signs of blood.

“Worse,” J.B. mumbled, then leaned over the top rope of the woven basket and proceeded to lose everything he’d recently consumed. Jammed next to the man, the others did their best to ignore the event and give him some privacy. Luckily, he was standing downwind of them at the rear of the basket.

After a few minutes J.B. lifted his face, a string of spittle hanging from his slack lips. “Dark night,” he gasped. “What the hell is wrong with me, rad poisoning?”

“Nonsense,” Mildred chided, placing a palm on his forehead, then checking his pulse. “You’re not dying, John. It’s just airsickness. The adrenaline rush of battle must have held it off until you relaxed. This happens to a lot of people.”

“Not me,” Dean announced, deeply breathing in the clean salty air. “Hey, look over there! It’s a whale!”

“Shut up,” J.B. muttered weakly, then started retching again. As a kid he had envied the birds in flight, sailing effortlessly over the deserts and rad craters. Never again.

When he was eventually finished, Mildred fumbled in her med kit to extract a small battered tin canteen. “Here, try this.”

Hawking and spitting to clear his mouth, J.B. took the canteen and drank a healthy swig of the contents in the canteen. The Armorer waited nervously to see if his churning stomach would keep the fluid, then greedily drank some more.

“What was that?” J.B. asked, passing back the container. He felt much better, his stomach calm and steady as if they were back on firm ground.

“Some of my jump juice,” she replied, screwing the cap on tight. Half the precious contents were gone, but this was what she had made it for. “I figured that if it helps with the nausea we get taking a jump in a mat-trans chamber, it should work for air-sickness, too. Did it?”

“Some,” he muttered hesitantly, then stood a bit straighter and slid on his glasses. “Yeah, it did. Thanks, Millie.”

“Any time, John.” She smiled, closing the straps on her med kit. This mix promised to be her best batch yet. Boiled tobacco leaves, menthol cough drops, honey, mint leaves and whiskey. Maybe she had finally found the right combination to keep them from puking out their guts after a bad jump. Some were easy as a nap in bed, but others were pure hell with nightmares and physical sickness.

“We’ve attracted attention,” Ryan said, pointing with his H&K autoblaster.

Large birds with tremendous wingspans were starting to circle the cluster of balloons. The shadows of the clouds blocking the moon disguised their features until one flew close and Ryan saw it was a condor. Exactly the same as the giant muties that attacked them on Spider Island. Doc said they were normally that size, but Ryan didn’t believe it. The triple-damn things were too fast and strong. Intelligent killing machines.

“Here they come!” Krysty shouted, pumping a round at the winged giants.

But instead of heading for the companions, the flock of condors dived straight for the cluster of weather balloons, clawing and pecking at them. The resilient plastic netting resisted their attacks, and the balloons themselves, designed to survive the worst tropical weather, proved too tough.

Defending their territory, the enraged flock now circled the cluster of balloons, screaming a challenge. A small condor dived straight through the ropes, its talons extended to rip apart the soft human flesh. The companions opened fire in unison, the barrage of lead blowing holes through the wings and forcing it back. Only wounded, the mutie charged again while another appeared, walking along the ropes with its claws, and dropped into the rope basket.