by James Axler
Straggling out in a line, they traveled two hundred yards when the plas-ex went up. The force threw them forward onto the rock, showered with debris. The caravan scattered before regrouping in the stillness that followed the explosion.
Ryan raised his head. The caravan was in confusion, and all his people were out of the danger zone, but he noted the way in which McIndoe and several other Inuit were staring at them.
Fairbanks couldn’t come soon enough.
* * *
Chapter Fifteen
Still another day until they reached the ville of Fairbanks: a day of marching in wind-driven conditions that took on an atmosphere of suspicion and indecision. The companions kept to the rear of the caravan, as before, trying to keep themselves apart from the horde of the Inuit. They were, however, not allowed to fall too far behind. McIndoe may have made it obvious to them that he was one of the tribe who felt hostility at their presence—indeed, as sec chief he was able to cause a lot of trouble for them if he wished—but he kept his own counsel after the explosion in the deserted ville.
He may wish to be rid of them himself, but he also knew that Thompson and McPhee were in thrall to Jordan, and that they had trust in the stranger’s judgment. If he wanted to be rid of the outsiders, then he would have to wait until such time as he was able to dispose of them in an inconspicuous manner: perhaps a few misplaced shots in the heat of a firefight. Meanwhile, knowing that they would hang back and perhaps make a break for it if circumstances allowed, the sec chief detailed a larger unit of men to drop back and keep the rear of the caravan guarded.
The more that Ryan tried to retreat his group from the main body for their own protection, the more they had sec men snapping at their heels like rabid dogs, driving them closer to the tribe.
“You think either of the main men is in on this?” Krysty whispered to Ryan after their pace had once again been forced by an Inuit with a Sharps rifle coming up behind them to hustle them closer to the pack.
Ryan gave her a short shake of the head. “Thompson believes totally in Doc. He’s virtually given up being baron to let Doc run the show. McPhee, though… There’s something not quite right, there. It’s like he believes, but doesn’t want to.”
“Mebbe he finds the idea of Doc being inhabited by a two-hundred-year-old spirit as crazy as I do,” Mildred murmured, keeping an eye on the Inuit sec around her. “He may be the medicine man, but he’s not stupid.”
“That’s a pretty reasonable assumption,” Ryan conceded. “I dunno if he’d really go against the chief, though. I can’t see him having the balls to do it.”
“Which leaves us with laughing boy of the sec force leading the charge,” Mildred concluded.
Ryan agreed. “As much as anyone’s leading it, he is. I don’t think there’s really an organized campaign to get us. They haven’t had time to get that together. But those who don’t want us around can spot the like-minded, and they’re loosely allied, if only by an unspoken agreement.”
“So what you’re saying is that we’ve got to watch our backs ’cause we could get shot at from anywhere at any time, right?” Krysty questioned.
“That’s about it,” Ryan agreed. “Can’t pin it down to more than that.”
“I feel so much better knowing that,” Mildred commented bitterly.
An Inuit sec man ran up to them. Without speaking, he prodded Krysty with the barrel of his rifle and gestured that they should hurry, and also that they should shut up.
“Yeah, so much better,” Mildred added under her breath as they upped their pace to move closer to the main caravan.
CLIMACTIC CONDITIONS were holding well for them. One brief flurry of storm was all that they had so far encountered. The skies were still heavy with the yellow-tinged chem clouds, but the ominous scudding of the roaring crosscurrents prevented the dark belly of the sky from opening and unleashing its hail of liquid cold upon the caravan.
The trading trail wound across the plain, passing crops of exposed rock and blanks of snow hardened into ice that was almost as hard. The horizon stretched endlessly in front of them as they trudged, the only sound being their marching feet and the yelping of the dogs as they pulled on the heavy supply sleds, mixed with the occasional whine from an exhausted pack animal forced to keep pace despite its load.
They rested three times during the day. Each was timed by wrist chron so that it came at a regular interval. At each break, there was no time to set up camp, so the Inuit hunkered down together, using their own body heat trapped in their furs and skins, magnified by their mass, for warmth. Water and food was taken to replenish them for the next stage of the journey. There was a sense of function rather than enjoyment about the repasts, as though they were essential and necessary rather than enjoyable. This was most definitely a people on a mission, who almost found it an irritation to waste their time seated when they could be eating up more miles on the route to Fairbanks.
When these breaks came, Ryan and his people sat apart from the mass. They felt safer, though it was doubtful any attempt to attack them would be made in full view of the chief, the medicine man and Jordan. It wasn’t this that was getting under their skins. It was the sense of not knowing, the living every second on a knife edge of expectation and looking at every impassive Inuit face, wondering if it was friend or foe.
They were as glad as the Inuit when the time came to stop resting and to continue marching…albeit for very different reasons.
THERE WERE NO MORE villes between here and Fairbanks. This much Ryan knew from the map he had seen in Thompson’s cabin the first day they had arrived at the settlement. But he figured that there may be a few more far-flung cabins along the route. Something other than the geology of the land had to account for the way in which the trading trail altered direction from time to time. The vast plain was treacherous, sure: shelf rock gave way to hidden ice and snow that could suck you in without warning. But there was more to the detours that this. He whispered to J.B., who had been reckoning their direction by the minisextant that he habitually carried.
“Weird thing is that it feels like we’re turning almost in the opposite direction to Fairbanks at times,” he murmured in reply. “I can’t figure out why, unless…”
“Unless what?” Ryan queried.
“Unless this trail was made not to drive as straight a track as possible between two points, but was intended to take in any hunters and trappers along the way.”
“Y’ know, I was wondering about the same thing myself,” Ryan answered. “It’d make sense to link up everyone between here and Ank Ridge, right?”
“Right. Question is, what are the trappers gonna think when they see us bearing down on them?” the Armorer mused.
“If I was them, I’d be inclined to wonder what we were up to and how long it was gonna be before I shit myself, knowing I was outnumbered so heavily,” Ryan muttered darkly.
“Yeah, or just mebbe I’d hightail it to Fairbanks, where I’d feel a whole lot safer, and try to warn the bigger numbers what was coming so that they’d be prepared.”
“Sure as shit what I’d do,” Ryan agreed.
The Armorer and Ryan fell silent, both lost in thoughts that ran along similar lines. They had assumed that the Inuit caravan would bear down on their target without much chance of being seen until they were too close for the dwellers of Fairbanks to have time to prepare a defense. This assumption had been based on the Inuit having already attacked and decimated the smaller villes en route, but if the trail took them past lone trappers, or small groups of hunters and trappers, then these would have represented too small a target for the previous war parties. And there was no way you could hide a caravan this big.
A few men and women could travel faster than a force this large. Moreover, the smaller groups—or individuals—would see the Inuit approaching from some distance and would run like hell, giving them a good head start.
Which meant that there was a strong likelihood that the residents of Fairbanks would be rea
dy and waiting when the holy-rolling caravan of Inuit warriors approached. Something that would make an already difficult firefight seem all the harder. Given the fact that they knew some of the Inuit would also waste no time in adding them to the numbers chilled, it made for a very uncomfortable situation.
Watching carefully to see that their sec guard was far enough away, and keeping his voice low so that it wouldn’t travel, Ryan briefly outlined his concerns to the others. As he suspected, J.B.’s mind had been working along similar lines. As for Jak, Mildred and Krysty, before he had even finished outlining the situation, they knew exactly where he was going.
It wasn’t an enticing thought. They were in the middle of a frozen wasteland with a war party, at least some of whom, perhaps even a majority, were against them. They were crisscrossing this wasteland in following a trail that was, although forged for the most practical of reasons, disorienting to those who were unfamiliar with it. Along the way, they were likely to provide a distant early warning to their enemies.
And there seemed to be no way out: to turn back would invite the wrath of the Inuit, who outnumbered them. To go on was to walk into a bloodbath. The best they could hope for was to try to extract themselves—and hopefully the deluded Doc—from the mess that would be Fairbanks, then head maybe for Ank Ridge, maybe back to the redoubt to jump the hell out of here… Not much of a plan, and not much of a prospect.
Meanwhile, there was the weather. Bitter cold, ice and snow blowing constantly against any exposed areas of skin, gales that cut through the layers of fur and skin, no matter how well you tried to wrap yourself up in them, and the heavy, oppressive clouds that thundered across the skies. They seemed so low that you could almost reach up and touch them, puncturing the gray-yellow membrane that seemed to breath in rhythm with the winds, loosing the chem-stained contents down on the land below. The clouds formed a ceiling that seemed to lower with almost every hour, pushing them closer and closer to the ground, making the icy air thicker so that it was like breathing iced water, sucking it into your lungs and hawking up phlegm as the stench of sulfur irritated your trachea, clogged up your lungs and seared your throat.
The clouds bore down on everyone, at times seeming to slow the pace of progress to a crawl, the objective moving farther and farther from reach until it became nothing more than a distantly grasped dream.
The skies lowered until they seemed to blot out the horizon. What had stretched for miles now appeared so close that you could hold out a hand and grab at it. Visibility, despite the fact that it was still ostensibly daylight, decreased. The previously endless expanses of rock and ice became a smaller pallet on which was imposed the straggling line of the caravan. It became harder to look back to see where they had been; harder still to see what lay in front of them.
It was when an irregular shape appeared through the gloom that Ryan knew the moment of truth was upon them.
THOMPSON HALTED the caravan when they were within five hundred yards of the shape, which had resolved itself into a cluster of three huts: two were log cabins with sheets of metal hammered into them, and the third was a cinder-block building, smaller than the other two, which seemed to be more of a storage block than the others, which were definitely dwellings.
The chief and Jordan sent word back through the caravan that the companions should join them at the head. Making their way to the front, they were only too aware that they were the subject of intense scrutiny, just as they were only too aware that they were to be placed directly in the firing line once more.
“Are ye willing to undertake a reconnaissance?” Jordan asked as they approached, adding, “Especially in view of what happened to ye the last time?”
Was the old man testing them or giving them a way out that wouldn’t lose face with the tribe? Ryan tried to judge from the look in the old man’s eye, but it was still so strange to see another light in Doc’s eyes that he couldn’t tell.
“The last time was just a piece of bad luck. For someone,” Ryan said carefully, scanning the crowd that watched them, catching sight of the ever-impassive McIndoe to one side of that crowd. The sec chief gave nothing away.
“Aye, for ye, but not for us,” Jordan continued. “At least we now know that these deserted places are likely to harbor traps.”
Ryan frowned. He didn’t know if Jordan was deliberately ignoring his inference or that he simply did not realize what was being said. The latter seemed likely, as the old man seemed lost in thought, continuing with his musing in a way that reminded Ryan of Doc’s ability to ramble—perhaps there was more of Doc creeping through than they dared hope.
“I’m wondering if they just leave these traps when they evacuate to spoil anyone who mayhap stumble upon their settlement, or if it be directed solely against us…but if so, how would they know that we were following on their trail?”
Jordan was so deeply lost in thought that his attitude caused Thompson to look to McPhee. The medicine man shrugged. He was still wavering in his faith, and if the chief wished to defer to this stranger, he would go along with it. That didn’t necessarily mean that he was wholehearted in his devotions. Let Thompson assume the full responsibility lest there be trouble.
It was a brief silence, an even briefer stumble in the wall of authority that emanated from the caravan’s leading trio, but it was enough to enable Ryan to jump into the breach and seize the initiative.
“Can I suggest that my people go and look over the huts by ourselves? That way, none of your people will be at risk. Perhaps we can offer you some answers, if only in the way we buy the farm.”
Thompson was suspicious. Why would anyone willingly walk into a trap? Yet he didn’t understand Ryan’s reasoning. He had no idea that the previous explosion had been down to his own men, even though at least half the tribe had guessed as much. The chief had become so swept up in the messianic fervor stirred by Jordan that he couldn’t conceive of his own people going against the word of the stranger.
McPhee, on the other hand, was determined to keep to himself and see how things panned out before committing himself. He allowed the ghost of a smile to flicker across his lips as he watched the one-eyed man carefully phrase his request, and immediately understood Ryan’s position. He wasn’t so blinded by the stranger as to see the hostility the outsiders had provoked among certain sections of the tribe. And he had his suspicions about McIndoe…
“That’s an excellent idea,” he said to Thompson and Jordan, adding, “You were right about the courage shown by these warriors.”
Jordan, snapped from his reverie by this praise for his acumen, responded almost without thinking. “Aye, they are noble fighters, indeed. Aye, Ryan Cawdor, ye must undertake the mission as ye requested.”
Ryan assented and indicated to his people that they should move toward the three-hut settlement at speed: partly for the reason that anyone still within the cabins would know they were coming and therefore speed was of the essence; and partly to prevent any of the Inuit stopping them, or attempting to join them. Although they would, as ever, exercise caution, they knew that the real danger lay to their rear rather than in front of them.
Ryan indicated that they spread out, making themselves harder targets to hit with one burst. There was little to no cover between the point on the trail where the caravan waited and the area taken up by the three huts.
They traveled swiftly over the rock and ice, weapons to hand even though all were sure that the cabins were deserted. There was a stillness about them that betrayed their desolation. Still, triple red and no chances taken was the only way to keep from buying the farm.
They fanned out so that they approached the settlement in a semicircle, with Jak and J.B. on each extremity, circling around to cover the rear as much as possible. Ryan was in the middle, forging a path to the center of their target, flanked by Krysty and Mildred.
Jak relaxed as he rounded the outside of the triangle formed by the huts. Whatever life he could smell was stale: old scents left by those—human and
animal—that had departed. All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing, slow and steady. There were no other noises from within the cluster of wood, cinder-block and metal that comprised the three huts. Yet, even though he relaxed, he still kept his .357 Magnum Colt Python tight in his grasp. His instincts had never led him wrong before, but it would take only one, all-too rare occasion to wipe him from the face of the earth. If that was going to be now, then at least he would be prepared and go down fighting.
It was an attitude that was shared by his fellows. To a lesser degree than the albino hunter, they had all developed and honed instincts that told them when danger threatened. Without these, they would long ago have been chilled. Right now, those instincts were telling them that the settlement was deserted. But caution was an instinct that had grown as strong and served them as well.
From a distance, as the Inuit watched them, it seemed to Thompson that they were taking an inordinate amount of time. Doubts about their abilities, given such apparent overcaution, plagued him. But how to phrase them without appearing to cross the stranger?
“Place seems empty,” he began haltingly, “but I guess they have to be that careful, don’t they?”
Jordan eyed him with a sly grin. “Do not worry yourself, my friend. They are true warriors, and they know that whatever the situation, the one without caution is the one who doesn’t come back. Trust in them.”
Easier said than done, thought the medicine man as he watched his chief nod stupidly to the stranger. Although he believed that Jordan had come to guide them, sent by the Almighty, there was still that element of skepticism and caution in his mind that warned him not to follow slavishly. The man may have been sent by the Lord, but that didn’t mean that he knew shit about fighting in this world.