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supplies," she said, stretching. "But I suppose there's no way to haul them
along."
"We can make backpacks," Ryan said, standing. Wading around the stationary
raft, he peeled away the canvas sheet and took stock of the jumbled boxes.
"Bare essentials. Only food and ammo. We each get one gren, J.B. gets the rest
of the explosives, Mildred any medical supplies. Leave the rest."
"Dry socks," Jak added sternly. "Live in swamp, dry socks save feet."
"He's right," Mildred said, respectfully appraising the teenager. "This place
is a breeding ground for fungus. We'll change our socks every time we break
for food, and I'll spare some sulfur to try and keep out infections."
"Swamps," Doc muttered, fluffing the muddy frills of his shirt. "Sweet
nature's
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Axler,_James_-_Deathlands_47_-_Gaia's_Demise toilet."
Everybody laughed, but it was Mildred's comment that struck a resonating cord
within Ryan, and once again he debated the wisdom of their goal. Should they
be heading for the town of Shiloh, or the site of the infamous Civil War
battle? The historic Shiloh was only a few miles away from a redoubt. Shiloh
ville won the debate because it was closer.
"Might as well get moving," J.B. said, wiping off his palms with a moist
towelette included in the MRE pack. "Miles to go before we sleep and all that,
eh, Doc?"
"Without a doubt, my friend."
As the companions rose, the raft moved unexpectedly, floating to the surface
of the dirty water.
"Dark night," the man whispered in surprise. "Salt water is more buoyant than
fresh."
"Is this deep enough?" Krysty asked, lifting a boot and inspecting the
water-mark level.
Mildred pushed at the logs with a hand, and they moved. "Seems so, yeah."
"There's no current," Dean said, crossing his arms. "Are we going to drag it
behind?"
Splashing closer, Ryan was already at the rear of the craft, lifting the
mooring lines from the mulch and testing their strength. "Half of us will
push," he stated, "the rest can drag."
ROWS UPON ROWS of cots filled the makeshift hospital of Front Royal,
temporarily located inside the long dining hall of Cawdor Castle. The great
table had been moved to the end of the hall and converted into a surgical bed,
leather straps draped over the bloodstained surface to hold down the sec men
who needed
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Axler,_James_-_Deathlands_47_-_Gaia's_Demise limbs removed or other major
surgery. The ville's supply of predark ether had been used up the first day,
and now the healer poured shine down the throats of his patients until they
fell unconscious.
Thankfully, the screams of agony hadn't been heard in days. The seriously hurt
were out of their misery, dead and buried, either from the wounds they
received in battle, or from the meatball surgery trying to save them. The rest
of the brown shirts and civilians lay on the simple cots, waiting for medical
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attention to their bullet wounds and stumps. The air reeked of feces, whiskey
and blood, and the painful moaning never stopped, day or night.
Several of the local gaudy sluts moved among the patients emptying bedpans
into a wheelbarrow they pushed along. In this time of emergency, everybody in
the ville worked. On the other side of the long hall, a pair of children
carried a steaming wooden bucket of freshly brewed tea from the kitchen.
Carefully, they filled the cup next to each cot. If the cup was full, they
dumped it on the floor and filled it with fresh. Made from old willow bark,
Healer Mildred had said the brew would help some of the wounded with their
pain. Amazingly, it did with some, but others not at all.
Kneeling alongside a sec man who had been crushed by falling rocks during the
war, the new healer adjusted the folded blanket under his head. "There, is
that better?" Sullivan asked softly.
"No," the sec man moaned. "Neck still hurts& "
Irritably, Sullivan grabbed the trooper by the throat and savagely twisted.
There was a snap, and the patient went limp.
"See?" the mutie whispered in amusement. "I said that I could end your pain."
There was no reply.
Moving to the next patient, Sullivan found the man soundly asleep. Good. They
should all fall asleep, then die. There were plenty of troops in the world to
replace them, so why did Baron Cawdor worry about a few damaged people. It
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