Chapter Two

      The tumultuous sky above the U.S. Virgin Islands was a solid bank of moving gray clouds. The roiling heavens split asunder as sheet lighting flashed on the horizon, leaving an ionized trail of purple across the ravaged clouds. Huge waves rose to white crests and crashed onto the rocky shoreline of the tropical island with triphammer force.

      Dotting the white-sand beaches were the rusted hulks of predark warships, their massive metal forms lolling sideways, the armored hulls split open like dying animals to expose the complex interiors to the savage pounding rains. The corroded remains of cannons and missiles lay in plain sight and thousands of small blue crabs moved freely among the wreckage, consuming anything organic that was to be found: bones, boots and uniforms. Fluttering in the harsh rain, the faded remains of a flag hung from the end of the mast of a yacht. The cloth was bleached white, the crumbling keel covered with barnacles, the smashed hull charred badly in spots from numerous lightning strikes.

      “This nuking storm is never going to end,” Ryan Cawdor stated, staring angrily at the savage ocean.

      Impulsively, the one-eyed man reached up to adjust the worn leather patch covering the ruin of his left eye. His own brother had taken the organ in a knife fight, and given him a long ugly scar on the right cheek to go with it. But Harvey was under the dirt now, while Ryan was still sucking air, and that was all that truly mattered. The ancient marks of violence on his face were merely two small memories among countless others decorating his hard, muscular body.

      Ryan’s hand rested comfortably on the checkered grip of his SIG-Sauer autoloader safely secreted in a hip holster. A large panga in a curved sheath balanced the deadly weapon on his other hip, and a bolt-action longblaster with a telescopic sight was slung across his wide, muscular shoulder.

      “Yeah, hell of a storm,” J. B. Dix agreed, lowering the brim of his fedora as if for a bit more protection.

      A good foot shorter than his friend, John Barrymore Dix was wearing a mixture of predark clothing: U.S. Army boots, fatigue pants, OD T-shirt and a leather Air Force bomber jacket. His weapons shone like new, lovingly polished and oiled every night by the master armorer. An Uzi machine pistol was draped across his chest, an S&W M-4000 shotgun slung across his back. However, the munitions bag that carried his stash of plas and grens was hanging flat at his side. The canvas satchel was sadly empty, aside from a few loose rounds of brass and a couple of predark civie road flares of questionable service.

      Standing in the access tunnel of the underground re doubt, the two men were safe from the touch of the deadly acid rain outside, yet they carefully watched as the chem-rich water fell like a yellow curtain across the mouth of the passageway. The acid rain was mixing with normal rain, orange clouds mixing with black in the violent sky overhead. They hoped it was a good sign for the future, that the acid rains were starting to fade away. But that didn’t lull them into a false sense of security. In less than a minute, the deadly yellow rain could strip a shrieking man of flesh down to his raw bones, in spite of being weakened by the presence of the clean water shower. Of course the strength of the acid rain depended on many factors, one of which was a person’s location in the Deathlands.

      “Seen worse.” Ryan grunted, rubbing his smoothly shaved chin. “But not by much, that’s for sure.”

      With all that useless water outside, the salty ocean and the acid rain, it had seemed amazing to the companions that the machinery of the redoubt had been still able to deliver all the crystal-clear water the companions wanted the previous night. Everything Ryan was wearing, predark combat boots, denim pants and matching shirt, were in the unusual state of being thoroughly clean. Even his heavy fur-lined coat had gone through the wash, the accumulated blood, mud and food stains purged by the gently chugging laundry machines down on the fifth level. The companions were showered and shaved, warm and clean, a rare treat for anybody these days, and everyone except Krysty Wroth had had his or her hair trimmed.

      “I hear ya,” J.B. said, blinking at the tempest through his wire-rimmed glasses. “Dark night, remember that big wash in Tennessee? That was nothing compared to this mother of a storm!”

      “And those ruins are so damn close,” Ryan muttered darkly, tensing as if about to take a step outside. But then he relaxed and frowned.

      “Mebbe if we had an APC we could chance a run,” J.B. added, crossing his arms. “But I’d sure hate to be the first to try!”

      Sullenly, Ryan grunted in agreement. Yeah, a man would have to be pretty damn desperate to risk going into the hellish downpour. Even this deep in the tunnel, the reek of the chem storm was thickly unpleasant. Only the cool breeze coming from the open door of the redoubt behind allowed them to stand this close to the reeking miasma of the rain.

      Just then, a huge wave crashed on the rocky shoreline and lightning flashed again, the strident discharge briefly illuminating the area. In the blue light, just for a split tick, Ryan and J.B. could see the ruins of a predark city filling the eastern side of the island. Tall skyscrapers of glass and chrome were still standing downtown, apparently undamaged by the nuke war or the ravages of time. Five, six, some of them even ten stories tall! And scattered about the buildings could be seen the steady unblinking glow of electric lights. Powered by resilient nuke batteries, the old beacons were still giving a warning for airplanes that had ceased to exist a hundred winters earlier. There weren’t many of the lights, only a precious handful. But the beacons shone bright as hope in the tropical storm.

      Hunching his shoulders, Ryan frowned. But there was something there even more important than the electric lights. Surrounding the buildings on every side was a thick forest of green trees, the oddly shaped leaves shiny-slick from