Frank nodded in its direction, whispered, “You think that pistol can stop these guys, if they’re as big and bad as the locals say?”
Burnfingers indicated the gun. “This ‘pistol,’ my friend, is a four-fifty-four. It’s loaded with two hundred and forty grain hollow-jacket bullets and packs about a ton of firing power. That’s about twice what you’d get out of a forty-four magnum. It’ll put a hole through quarter-inch steel plate at twenty-five yards.”
Frank just nodded. “Then I guess it’ll stop ’em.” He tapped the plastic bag that rocked between them. It made a hollow, ringing sound. “If we get out of this, the rental company’s not going to believe what we did with some of their stuff.”
“Tell them to send me the bill.” Burnfingers’s attention was concentrated on the firelight ahead. They were close enough now to make out the outline of the island. “Look there, off to your left. And keep your voice down.”
Frank complied. When he saw what Burnfingers had pointed to he had to choke down his instinctive reaction to cry out.
A large cage fashioned of scrap lumber and hammered metal strips squatted on the island’s west end. Firelight showed clearly the three figures seated within. Alicia was cradling someone in her arms. Probably Steven, but it could have been Wendy. Frank half expected to hear the discordant sounds of his daughter’s portable stereo, until he remembered that it had been traded away for room and board in a glitzy hotel on another reality line.
As for the remainder of the island, what they could see of it by firelight against the night was childish ruination, technology become slum. Salvaged sheet metal wrapped crudely around weathered two-by-fours. Plastic paneling made a flimsy barrier against the wind. Of stone there was none.
But the skeletal remains of the original playground equipment remained, bolted to subterranean foundations. A thin wisp of steel had been a curling slide. Lumpish iron spaghetti once served as a jungle gym for children to climb. The small merry-go-round was a battered, wounded giant’s top.
Firepits lined with scrap metal blazed in the darkness. Figures crossed regularly in front of the light, and Frank’s hackles rose at the sight of the inhuman silhouettes. His companion’s reaction, however, was only one of anger and anticipation.
“Those are the bastards who killed me. They are going to be surprised.”
“I thought the idea was for them not to see us.”
Burnfingers’s excitement subsided somewhat. “Yes, that is so. Well, they would have been surprised. If not for your family I would go in swinging, so I suppose I should give thanks for circumstance saving me from myself. There is no word in Comanche for ‘prudence.’” He nodded. “Let us try to work our way around to the left, behind the cage.”
There was a guard, as minimal as it was relaxed. Apparently they believed that isolation and reputation would be sufficient to discourage any possible attack, and with good reason. None of the cityfolk had willingly come close to the island. Despite this, the intruders were spotted—by a tired mutant convinced he saw nothing more threatening than a floating shapeless mass of flotsam.
As they rounded the western end of the island, Burnfingers and Frank had to kick a little harder to advance against a light breeze. Fortunately the wind wasn’t any stronger, or it might have pushed them out onto the endless expanse of lake.
Then they were bumping dry land. No trees and only a few forlorn, isolated bushes survived on this part of the island, where once laughing children had played hide-and-seek among lovingly tended landscaping. Frank was cold despite the warm brine on which they drifted. If his neighbors didn’t grow up, the same disaster could befall his own reality. Never in his life had he longed for anything the way he now longed for the familiar, friendly confines of his home and office.
They could overhear the mutants talking, their broken English full of postapocalyptic slang. While he and Begay lay motionless, two of the guards turned and walked off, leaving only one of their number standing in front of the cage. He was five feet tall and weighed two hundred pounds.
It was Wendy whom Alicia comforted in her lap. Steven was kneeling by the back of the cage, tossing pebbles against one another. Frank started to rise and move forward, only to find himself held back.
Burnfingers’s eyes burned into his own. “Leave the necessary business to me, Frank.”
“It’s my family.”
“True, but you only sell athletic virtue, remember?”
It hurt Frank’s pride to admit his companion was right. So he nodded and relaxed, making sure he kept a firm grip on their makeshift raft lest the wind carry it off.
Burnfingers seemed to travel below the surface as he slithered upslope toward the cage. Even though he knew where to look, Frank couldn’t see his friend against the weeds and rank grass.
Then he knew where Begay was because he saw Steven stiffen. A hand rose from the darkness in front of the boy’s face. He nodded slowly, glanced back toward his mother, and kept silent.
Good boy, Frank thought anxiously. That’s a smart kid.
Burnfingers worked his way around the side of the cage. Frank heard Alicia gasp softly as a mountainous shadow rose up before her. The guard heard, too, and managed to turn halfway around before the shadow enveloped him. Then both vanished. Frank thought he’d seen a knife flash once, decided he didn’t want to dwell on it.
The next time he saw the knife, it was sawing at the twine and wire that held the wooden bars together. This patient work continued interminably, until shapes emerged from the cage and ran toward him. Steven first, then Wendy. Alicia would require a wider gap to slip through.
His children stumbled into his arms. Wendy was moaning “Daddy, Daddy!” over and over despite his whispered attempts to shush her. When he was finally able to get their attention, he used his hands to indicate they were to lie flat against the raft.
“Help me back this off,” he whispered to them. They complied, making more noise with their kicking than he’d hoped. Now that they were free he was finding it difficult to restrain his own impulse to swim like mad for dry land.
Alicia was running to join them, Burnfingers leading her by the hand. With the children’s help the raft was off to a good start.
That was when Alicia slipped and fell.
It wasn’t much of a splash, but several of the island’s permanent inhabitants had larger ears than normal. Shouts began to dominate the conversation around the firepits.
“Dammit! Kick harder!”
“I am, Daddy, I am!” Steven flailed at the water with his stubby legs.
“Please don’t let them take us again, Daddy!” Wendy was sobbing. “Please don’t. They were going to—”
“Then kick, kick for your lives!” No reason for stealth now that their presence had been detected.
Burnfingers Begay half heaved Alicia onto the raft alongside her husband. There wasn’t even time enough for a welcoming kiss. The waterlogged mattresses dipped alarmingly under the family’s weight.
Light lit the water around their feet, reflected from an old coal-oil lantern. Louder shouts now, dominated by outraged shrieks. Then a deep, rolling boooom that echoed like thunder across the lake as Burnfingers got off a shot from his monstrous handgun. Confusion mixed with the initial outrage at their escape.
Alicia kicked wildly. “They took us. I tried to call out to you but there wasn’t time, there wasn’t any time at all. They took us away and brought us here.”
“They didn’t …?” He left the unnecessary unfinished.
She shook her head. “They didn’t have time. But they were going to. They touched us and grinned these awful grins.” She tried to see across the shallow black water. “Where’s Mouse?”
