Iron Rage by James Axler

from a dead man.”
    * * *
    O H, WELL , R ICKY thought as the water slogged around the raft being slowly towed behind the motor launch. It’s not as if it’s hard keeping noise discipline with Jak for a raft mate. Overhead, what looked like a million stars had no trouble staying silent at all.
    Five of the rafts were strung out behind the lead boat, followed by the unpowered dinghy from the Mississippi Queen . Ryan and Krysty rode in the tow boat, with a morose Myron.
    At least he’s piped down, Ricky thought, less charitably than he would have liked. When they’d started out, about one in the morning by J.B.’s chron, the actingcaptain had wailed like a lonely puppy as they pulled away from the abandoned tug.
    Piloting the boat, and by extension the whole waterborne caravan, was Abner. Ryan, Krysty and Myron were his passengers. Ricky and Jak were on the second raft with their packs, behind the one carrying Arliss and Sean. They lay on their bellies, because Avery had warned them in bloodcurdling terms not to try sitting, much less standing, on the lumpy bundles of tied-together logs. Ricky didn’t trust theirs anyway, so he had little trouble obeying. Jak would go ahead and get up and dance on the horrible thing if he took a mind to. But he was so coordinated he could probably get away with it without making the raft come apart or tipping it over. Ricky was not that coordinated, and was painfully aware of the fact.
    Doc rode on the raft immediately following theirs with Jake. Avery and Suzan rode the fourth. The fifth raft was loaded with supplies, mostly food and extra ammo. In the trail boat were J.B., Mildred, Nataly and Santee, primarily because none of the rafts would safely carry him.
    Ricky moaned, but softly, as the turbulence of the Wolf Creek waters blending with those of the mighty Sippi rocked the raft. He saw Jak laughing silently at him.
    A killdeer flew overhead, low but invisible, its passage marked by its shrill staccato tweets. It was one of the few mainland birds Ricky had learned to recognize by sound, simply because they were so common and distinctive. The smell of water was thick inhis nostrils, emphasized by actual water slopping over the cut-up saplings of the raft to hit him in the face or soak his clothes. He could also smell the tang of burned black powder, and the more appealing smells of food cooking.
    The lead boat was turning south. Its engine purred on low RPM, barely audible even this close by. The sloshing water was louder. Ricky had been told it was a tricky maneuver, towing a series of rafts around a turn like that. He looked back nervously, but the other craft seemed to follow in an effortless arc.
    They rode toward the New Vickville fleet. Lights burned among the ships, enough to show there were about a dozen sizable ships there, two or three of them scary big. He couldn’t tell for sure because it looked as if their silhouettes overlapped. From somewhere ahead he heard a fiddle being played.
    Ricky wondered what time it was—how long until dawn, mostly. Nataly and Abner had calculated they needed about three hours to reach the New Vick fleet. Maybe less, probably not much more. They planned to slide in close to the western shore and hug it as close as possible to reduce their chances of being seen.
    Arliss had expressed surprise that they’d set out so early. “I thought half an hour before sunrise was the best time to make a move,” he’d said, “because the human mind and body are at their lowest ebb then.”
    â€œThey are,” Ryan had told him. “The light gets trickiest then, too, and it’s hard to see right. But we’re not trying a sneak attack. We’re trying to sneak by. We wantto be a mile or more south of the fleet when the sun comes up.”
    He turned his face to the side so he could roll one eye up to the sky. It was still black, although he could see some shadowy streaks where a few high lines of