Hell Road Warriors (Deathlands), page 14
McKenzie hurled his voice to the heavens. “Heave!”
“Heave!” the call came back.
Six strode shirtless up to the rope line. His torso was an ebony tree trunk of power. He stepped in behind Blacktree and took rope into his mighty hands. “Men of Val-d’Or!” he challenged. “Show these Canucks what Québécois can do!”
“Heave!” McKenzie shouted.
Even in quiet conversation Six’s voice sounded like distant thunder. Now the storm broke out in French. “Tirez!”
Every Quebecer convoy man roared and pulled with smooth and sudden power. “Tirez! Tirez fort!”
The LAV lurched upward.
“Heave!”
The Quebecers roared in a storm of strength. “Tirez!”
“Heave!”
Everyone man took up the call and response as blood, sweat and sinew worked as a unit against unforgiving iron. Ryan felt the power of massed humanity in motion, and he bellowed from the pit of his belly as he heaved.
The loadmaster screamed at his men up top. “Pull it in! Pull it in! Pull it in!”
The loadmaster’s crewmen pulled on the guy ropes and brought the LAV teetering over the promenade. “On the plate! On the plate! On the plate! Now! Lower! Lower! Lower! Lower easy, you bastards! I said—”
The men on the capstans and Ryan’s crew on the winch rope made horrible noises of effort as they reversed course and tried to lower the LAV without dropping it through the promenade, the vehicle deck, the bilge and into the dark water below.
The loadmaster screamed with consternation and excitement. “Easy! Easy! Easy! Easy I said—” Men fell forward as the LAV settled onto the deck and the heartbreaking weight disappeared. More crewmen rushed to chalk it in place. For just a moment there was no sound other than the gasps of the crowd on the dock and the rasping breaths of the capstan and linesmen shuddering with suspended effort.
The loadmaster’s voice was the first thing everyone heard, and even he was awed by what had been wrought. “Well, fuck me running with a pitchfork…”
Tuques sailed skyward.
The docks erupted into cheers.
Ryan rose from where he had fallen from the sudden slack. Boo Blacktree wrapped his hands around Ryan’s biceps and heaved him skyward, laughing, shaking him and whooping war cries.
Ryan restrained himself. “That’ll do, Boo.”
Boo dropped him.
“Get drunk tonight, boys!” McKenzie bawled. “’Cause when the Queen sails tomorrow she sails as a ship of war!”
The dock burst into genuine bedlam.
Ryan found himself being pounded on the back by Six. “Sacre bleu, Ryan! We will win this! We will win the locks!”
Ryan wasn’t quite willing to claim victory yet. But they had left Henning behind, beaten his worm bomb, and a LAV 3 sat on the promenade like an avenging angel of death. They had done it. The Queen of the Lakes was a ship of war. The one-eyed man knew victory begat victory, and momentum was a flame that needed to be fanned. Their palms popped as he slammed his hand into Six’s. “Fireblast it, Six! Me and you! We’ll go right down their throats and see if they got the stomach for it!”
Six scooped Ryan in his arms, lifted him off his feet and kissed him on both cheeks. Convoy and crew surged around Ryan roaring and cheering. Sailors pounded his shoulders on all sides with bone-rattling force. More French Canadians than Ryan wanted to think about slobbered on his face. He found himself elevated onto the men’s shoulders and being paraded around the docks to the cheers of all Manitoulin and a shower of tuques.
Ryan endured it all gracefully.
“Canadians,” Doc observed. “I believe they are as cute as buttons.”
“A worm bomb?” Baron Oliver Poncet was an enormously fat man. His chair creaked beneath him. Hawberry wine and lamprey pie seemed to agree with him a little too much. He was clearly part First Nations, and between his braids and his burgeoning belly he might have almost seemed ridiculous. There was nothing ridiculous about the fear and deference his people showed him. He wasn’t pleased at all with what he was hearing. “That’s coldhearted. And you say he was sending it my way?”
Ryan sat at the baron’s table along with J.B., McKenzie, Mr. Smythe and Six. Cyrielle had stayed by her brother’s side aboard ship. “It was meant for us,” Ryan said.
Poncet wasn’t having it. He stabbed a fat finger at McKenzie. “First time the Queen’s been on the Huron in years! Gonna finally give Thorpe and his pirates their due, and about rad-blasted time if you ask me, and Henning goes and sticks that broken beak of his in it! Nearly fucks up the whole thing!” Poncet’s vast bulk sagged back in his chair. “Mace Henning…” he mused. “I knew him when he was just a wandering sec man with nothing but his war club to his name. Now he calls himself a baron.” Poncet shook his head. “About time someone had a real up close and personal chat with that boy.”
“Henning will be dealt with. Our current priority is Thorpe and his pirates.”
“Thorpe,” Poncet said, “used to be one of ours. Manitoulin man. Bastard son of a gaudy slut, and not a particularly good one. Didn’t impress anyone enough to make sec man, and with no family or connection he scraped by picking berries, mending nets and hauling in other people’s catch. I remember giving him hell a few times.”
“Why?” Ryan asked.
Poncet grunted. “Probably because he was breathing and had a pulse. I was meaner when I was skinnier. Anyway, one day Thorpe upped and stole a blaster and a canoe and paddled west. They say he paddled all the way to the Michigan, then all the way down it. That’s where most Lake pirates like to winter it. Chicago? Waukee? Green Bay, they get hit hard, still some bad rads down there and decent folk stay clear.”
“And came back a baron,” Ryan said.
“Calls himself a king, actually.” Poncet suddenly sighed. “That was something this morning. Seeing that iron wag raised. I swear I wanted to waddle my fat ass down and haul on that rope, but my wives wouldn’t let me.” Poncet craned his head around at three buxom young women quilting at a side table. “Would you!”
The clearly dominant of the trio gave her baron the glad eye. “We need your fat ass here, Ollie. We need you rested. You need more sons.” The other two giggled.
Baron Poncet shook his head in disgust. “I used to be a warrior. Now look at me!” He jigged his vast belly. “Soft! Every part of me! Every part except one.” He craned around to give his wives another sour look. “And they lead me around by it.”
The baron’s wives smirked and continued sewing.
“I wish I was going with you. Give Thorpe and his crew a good chilling. But who needs a beached Beluga in a blaster fight?” Poncet muttered into his wine. “That is for anything except cover.”
Ryan suppressed a smile and cut himself another wedge of lamprey and mustard pie. “The captain tells me you were the wrestling champion of the Huron back in your day. I still wouldn’t want to tangle with you.”
Poncet flushed with pleasure and tried to cover it with a scowl. “Now you’re greasing me, Ryan. Not that I don’t like it. Tell me. How many’d you lose to the worms?”
“Fifteen dead,” McKenzie said. “Mostly sec men and sailors, about a dozen more bit up bad, including the baron’s son.”
“You’ll be wanting to recruit men, then.”
McKenzie nodded to his mate. “Mr. Smythe?”
Smythe unfolded a blanket. A gleaming Diefenbunker C-7 blaster lay on it as well as a SIG.
Ryan took the ball. “We’ll give you ten of each for the right to recruit on your island. Each man who volunteers gets a blaster just like it, with seven full mags, belts, mag pouches and bayonet, plus a handblaster with an extra mag and ammo.”
Poncet eyed the predark blasters. “I’ll give you thirty men. Can’t spare no more. Plenty of work around here still needs seeing to before winter. And any man who lives through the fight—if you win—gets a hundred in First Nations jack as bonus.”
Ryan looked at McKenzie. The captain nodded. “Done.”
Six leaned forward. “If we break through, I want them to stay and help sec the convoy. Are you agreeable?”
Poncet frowned. “The Soo Locks? They need cleaning. If I order my men to do it, they’ll do it. But sec’ing your convoy west of the Superior this close to winter? That they get the choice of volunteering for.”
“Fair enough,” Six agreed. “Convoy duty will pay a second rifle and another hundred in First Nations jack.”
“Sounds fair.” Baron Poncet raised a finger. “But I’m sending one of my sons along, to get some experience.”
“Three barons’ sons on one boat.” McKenzie grunted. “Normally I’d say that’s a recipe to get someone chilled.”
“Hunk!” the baron called. “Get over here!”
Hunk Poncet lumbered over to the table. He was huge, blond and blue-eyed, almost all arms and legs in his long shirt, breechclout and leggings, and very earnest-looking. All eyes turned incredulously on the baron.
Poncet shook his head. “I know, I know. He doesn’t look nothing like me. Sired him off one of those Minnesota Viking-cult bitches I took in a raid years ago.” Poncet’s eyes grew far away in memory. “Dagmar. Rad blast it, I miss that woman. She had sand.” Poncet shook his head and returned to the present.
“Hunk, you’re going to take thirty men and go with our guests to clean out Thorpe and the locks.”
Hunk nodded eagerly. “Yes, sir.”
“I’ll pick the men for you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No, you pick them. Time you learned.”
“Yes, sir.”
Poncet nodded at Ryan, McKenzie and Six. “You do whatever these men say.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fight hard. Don’t shame the island.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take some of the dogs, three of them. Assuming you get past the locks, you’re going to sec for the convoy. If you go, I think the rest of the men will, too, and the dogs might come in handy once you get dirt under your moccasins.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and try to get back before the freeze.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And try to bring some of the men back alive.”
“Yes, sir.”
Baron Poncet reached beneath his garment and pulled out a blaster. Ryan recognized it as a Glock. The slide was pitted and missing most of its finish from hard use. Its plastic grips and frame had failed in the intervening century, and a blacksmith had forged a new grip and lower receiver out of iron. The baron tossed the weapon to his son casually. “Here, take this. It was my first blaster. Now it’s yours.”
Hunk caught the weapon. He looked at his father and his lower lip started to tremble. Poncet swallowed the frog in his own throat and snarled over his own emotion.
“And eat something before you go, would you? Look at you, you got a frame like an oak, but I swear when you turn sideways you don’t cast a shadow.”
Hunk flushed red. “Yes, sir.”
Poncet’s sec men pounded the table in approval of Hunk’s elevation in status. J.B. waited for the applause to die down. “Been thinking.”
“Dangerous occupation,” Poncet opined. “Or so I’m told.”
“Thorpe’s going to see the Queen coming long ways off. It might make some sense to insert some men by canoe, under cover of dark. Swim under the lock with the charges and—”
Poncet, McKenzie and every Canadian in the hall burst out laughing. J.B. bristled. “What?”
“So—” Poncet leaned forward waggling his eyebrows in humorous question “—you like the pie?”
More men laughed.
J.B. waited for the rub. “Like it just fine.”
“I’ll admit you’re a little on the small side, J.B., but I tell you what. If you go take that moonlight swim, the lampreys are going to like you just fine, too. With or without mustard.”
Men roared with laughter and pounded the tables at this new height in Lake Huron humor. McKenzie wiped tears from his eyes. “No one swims the Lakes, J.B., least no one north of the Saint Clair.”
J.B. took a big deliberate bite of lamprey pie and chewed it and swallowed. “Fine.” He washed it down with more hawberry wine and raised his stein. “Like Ryan said, then. Naval gunnery.”
Pewter steins rose and clacked together around the table. “Naval gunnery!”
Chapter Fourteen
“Kagan! Kosha! Quinn!” Hunk called. The Manitoulin Island platoon had arrived on the Queen. The islanders trooped up the ramp proudly. Each bore a new Diefenbunker C-7 blaster over his shoulder and a SIG-Sauer at his hip. A new bayonet was mounted on every muzzle, and each man carried his own favorite mix of tomahawks, knives and war clubs. The men of Manitoulin all wore a red tuque with a crude, five-petaled white hawberry blossom stitched on the front and a matching sash.
First Mate Smythe shook his head. “Haweaters…”
Mildred eyed the massive dogs. The three animals were cream-colored, silver and black respectively. “Those are some mighty-looking poodles you got there, Hunk,” Mildred observed. They were huge. Their poodle lines were unmistakable, but they were built on some kind of postapocalyptic Great Dane–size frame. Mildred was pretty sure there was something in them besides standard poodle, but it was hard to tell under the thick, curly coats covering every inch of their massive bodies. There was definitely something a little wolfy around the eyes, and their jaws were just too damned big.
Hunk nodded. “Poodles will do anything dog. Gun dog, guard dog, water dog, lamprey retrieving—”
“What!” Mildred was appalled. “What kind of inbred sicko throws his poodles to giant, man-eating sea lampreys?”
Hunk looked shocked. “Lampreys don’t eat people. They got no jaws. They suck people, and they don’t give you the tongue and start suckin’ less their mouth gets a good seal.” Hunk dropped to a knee beside Kagan and ran a hand over her dense cream coat. Kagan stood imperiously wagging her tail. She was clearly the alpha bitch of the trio of dogs. “Try to latch on to a poodle,” Hunk continued, “and all the lampreys get is a mouth full of fur. Those thorny little teeth? They just get lost in the curls. Now, when a poodle bites a lamprey back?” Hunk smiled mischievously. “Pie for dinner.”
“That’s just wrong,” Mildred said.
Hunk scratched Kagan behind the ears and gave the woman a reproachful look. “If you ever fall in the water, these dogs are gonna be just right.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m never swimming again. I’m never eating pork again, and I’m never going to take another a nap in a refrigerator again, ever.” Mildred walked away waving her hands. “I have to check on my patients.”
Hunk watched Mildred walk away. He looked up to find Ryan in front of him and Hunk leaped to his feet. “Ryan!”
“I see you got your men squared away.”
“Even my pa the baron says they’re salty!”
A smile hinted at the corners of Ryan’s mouth. “You know the plan?”
“Your friend, J.B. told me everything. Everything except our part in it. I guess we’re blasting from the rails and repelling borders.”
“No, I got plenty of Quebecers doing that. You’re an island man, sailing man, right?”
Hunk thumped his chest. “Got that right.”
“Listen, the Queen carries a pair of whale boats. I want two detachments of sailors I can send to any trouble spots. I’m going to put a machine blaster on the prow of each one. I got one filled with a bunch of Jon Hard-knife’s men, and I want to give the other to you.”
Hunk swelled with pride. “I won’t let you down!”
“I know.”
Mr. Smythe stepped forward with his volunteers. “The Queen’s contribution to your raiding party, Ryan. Captain’s compliments. This is Loadmaster’s Mate Timms.”
Canada seemed to be dripping in giant humans. Loadmaster’s Mate Timms wasn’t gladiator-built like Ryan, or in a strongman frame like Six, or a monoblock of man like Boo Blacktree or sumo-wrestler-vast like Baron Poncet. Mr. Timms was simply built on a separate scale. Timms was impossibly tall, impossibly broad and best described as a full-blown human. Man-mountain came to mind. Ryan wondered how they would fit him in the LAV and if he would sink it.
Timms shoved out a hand with fingers like a bunch of bananas. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Ryan.”
“Just Ryan, Mr. Timms.”
“Hear we’re tearing down the locks.”
“Looks like you could do it all by your lonesome.”
“More fun to do it with friends.”
The first mate gestured at the woman. “Armorer’s Mate Tamara.”
Tamara had long dark hair, broad shoulders, large breasts, a flat behind, and slightly canted eyes that bespoke some interesting Canadian hybridization. First Nations tattooing banded her right biceps. What Ryan noted most was her early model, ancient Armalite AR-15 and the equally ancient but apparently serviceable Colt 4 x 20 scope mounted on the carry handle. He remembered McKenzie telling Smythe to pick someone “wicked good” with a blaster. Ryan liked what seemed to be a permanent smirk. Tamara didn’t miss his appraisal. “I’m your guardian angel, Ryan, and you’re Deathlands ass belongs to me. Captain’s orders.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Don’t worry about your flame-headed girlfriend. What happens in the iron wag stays in the iron wag,” Tamara said with a smirk. “You keep it in your pants, Ryan, and I’ll see about keeping your head on your shoulders when the shooting starts tomorrow.”
“WHO’S TAMARA?” Krysty asked dryly.
Ryan turned his face from the sinking sun, lowered his sleeve of spruce beer. And looked Krysty dead in the face. “She’s my guardian angel. My Deathlands ass belongs to her. Captain’s orders.”
Krysty’s eyebrows drew down dangerously.
Ryan tried his hand at a Gallic shrug. “But if I keep it in my pants, she’s going to see about keeping my head on my shoulders when the shooting starts tomorrow.”
Krysty was vaguely mollified. “Oh.” She took the wooden stoop from Ryan’s hand and took a swallow. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “You know something, lover? I like drinking beer with you out here on the—”
