Iron Rage. James Axler

and her friends were exceptions, of course, although they were willing hands. All had been aboard ships a number of times. They did what they could and nobody complained. When it came to fighting, it was the river-boaters who were second string.

      And she already knew that it would come to fighting. Because if the patrol boats or heavy ironclads didn’t sink them with their blasters, they would wind up having to seek shelter somewhere in the deceptively green, rad- and mutie-haunted countryside around them.

      Plus it always came down to fighting, sooner or later. These were the Deathlands.

      Ryan was already half carrying her forward at a good clip. Several of the crew raced on ahead, maneuvering carefully past to avoid jostling the pair. They were on good terms, along with being nominally on the same side, but none of the Queen’s complement was eager to cross any of the newcomers. Least of all their tall, one-eyed wolf of a leader. Or his woman.

      The rest of the companions followed Ryan and Krysty. They were never eager to race toward danger, at least when that wasn’t called for. Except Jak, who scampered forward along the cabin roof like a white two-legged squirrel.

      On the bridge Trace Conoyer was standing determinedly on her own, next to the wheel, where Nataly was still piloting the boat. The captain’s right arm had been safety-pinned to the captain’s shirt to discourage her from waving it around. Mildred hovered next to her, watching her like an anxious mother. “They’ve opened fire,” Nataly said in her flat voice. She never seemed excited.

      A waterspout blew up out of the river right in front of them. Droplets struck Krysty in the face, without much force.

      â€œSteady as she goes,” the captain said. She shouted into a speaking tube down to the engine room to maintain full speed.

      â€œBut, Captain,” Nataly said. For the first time her voice betrayed emotion. She sounded worried now. “We’re heading right into their cannon!”

      â€œPoteetville patrol boats aren’t that much farther behind us,” J.B. called from the open door. The door-slam sound of the shot that had produced the splash hit Krysty’s ears.

      â€œSteady as she goes,” Conoyer repeated. She was leaning forward, gripping the lower sill of the now-vacant front port with her left hand so hard her knuckles whitened. “On my word, turn her hard aport, smartly as you can.”

      The mate glanced nervously aside. Her steely veneer was showing serious cracks now.

      â€œAye-aye, Captain,” she said.

      Ryan, J.B., Doc and Ricky had pushed onto the bridge with Krysty. Jak was doing whatever he was doing, as he usually did. Under the circumstances, he was as helpless as the rest of them. Arliss had come in with them. The rest of the Queen’s crew had dispersed elsewhere.

      Flashes flickered from the bows of the oncoming craft. “Get down!” Ryan commanded.

      He did as he ordered, although he stayed just high enough to peer out the front port. Krysty did likewise. She realized he had likely ordered his people down to reduce the targets they offered. She doubted the wooden front of the cabin would offer any resistance to a solid cannonball. It had not been built for that.

      â€œYou too, Nataly,” Trace ordered. After a dubious glance her way, the mate hunkered as low as she could and still see to steer.

      The captain stayed erect. “Mildred, stay hunkered down too, but please help me stand. I need to see.”

      Mildred reached out and grabbed her hips to steady her.

      A shot whined overhead, then the ship was racked by a shuddering crash that seemed to come up through the deck by way of Krysty’s knee and boot sole. Another crash came from somewhere astern.

      â€œCaptain,” Maggie called, coming up the hatch from below, “the bow’s been holed below the waterline. We’re taking on a lot of—”

      Something moaned by Krysty’s head, between her and Ryan. A hot breath blew across her face. She saw a lock of her lover’s curly black hair tweaked briefly out from his head as by invisible fingers.

      From behind she heard a strange squelching noise, followed by another sound of rending wood. Something like hot rain fell on her shoulders and back. She heard a sizable amount of liquid hit the planks of the deck.

      She and Ryan both turned. His lone blue eye was wide.

      Maggie stood a step away from the hatch below. Or rather her slight torso did. Her head was missing entirely. A pulse of blood shot up from the terrible vacancy between her shoulders, then her headless trunk toppled down the ladder.

      Ricky puked. The stink of vomit, added to the reek of fresh blood, excrement, burned flesh and lingering peppery gunpowder smell, made Krysty’s head spin.

      â€œArliss,” Trace snapped without turning, “get every hand available to work the bilge-pumps.”

      His wrinkled, sunburned face was white beneath his beard, but he bobbed his head. “Aye, Captain.”

      He vanished below, slipping slightly in Maggie’s blood.

      â€œCaptain,” Nataly said in a strained voice, “those blasterboats are getting mighty close—”

      â€œOn my mark, start your turn to port,” the captain said. Nataly stood back upright, her hands white on the wheel.

      â€œDon’t see much of a break, up ahead,” J.B. murmured.

      Krysty didn’t, either. The summer-green reeds and rushes on the left bank waved in the breeze in a line unbroken as far as the eye could see. She realized Ryan was gripping her arm, tightly enough to hurt, but she didn’t say anything. It reassured her more than it felt bad.

      â€œThree,” Trace said. “Two…”

      â€œCaptain, I don’t see—” Nataly began.

      â€œNow! Hard aport!”

      â€œBut it’s just land!”

      â€œNow, nuke it, do it now!”

      Ryan let go of Krysty’s arm. He started to grab for the wheel.

      But Nataly, her normally narrow eyes now saucer-wide, began to crank the big spoked wheel counterclockwise for all she was worth. The Mississippi Queen began to heel to the right as her bow swung left.

      They were curving toward what indeed looked to Krysty like solid land at a good rate of speed. She gripped the sill in front of her with her right hand and Ryan’s arm with her left. Bracing was the only thing she could think of to do.

      The vessel shuddered to another hit.

      The land rushed toward them. Krysty held her breath.

      â€œBy the Three Kennedys!” Doc crowed from behind them. “I see it!”

      Then Krysty did, too. The weeds were thinner directly in front of them, stretching twenty or twenty-five yards to either side. The Queen’s bow slid smoothly among them, right into a channel Krysty would have bet her life a few seconds ago was not there.

      â€œLadies, gentlemen,” Trace said, “welcome to Wolf Creek.”

      An explosion came from behind. It was as loud as rolling thunder, and made the stout little vessel rock violently back and forth. Instantly Krysty’s keen nostrils smelled fresh smoke, and not just of burned black powder.

      â€œThere’s another fire in the cabin,” Avery yelled from the hatch in the aft bulkhead.

      â€œGet anybody who’s not pumping out the hull to fight the fire, Avery,” Trace ordered. Her voice was getting as thin as hope.

      â€œThat’s