Separation. James Axler

first the Armorer and then the one-eyed man came into view. J.B. was limping heavily, and Ryan moved slowly, the pain of each step, each breath, showing on the lines etched on his face. The two men stopped and looked at each other as they entered the small clearing, wry grins appearing despite the pain.

      “And I thought I had something to tell you,” J.B. said softly.

      They made their way to the fire and settled uncomfortably.

      “I’m going to see if there’s any painkillers in Mildred’s pockets,” Krysty said, rising to move over to the sodden jacket and rifling through the pockets to see what was left. To her surprise, many of the medical supplies were still within the capacious pockets, having stayed there despite the turbulence and immersion of the short voyage. As they were all vacuum-packed or shrink-wrapped to keep them sterile, it was only the outer coverings of the medical supplies that were wet. Some pills and dressings that had already been opened were ruined, but these were in the minority as Mildred had filled her pockets as much as possible before leaving the redoubt. Although the supplies she had carried in her satchel were forever lost, the supplies she’d stashed in her jacket pockets would do for the time being.

      So Krysty was able to give J.B. and Ryan painkillers. She checked the Armorer’s calf, but there was no outward sign of injury. And as Ryan gritted his teeth and swore at the pain, she took a roll of sealed bandage, broke it open and began to bind his ribs. Like the one-eyed man himself, she and the rest of the group were only too well aware that he would be slowed up for some time, leaving him vulnerable. But at least his ribs would be secured as much as possible and they could begin to mend.

      All the while Jak kept his attention divided between the group around the fire and the darkness beyond the clearing, trying to discern any movement and to identify the danger he knew was there.

      “What is it?” Ryan asked simply.

      Jak shook his head distractedly. “Dunno. Something, but good at keeping cover.”

      Ryan sucked on his hollow tooth. “Okay, we’re not in any shape to go to it, so we have to let it come to us. I figure if nothing else, if it gets too close, at least Jak’ll be able to hear it coming, if not all of us. Stay triple-red. Meantime, we need to see what we can do about Mildred.”

      The painkillers had begun to kick in and both Ryan and J.B. were able to move a little more freely without the harsh reminder of pain to bring their injuries to mind. The companions gathered around Mildred.

      Krysty pulled back the doctor’s eyelid. The eyeball was still rolled back into her head, the pupil lost to view. She had no fever, and there was no cut anywhere on her head, just an egglike lump near the top of her skull, where she had hit the ocean with force. She was breathing regularly and easily now.

      “Why won’t she come around?” J.B. asked of no one in particular.

      “It is nothing more than a manifestation of concussion,” Doc said quietly. “There is nothing we can do, no matter how frustrating it may be, other than sit and wait.”

      “Yeah, but how much time do we have?” Ryan countered.

      Doc fixed him with a stare. “How much time does she need?”

      “I don’t know,” Krysty said, “but I figure now is the time to risk something she once told me about—she’s been out too long.”

      “What?” J.B. asked worriedly.

      “Adrenaline. Just a little shot. It may just jolt her out of this.”

      “And if it doesn’t?”

      Krysty shrugged. “We sit back and wait. Just the one shot, no more. That’s what she said.” Krysty opened Mildred’s shirt and pulled out one arm, the muscle still taut despite her state. The veins in the crook of her elbow stood out like a relief map.

      Krysty wet her lips, dry with nerves. “Dean, look through Mildred’s pockets and try to find a shot of adrenaline. She must have some, otherwise she wouldn’t have told me about it or how to inject it. And let’s hope it wasn’t in her satchel.”

      THE WARRIORS WERE SWIFT, silent and sure. This was their land and they knew every last inch of it. They picked their way across the foliage and roots in pitch black, using the darkness of their skins as extra camouflage. Their clothes were blacks, browns and muted shades of green, perfect camou for the woods in both light and dark. They carried their blasters across their backs and holstered, sure of themselves not to need them in hand at this time. The blasters were a motley collection of Glocks, Heckler & Kochs, and Colt handblasters that had been looted and garnered over the year before skydark by their ancestors, who had bargained and bartered for a stockpile of ammo that was still extant.

      They didn’t often encounter outsiders on the island. It was a difficult place to get to or to get away from. So their community had been insular, aware of the outside and yet protected from it. Their ancestors had soon become wise to the problems of inbreeding, so the community was kept small, the breeding between them strictly monitored to keep any such problems to a minimum. It could be done if a people had discipline, and a cause.

      They had such.

      Yet despite the lack of outsiders to test them, they were a disciplined and slick community. Much of their meat was farmed, but some came from the wildlife on the island. And that wildlife was as likely to be predator as prey. The outsiders had been lucky to arrive on that stretch of beach at that time of day.

      Perhaps not so lucky.

      The warriors usually hunted with knives or bow and arrow. Rarely did they use the precious ammo, except in their practice, kept to a carefully worked minimum. They were sharp with both forms of chilling.

      So when word had reached the ville that there were strangers landed on the south shore, the warriors had soon been ready and had tracked the strangers, keeping their distance.

      The outsiders hadn’t spotted them, although the albino had seemed aware of something out of the ordinary. The others seemed to pose little threat. Two of them seemed hurt, two were either young or female and two were unconscious. One of these had since come around, but the other was a sister, and was still out.

      Why did they have her? What could they want with her?

      The strangers had moved away from the fire they had built and were clustering around her. The woman was leaning over the sister, tearing at her clothing. She had already handled her in a way that was undignified, and they talked of her in coarse terms—their whole language and mode of speech coarse.

      Barbarians. They could only mean the sister harm.

      They ripped her clothing, and now one of them—the young one with curly hair, not the older curly haired, one-eyed stranger—was rummaging through a jacket, looking for something. He produced a package, which he unwrapped to reveal a needle.

      They were going to use it on the sister.

      The warriors exchanged hand signals, their eyes attuned to the darkness by long nights on patrol. They moved around to circle the clearing, their progress swift and silent. At a signal from their leader, repeated rapidly from man to man, they moved forward, blasters ready.

      “WAIT!” JAK BARKED, suddenly turning as Krysty was about to plunge the needle into Mildred.

      “What?” she snapped, feeling her hair tighten as danger suddenly signaled itself near.

      “Men closing,” Jak returned, palming another knife so that he had one in each hand. “All around.”

      “Fireblast,” Ryan cursed as he moved stiffly. His reactions were slowed, but then, so were the reactions of the others.

      Before any of them had a chance to adopt a fighting stance, they were surrounded by warriors who emerged stealthily from cover. They were holding blasters. One of them stepped forward. More than six feet, broad and muscular, and with an air of authority, he was obviously the leader. When he spoke, it was in a rich, dark voice of deep timbre that carried that authority like a prize in front of him.

      “Though