"Yeah," said Sherri. "That gives us seven hours. Can you die of thirst in seven hours?"

"I doubt it," Johnny said.

Neala wiped her face. "I wish night would get here."

"It will," Johnny told her.

"And then," said Sherri, "the real fun starts." She lay down on her back, folded her hands beneath her head, and stared at the ceiling. "Hide and seek with the bogeymen."

"We can't stay here," Neala said.

"If we had water, we could."

"But we don't."

"Maybe just one of us should go out, tonight, and bring some back. He could fill that pota"

"You volunteering me?" Johnny asked.

"Sure." She grinned at him. "You game?"

"Not hardly. By the time I could make it to water, I'd be home free. I might as well keep going."

"Right! Great idea! Keep going, and get help. Bring in the cavalry. Get us out of here in a chopper, and blow these fuckers to hell."

Johnny remained silent. Neala turned to him, alarmed. "You're not seriously considering it!"

"Wella"

"Damn it Sherri!"

"Hey, it was only a suggestion."

"It has some merits," Johnny said.

"No!"

"I probably could get help. Search and rescue, over in Melville, has a copter. If I get to them, they could set down right outside the door. Only thing is, it would take a while. I'd have to make it to the road, and get my hands on a car. My car, if it's working. Then I'd have to make it through Barlow."

"What's the problem with that?" Sherri asked.

"Barlow? Everyone knows me. If I'm spotted, they'd try to stop me. But Melville's only half an hour past Barlow, so I could get there pretty fast, if nothing goes wrong."

"Yeah," Neala said. "If nothing goes wrong. In the meantime, we'd be sitting here alone. No food, no water, no way of knowing if you made it."

"The thing is, you'd be safe here. Out beyond the heads, you'd be vulnerable."

"Just like you."

"I can move fast, alone. If I make it, I'd be back by morning with that copter."

"And if you don't make it?"

"You're no worse off than if you'd been with me."

"It's a good idea," Sherri said.

"Hold it. Just a minute, damn it. Johnny, didn't you say it's twenty miles to get out of Krull territory?"

He nodded. "That's if you head east."

"What's this if That's the way you led us, last night. East."

"If I go out alone, I'll head west."

"Back the way we came?"

"I'll try to get back to my car. If I can get it starteda"

"The place was crawling with Krulls."

"Last night," Sherri added.

"Okay, last night. So do you think they just vanished since then?"

Sherri smirked. "They're right outside."

"That's right," Johnny said. "Right outside. Must be fifty of them surrounding this cabin. That's fifty who aren't prowling the woods. If I can just sneak past the ones right here, the rest of the way should be a cinch."

"If it's a cinch," Neala said, "let's all go together."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.

Lander moved silently through the woods, seeking prey. Finally, he heard voices. He made his way toward them. Crouching behind a tree, he saw four Krulls sitting in the shade nearby.

Three men, one woman.

They were talking quietly in their strange language.

The woman sat with her back to Lander. Her thick, blond hair hung almost to the ground. Her skin was tanned and shiny. It would feel moist in his hands. Moist and pliant.

He wished he could see her breasts.

If he waited, perhaps she would stand and turn.

But the men were most vulnerable now, sitting and relaxed. One had no right arm. The other two, however, looked lean and fit.

I'll hack them before theya With what?

Lander frowned. He glanced down at his empty hands.

What had become of his hatchet? He'd had one earlier, he was sure of it.

He patted his vest. He looked down at himself. He drew a hand across his naked rump. He turned, and studied the ground behind him. His hatchet was gone.

Gone!

How could he have lost his hatchet! How could he take this girl, and clutch her breasts, and plunder her dark wet holea Lander saw spears on the ground within reach of two of the men. A knife hung by a thong at the side of the woman. The one-armed man had a hatchet.

He would go for the hatchet. If he could get to it quickly, before the othersa The woman got to her feet.

She turned.

She held an infant in her arms, its mouth latched to one of her swollen breasts.

Lander ducked out of sight.

Oh, a baby. He didn't wish to kill a baby.

Why not? They all were babies once. Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. The worst were babies once. A swift death would stop this one from growing villainous.

But he cringed at the thought of killing it.

No pleasure there.

No pleasure fucking the woman while her murdered infant lay in the bushes, watching with pale, dead eyes.

No no no.

He would let them live.

He waited, and listened as the group departed.

When the last sounds of their chatter faded in the distance, Lander stood.

He headed for the stream. That's where he'd seen lots of fine women. He could wade into the cool water, and drink his fill, and wait for a young, lovely one. And if none pleased him, he would head to the village, this night, and take his pick.

When Lander drew near the stream, he crouched and listened. He heard only birds, and the rush of the water. He crept to the shore, just at the point where he'd entered the water that morning.

The stream was deserted.

He took a step forward. His bare foot came down on a smooth, hard surface.

The head of his hatchet.

"Passing strange," he said.

He picked it up. Inspected it. This hatchet looked markedly similar to the one he'd lost.

He took it with him into the water. Ducking, he felt the coolness rise to his shoulders. He drank. It tasted fine.

A heady brew.

Staying close to shore where the water was waist high, he began to walk downstream. His eyes searched the shores. He saw no one.

At the bend, the water moved swiftly. It slid over his skin like a caress. He crouched to savor its touch.

Something flicked his thigh.

A snake?

Heart racing, he stood and gazed into the water. His pale legs, rippling with shadows, vanished into the darkness.

A silvery shape glided past his knee.

A fish!

He could eat a fish! Feed his grumbling stomach.

He smashed down his hatchet. Water exploded into his face. He pounded again and again. Then he waited for the fish to float up, dead. It didn't appear.

He walked downstream, eyes an inch above the surface, seeking it.

Water plopped into his face.

Had the fish jumped?

No.

His head jerked toward shore, but he saw only bushes and trees. Maybe something had fallen from above. He raised his eyes to the tree limbs hanging over the water.

This time, he saw it-a quick, tiny blur near his face and dropping into the stream.

He looked again toward the shore. Though he still saw no one, the nearby bushes were dense enough to hide behind.

As he watched, an arm flicked into view and vanished. A stone curved slowly toward him. Reaching out, he caught it. He turned the stone in his hand. It was squarish, with sharp edges, but too small to inflict much damage.