Plexiglas panels unbroken around the crystal-and-glass beacon atop the tower.
The roof was covered with bird droppings, and piles of seaweed and driftwood partially buried under windblown sand were banked against the base of the tower. The white paint had been removed by sheer passage of time to expose the blue-veined granite blocks composing the building. Unfortunately, there was no door in sight, and fat blue crabs were underfoot everywhere. It seemed as if the more the companions shot, the more crawled out of the water. It was as if the damn creatures were attracted to explosions.
Swinging his shotgun off his shoulder, J. B. Dix rammed the stock of the weapon against the side of the lighthouse. The resulting thud gave no indication of weakness, or even of empty space beyond the adamantine material. The lighthouse was a fortress.
Adjusting his glasses, the wiry man returned the shotgun to its usual position over his shoulder slung opposite the Uzi machine pistol.
“Nothing,” he said, rubbing his unshaved chin. “Anybody got some ideas?”
“Well, the balcony is too high to reach,” Dr. Mildred Wyeth stated, her hand resting on a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. The faded lettering M*A*S*H was almost unreadable, but the bag was neatly patched and contained a meagre store of medical supplies.
Held at her side was a sleek Czech ZKR target pistol, a state trooper gun belt with attached holster strapped over her regular belt. Loops for extra ammo ringed the gun belt, but most of them were empty. The vacant sheath of a small knife peeked from her left boot, and a long thin dagger bearing the logo of the Navy SEALs hung from her belt.
Just then, something blue scuttled around the side of the lighthouse, closely followed by three men armed with blasters, their faces grim and unsmiling. As the crab came close, J.B. crushed it underfoot. The shell burst apart, and the hideously mangled mutie started thrashing about.
“Bastard things are everywhere,” Dean Cawdor complained, kicking the bleeding creature into the waves. It disappeared with a splash. “I killed six more on the other side.”
“Good,” J.B. snorted. “The more aced the better.”
The young boy nodded in agreement. Almost twelve years of age, Dean was beginning to resemble his father in frightening detail and already carried himself with the calm assurance of a seasoned combat veteran. A Browning semiautomatic pistol was in his hand, jacked and ready for trouble. There was a slash across his denim shirt, showing some badly bruised ribs, minor damage incurred from the exploding bridge at Spider Island. A fat leather pouch hung from his belt distended with ammo clips, but the pack rode high, telling of scant ammo in the precious collection of magazines. An oversize bowie knife rode at the small of his back with easy access for either hand.
The nearby waves gently crested on the rough shoreline, foaming and breaking endlessly. A seagull winged silently overhead, something small and wiggling held tight in its deadly beak.
“Normally, a lighthouse would be placed on a cliff or jetty to maximize visibility,” Mildred said thoughtfully, gazing at the railing that encircled the walkway around the beacon on the top level. “Must have been some major earthquakes to move it to sea level.”
“Built to withstand the worst weather possible,” J.B. said. “Only reason it’s still standing after skydark.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Dean said. “There’s no door, so I say we keep walking along the beach.” He hitched up his belt. “We haven’t even covered half of the island yet.”
“Very true, my young friend,” Dr. Theophilus Algernon Tanner rumbled. In a frock coat and frilly shirt, the silver-haired gentleman appeared to be from another era, which, in fact, he was. “Yet the panoramic view offered by the sheer height of this construct should be invaluable in helping to locate your father and Krysty.”
Doc’s clothes were of the finest material and patched in a dozen places. He was leaning on an ebony swordstick, the silver lion’s head peeking out between his fingers, and a mammoth revolver was hung at his waist. The LeMat was a Civil War weapon holding nine .44 rounds, with a single shotgun round under the main barrel. The blaster used black powder, not cordite, but the solid lead miniballs did more damage than a sledgehammer at short range.
“Besides, with the tide comes those damn crabs,” Mildred added grumpily, watching the shoreline for any sign of the nasty muties.
“Indeed, madam. Our local cornucopia of antediluvian crustace is merely another reason why shelter for the night is mandatory,” Doc espoused, baring his astonishingly white teeth.
“Still gotta get inside,” Dean stated stubbornly.
“Tower short,” Jak Lauren said, crossing his lean, muscular white arms.
A true albino, the teenager was dressed in camou fatigues with a bulky Colt Python .357 Magnum hung from his belt. An ammo pouch lay flat at his opposite hip. His camouflage leather jacket was decorated with bits of shiny metal and feathers, and more than one sec man had seized the teenager by the lapels only to have his fingers cut off by the razor blades sewn into the lining. At present, the arms of his jacket were tied around his waist, showing a lot of his pale skin. His hair was shoulder length and bone-white, his red eyes peering out of his scarred face like ruby lasers. More than a dozen leaf-bladed throwing knives were hidden on his person, with two more tucked into his belt. The handle of a gravity knife was visible in his left combat boot.
“Is it?” Dean asked suspiciously. “Looks okay to me.”
Doc walked closer to the structure as if seeing it for the first time. “By the Three Kennedys, it is too short,” he stated in agreement. “By necessity, lighthouses are always tall, sixty to eighty feet high. This is only, say, thirty.”
The man glanced at the ground. “The lower half must be buried beneath the sand. The front door must be buried, twenty, thirty feet underground.”
“It’ll take days to dig that deep by hand,” Mildred said, scowling. There was already traces of purple on the horizon. Night was coming fast.
“Try a gren,” Dean suggested.
“Only got one,” J.B. answered, titling back his fedora. “I’m saving that for an emergency.”
“If we could reach the balcony,” Mildred continued thoughtfully, “then getting inside would be no problem. Even if the door is locked, we could go through the lens itself. Those were made of glass to withstand the searing heat of the beacon.”
J.B. removed his hat, smoothed down his hair, then replaced it. “Sounds good. But how do we get up there?”
“Mayhap there is another way in,” Doc rumbled.
Going to the lighthouse, Doc put his back to the building and gazed out over the field. He appeared to be counting under his breath.
“There!” Doc said, and walked briskly to the end of the sandbar where there was a short stack of rocks covered with seaweed. Removing handfuls of the soggy greenery, Doc exposed not jumbled rocks, but broken bricks. Tossing them aside, he soon exposed a perfectly square hole that went straight down and out of sight.
“It’s a chimney,” J.B. said with a grin, slapping the man on the back. “Good work, Doc. I didn’t know a lighthouse would have a house attached.”
“A cottage, actually,” Doc replied
