Judas Strike. James Axler

      “Hold it a sec,” Ryan said, going to the edge of the balcony.

      Looking out over the island, he could see only sand and weeds, the crumbling ruins of some predark skyscrapers jutting from the earth like the bones of a colossus. Then he studied the ruins more closely and realized those were the skeletons of warships, not houses. Carriers, battleships, destroyers, the maritime might of the predark world lay embedded in the dunes, their vaunted armor peeled away to reveal the bare inner layers of struts, and rusting keels. Those were useless. Anything valuable on board had been long ago destroyed by the wind and the surf.

      Out to sea, there was empty water to their left and right, the calm expanse broken only by the occasional splash of a fish jumping at the reflected light of the setting sun. However, to the east were neat rows of thin islands, each slightly higher than the one before, steadily rising toward the north. Their island was about in the middle of the formation.

      “Looks like the sea bed buckled upward from nuke quakes,” he said, waiting for the throbbing in his leg to subside.

      Krysty shielded her vision from the setting sun. “Some sort of a ville three, no, four islands over,” she said, gesturing with her chin. “I see a big wall, and smoke.”

      Extracting a device from his munitions bag, J.B. extended the antique Navy telescope to its full length. The device compacted to smaller than a soup can, but had much better range than even the best predark binocs.

      “Yeah, it’s a ville,” he said. “Big one, too, with one hell of a good wall.”

      “Cold Harbor?” Dean asked anxiously, his young face fiercely stern.

      “Nope, someplace new.”

      “Good,” the boy grunted. “Any place better than there.”

      Leaning against the railing to support himself, Ryan took a turn at the telescope. “These nearby islands are only a hundred or so yards away from each other. Be an easy swim.”

      “Except for the crabs,” Krysty said, pausing so they could hear the endless scraping from below.

      “Let’s go inside,” Mildred suggested, heading for the open door of the beacon room. “Get away from those things.”

      Trundling inside the framed structure on top of the granite tower, the companions found it stifling hot behind the glass walls. But as the heavy glass door closed, the sounds of the fighting crabs and crashing waves completely vanished. Silence reigned supreme.

      “Perhaps it would be wise to leave the door open,” Doc suggested. “We shall be needing cross ventilation from the chimney to breathe downstairs.”

      “Right,” Dean said with a nod, and propped the door ajar with a pile of the rope.

      The central area of the beacon room was small, the huge lens assembly taking up most of the space. The walls were thick glass with massive support columns every few feet. The floor was only three feet wide and circled the beacon until reaching a steep set of wrought-iron stairs with no railing. Support was offered by grabbing hold of the steel column the stairs wound around.

      Ryan looked at his son. “Any problems downstairs?”

      “The place is empty,” Dean replied, scrunching one side of his face. “Except for the dead guy.”

      “Hey, what if the crabs get inside through the chimney flue!”

      “I closed the flue,” Dean replied. “No way they’re getting through plate steel.”

      “Good. Smart move.”

      “Mighty hot,” Jak said, loosening his collar.

      “Greenhouse effect,” Mildred muttered, a bead of sweat trickling down her cheek. “Sunlight comes in and the heat gets trapped.”

      “Like a magnifying glass?”

      “Sort of, yes.”

      Screwing the cap back on his canteen, Ryan wiped his mouth on a sleeve. He knew that explanation wasn’t quite right, but let it pass.

      Taking a sip from his canteen, Doc wandered closer to the huge prism and lens assembly that dominated the middle of the room. The intricately carved glass lens stood six feet high, with concentric circles cut in short arcs on the thick glass, the reflective prisms spaced evenly around a central bull’s-eye-style magnifying glass. Behind the lens was some sort of a mechanism with a silvery reflecting dish.

      “A first-order Fresnel lens,” Doc said, sounding impressed. “This must have been some very bad water. These are extremely powerful.”

      “Yeah? How far?” Dean asked, fingering the pattern on the thick glass.

      “Twenty miles, or so I have been told,” Doc replied. “And since the horizon is only seven miles away, that gives it quite a decent range.”

      Jak scowled at the information. After night fell, they could see far, but the beam itself would broadcast their presence to the world. No good. He had no wish to face another of the baron’s PT boats until they had more blasters. Maybe even some of those Firebird rockets, too.

      “Fresnel?” Mildred asked curiously, rubbing her neck with a damp cloth.

      Leaning on his ebony swordstick, Doc pursed his lips. “A Frenchman, I believe. I have a cousin who retired from the Navy and became a lighthouse keeper. He used to regale my dear Emily and I at every opportunity with stories about the new types of lenses, and such. Poor man was always afraid the Confederate Army would smash his beacon to make Union Army supply ships crash on the shore. Odd fellow.”

      His smile fading, Doc blinked several times. “Why, even after the Civil War was over…” The gentleman paused, his voice taking on a soft quality. “Is the war over? Only last week, we heard about Lee crossing the Potomac. Or was it last month?”

      As he wandered off, the others paid the man no attention. Doc often slipped into the past, but always returned if there was trouble. Privately, Mildred envied the man slightly. At least for a few brief minutes, he was back among his family and friends, a land without radiation or muties. As time passed, she found it ever harder to recall her life before awakening in the cryo unit and joining Ryan. Sometimes, she even imagined that this had always been her life and the past was but a dream from childhood. On impulse, she reached out and took J.B. by the hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. The man turned and smiled at her, maintaining the intimate contact.

      “Something wrong, Millie?” J.B. asked softly.

      Only he called her that. She had always been Mildred to her family and associates. The past had many pleasures: clean sheets, pizza, air-conditioning, cable TV, but there had never been a man in her life like John. He was worth the violence and horrors of the Deathlands. To be with him was worth any price.

      “Not a thing, John,” she said with a smile. “Just thinking.”

      Giving her a hug, J.B. released her hand and continued his examination of the huge lens.

      “What’s the light source for the beacon?” Ryan asked, grabbing hold of a ceiling to rest his leg.

      “Electric,” J.B. replied, then grinned. “Which means generators and juice in the basement.”

      “Emergency jenny, if nothing else,” Ryan agreed. The generator was old, but still serviceable. “If the baron’s sec men haven’t located the gateway, we might find enough juice here to operate the generators and still leave these islands. Dean, show us the way.”

      “Yes, sir!” The boy started down the steep stairs with the immortal assurance of youth.

      Taking Doc by the elbow, Krysty guided the mumbling old man down the stairs along with the others. The wealth of light reflecting off the lenses and prisms of the beacon cast bizarre shadows down the circular staircase, and the companions had to light candles before even reaching halfway down.

      “This is the spot,” Dean said, playing the