swivel-mounted to spray 180 degrees of water approach with predark alloys of lead.
The price of sitting on a gold mine was eternal vigilance.
And the gold mine in question was above ground and visible for miles in all directions.
In the furious aftermath of Armageddon, the Yoko Maru, a container ship loaded with substandard, U.S. market-reject merchandise bound for Brazil, had been driven high and dry onto the shoal of Padre Island. The narrow slip of Padre, once two hundred miles long, had been crosscut by category 7 storms into a chain of hundreds of smaller landmasses and barely submerged sandy reefs. The little landmass that Okie and his clan shared with the Yoko Maru stood directly opposite the entrance to Corpus Christi Bay, which had expanded to drown the low-lying Texas port community of the same name. Tidal waves had swept away the pillars and roadway of JFK Causeway Bridge that once connected Padre to the mainland. Postnukecaust, the only access to the island was by boat.
“And then the Vikings jumped in their time dilator and took their war to Mars,” the Fire Talker announced with a dramatic, skyward sweep of his arm. A camouflage survivalist do-rag encircled the itinerant storyteller’s head, layers of duct tape held together his lace-up, Nam-surplus boots. He wore a camouflage hunting vest with overstuffed pockets and no shirt underneath, and a pair of hacked-off, holed-out, olive-drab BDU pants for shorts. “They’re the ones who made the stickies and scalies, the talking lungfish and the celery people,” the entertainer told the audience, his voice rising in pitch and excitement. “It was part of their ancient Norse magic, what they call the Rune Stone Concatenation. And their minions launched a devastating counterattack against the Iroquois Ninja princess’s cloud operatives…”
“For nuke’s sake, get to the fucking point,” someone from the far side of the ring growled.
Grumbles and hisses chimed from all sides. The Nuevo-Texicans, many of whom were sitting in injection-molded, white plastic lawn chairs, were getting more and more restless.
“What about the Matachìn?” someone else prompted. “That’s what we want to hear about.”
“I’m coming to them,” the Fire Talker replied. “Patience, my friends, patience. Past is prologue. It’s important you’re brought up to speed on the real background of recent events…”
Okie noted the halfhearted way this stranger fanned at the swirling mass of skeeters circling his head and shoulders. He didn’t squash a single one, nor did he manage to dislodge the legions feeding on his bare arms and shoulders and speckling his uncovered legs.
The Fire Talker bore vague resemblance to a picture Okie and the others had seen before. It had been stuck inside ten thousand, thin, clear plastic cases they’d found in one of the Yoko Maru’s cargo containers. The predark image was of a brilliantly smiling, blockheaded guy with a dark stubbly beard and eyelashes that were way too long and lush. George Mackerel? Or was it Mackerel George? Okie couldn’t recall. No one on Padre Island had had a clue what the golden disks inside the cases were for. The island’s kids had torn open the cases and used the disks as flying toys. The litter of picture inserts had long since vanished, turned to pulp by torrential rain and washed out to sea. The CDs were still in evidence, stomped to golden bits and scattered through the sand.
Even from a distance, their twenty-acre, windswept island home looked like a garbage dump; downwind it smelled like one. Mounded debris—paper, plastic, wood and metal—smothered the remnants of dunes and dune grasses. All that was missing from the landfill were flocks of seagulls. With the local shortage of fresh meat, roasted gull made a nice change from fish and the other main staple, rat on a stick. Following their noses, the rats kept swimming back across the channel, but the birds weren’t that stupid. Despite the complex and alluring aromas, they rarely overflew the island anymore, and those that did paid dearly for the mistake.
Thirty years before, the first families had caught a glimpse of the grounded ship from the mainland shore. Well-armed and well-provisioned, they had walked the Gulf coastline, up from below the former international border. These offspring of some of the very last Americans, saved from incineration by their Mexican expatriation, had come north to take stock of their squandered inheritance. The original Nuevo-Texicans weren’t patriots. They were scroungers, looking for booty, spoils, something weakly defended to steal, and they had stumbled upon a prize so big they couldn’t shift it, not in a dozen lifetimes, so they had simply moved in.
The Yoko Maru and its bounty had sat rusting and unmolested for seventy years because of ignorance and fear, the twinned lodestones of the reshaped planet. Vast sections of the Gulf Coast were rumored to be so nuke-poisoned as to be impassable. To just set foot there was certain death. That was myth, as the Nuevo-Texicans had soon discovered.
The people of the postnukecaust world knew even less about radiation effects than their progenitors, who didn’t know very much, either, even though mortality data from Hiroshima and Nagasaki was widely available before the arsenal-emptying U.S.-Soviet exchange. Common wisdom posited a quick, horrible demise from radiation overdose when in fact, lethality depended entirely on intensity and exposure time: in the case of Hiroshima victims who weren’t killed in the initial blast and who survived their burns, it had taken twenty-five or thirty years for the damage to fully manifest.
In Deathlands, the odds over a quarter century were infinitely better that something or someone was going to beat rad cancer to the punch.
One of the “somethings” in play were the muties—deadly new creatures that had crawled out of the Apocalyptic ooze to plague and slaughter the vestiges of humankind. Again in error, the survivors blamed this spreading terror on the effects of radiation. Whatever had really come to pass when civilization ended, however the cage doors to hell had been opened, the information necessary to understand it had been lost. And even if it hadn’t been, the struggling humans lacked the ability and inclination to interpret it. In point of fact, the Apocalypse had tainted the invisible genetic material of every living thing: post-nukeday, there were no “norms,” just degrees of mutie. That was an impossible pill for the human survivors to swallow. They had been pitched into a frightening, altered landscape where safety and survival were hard-won, and could be lost in the next instant.
For those reasons, humanity had kept its head squarely between its knees for generations.
News along the ruined Atlantic and Gulf coasts was fragmentary and transmitted by word of mouth from passing traders and wandering storytellers. These infrequent campfire soliloquies were the only entertainment on offer. The Fire Talkers swapped their tales for grub, joy juice and the gratis services of gaudy sluts. On Padre, guest speakers who failed to sufficiently amuse faced a long, almost always fatal, forced swim back to the mainland.
“Cloud operatives are pulling all the strings from their base behind the moon,” the survivalist raconteur asserted.
And was immediately challenged on the facts.
“But you just said they were pawns!” a graybeard on the far side of the ring called out.
“No, I said they might be pawns,” the Fire Talker countered, flashing his startlingly white teeth. “Obviously, there’s a big difference.”
“You didn’t say might,” the graybeard scoffed.
“Yes, I did.”
“No, you didn’t,” the woman sitting beside the graybeard countered.
“What an asshole,” someone catcalled.
Okie had had enough of the tap-dancing, too. Stepping forward, he thrust a grimy finger in the Fire Talker’s
