by James Axler
In the end there was nothing to do but halt. In Buggy Two, J.B. was having problems with the ignition system, which was coughing and cutting out. With a wind-chill factor that lowered the temperature outside to around minus one hundred and thirty, there was no hope of getting out to do repairs.
During a brief lull in the blizzard, Ryan saw a geodesic dome to the left, with buildings and an old radar dish scattered around it. "Part of what they called the DEW line," he said to Krysty, pointing it out. "Early defense system."
"Did 'em a lot of good, lover."
"Yeah. And it looks like a dam up at the head of that valley." But the storm came screaming back again and visibility fell to zero.
* * *
In midafternoon the storm began to ease, with the wind fading away to a mere fifty miles an hour, and the snow stopping altogether. The barometer rose from the depths and the watery sun peeked through the chem clouds.
"Buggy One to Two and Three. You read?"
Both came back affirmative.
"Map shows steep valley a few miles ahead. We'll go on and check it out. Keep in contact. If you can't fix the ignition, J.B., then call us, and we'll return, or you can all pack into Buggy Three. Is there room?"
"Sure, Ryan. No sweat. We'll meet up in the opening to that canyon. Keep in touch."
As he was about to press the gas pedal, Ryan had a second thought and switched the radio back on. "Mebbe better if you come with us, J.B. Henn's the engine expert, and he's got Finn to help him out. Six in one of these babies could be too much. You come with us."
"How about taking Lori?"
"No. If we meet trouble ahead, I'd rather have you along, providin' you don't smoke one of your bastard cheroots in here."
So the transfer was made, and the ailing buggy was left in the charge of Henn and Finnegan, who were both now recovered from the effects of the drugged punch. Despite intermittent snow flurries, visibility was generally fair.
"We should be near that valley," said J.B., holding a handgrip to steady himself against the rocking and lurching of the buggy.
"How far'll we go?" asked Krysty.
"Far as it takes. Looks like what's left up here is a big round zero," said Ryan. "Mebbe go back to the redoubt in a day or so and try movin' to warmer places. That the way you figure it, J.B.?"
"Sure."
The bazooka shell exploded near enough to the vehicle that it stopped dead, tipping up and over. The concussion was shocking, sending the three occupants toppling into instant darkness.
* * *
Ryan Cawdor was first to recover. He blinked and opened his eye, aware of a shattering ache in his head. He could feel blood crusted around his ears from the force of the shell.
Someone was looming over him; a man, well built. He wore some sort of silver band around his forehead, with a large red stone at its center. And his eyes were a peculiar golden color.
"Has the agony somewhat abated?" asked Uchitel, pronouncing the words carefully.
Chapter Fifteen
The Trader's rules had been simple. If you got caught by hostiles, you played it close and careful. That meant saying nothing and acting dumb.
The Narodniki hadn't bothered to tie Ryan, J.B. and Krysty. While the trio were unconscious, the Narodniki had taken their weapons, leaving them helpless in the camp of heavily armed guerrillas.
Uchitel still believed that this desolate land must have its legendary wealth somewhere. It couldn't possibly be this poor. Not after all he'd read and seen in the old books. Somewhere, there were towering buildings that scraped the sky; beautiful women who offered themselves to every man. All of that and more, was here in America.
Uchitel's more robust approach to questioning prisoners hadn't worked, so — fortunately for Ryan, J.B. and Krysty — this time, he was trying a more friendly approach, for a while. And this trio was utterly different from any of the shit-eating peasants he'd seen so far in America.
They wore clean clothes that were almost like uniforms and were made of excellent material, Uchitel observed; and they were physically in good condition, particularly the tall man who'd lost an eye. He was honed like a fine blade. The woman with the scarlet hair was also in marvelous condition: it had taken all of Uchitel's persuasiveness to prevent some of his followers from immediately raping her. The short skinny man with the spectacles didn't seem so powerful, but when they'd searched him they'd found he was a walking arsenal, carrying concealed guns, knives and explosives.
Their guns — modern, well greased, with no shortage of ammo for them — were better than anything that the Narodniki had ever seen. Most of the blasters looked as if they'd just come from an armaments factory.
While the trio was unconscious, the band had gathered around them.
"Did I not tell you?" Uchitel had said to his followers. "Here is wealth beyond reckoning! They drive a truck that can move over ice and snow! They must have fuel for it! Who has seen such things?" Nobody answered. "And where there are three, then must there not be more? Dathere must. And their guns... their clothes... We are close, brothers and sisters, so close to more power and wealth than we have ever dreamed of."
"What if they are too powerful for us?" Urach had asked.
"We have seen these Americans — need the Narodniki fear such folk? Here are three of their best, at our mercy!"
And the Narodniki roared their approval of Uchitel's words.
Had his agony abated somewhat? The question confounded Ryan Cawdor... as did this stranger with the ornate headband and the golden eyes. Had that bang on the head made him delirious? Ryan remembered that O'Mara, the machine gunner from War Wag One, had once suffered a fearful crack to the skull and had thereafter boasted for days that he was the Trader's grandfather — and his grandmother, too.
Blinking his eye, Ryan realized that it was no blurred vision from a dream or nightmare before him, but something all too real.
It was night, and they were in a hollow protected from the biting wind by the slope of the land. Several fires, fuelled by pyrotabs, burned all around. To one side was the indistinct white shape of the buggy. It was tipped over. Ryan blinked and turned, and was relieved to see Krysty and J.B., both seemingly unhurt, though the Armorer was as white as the snow and had a bloody nose. But his chest was rising and falling steadily. Then Krysty moaned and, even as Ryan watched, put her hand to her head, opening her eyes.
"Where?.. " she began.
"Don't talk," said Ryan, quickly. "We're prisoners."
"Silence!" ordered Uchitel, grinning at his success in finding the right word from his tattered phrase book.
The girl sat up, burying her head in her hands. "I feel sick," she said.
J.B. Dix now also recovered consciousness and sat up and looked around. He said nothing at first. Taking off his glasses, he polished them on his sleeve, then replaced them. Finally he retrieved his beloved fedora and placed it on his head.
He looked at Ryan without expression. "They say anything?"
"Not well... I think they're foreign. Have you seen their blasters?"
Uchitel was watching them, trying to catch what they were saying. He did not want to appear foolish before his fellows.
"Yeah. They all got the old Makarov nine-mil pistols with double-action triggers. A few of 'em are carryin' Dragunova sniper's rifles. Lot of Kalashnikovs and seven-point six two sub-MGs, all Russian. Never seen any in the Deathlands, only in the old manuals. You heard 'em talk?"
"Not really. They don't look like us."
Many of the faces were Oriental: slanted eyes, sallow complexions, straggly beards and long, black moustaches. The four or five women visible had coarse features and large hands. Not one of them looked at all like a mutie.
Almost all of them looked like vicious murderers.
"Can you offer us service?" asked Uchitel, looking from face to face.
"What?" said Ryan.
"We are lost and desire directions."
"Who are you?" he asked the tall Russian.
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Uchitel turned the pages of his book with laborious slowness.
"Ah. Who are you?" he repeated. Pointing to his chest, he said, "Uchitel." Then, widening the gesture to include the rest of the band, he added, "We are Narodniki."
"I'm Ryan Cawdor. This is Krysty Wroth. And this is J.B. Dix."
Beneath him, Ryan felt the earth tremble, as though some immeasurably huge animal had stirred in its sleep. The guerrillas wore thick furs, with hoods of leather and gauntlets of fur-trimmed hide. From the maps that they'd seen in the redoubt, Ryan knew that Russia had been very close to the old United States in this region, being almost within sight of the coast of Alaska. But there had been no sign that the Russians had ever crossed the ice as invaders.
"It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance," said Uchitel, stumbling over the last word.
"Talks like Doc, doesn't he?" said Krysty. "Like from the old times. Back in Harmony, I read books and that's how they talked. Mebbe that's what that book is. It helps him talk to us."
Ryan nodded. "Must be, since it seems none of them speak our language. But watch it, it could be a trick."
There was another minor tremor, this time accompanied by a faint rumbling of the earth. The flames in the fires danced as if some invisible giant had blown on them. Some of the horses whinnied in alarm, and several of the Russians looked uneasily at one another. It was fast growing dark, and the wind was carrying sharp flakes of ice in its teeth.
Stamping his booted feet on the ground, Bochka, the Barrel, muttered something to Britva, who was at his side. Uchitel looked angrily toward him. "You fear a small shake of the earth, Bochka? It would take a large crack to swallow you up."
The others laughed, but not with conviction. The leader turned again to the three prisoners. Their weapons were piled by his feet, and he pointed down at them. "Good," he said. "I wish a further supply, if you please. Or I shall be forced to complain to your superior or manager or floor walker."
It was one of the most bizarre episodes in Ryan Cawdor's life — a life that was well studded with bizarre experiences.
He considered whether to say that they had many powerful friends in the area. But if he did that, the Russians might ambush the others, and they would all end up being wiped out. He decided it was safer to pretend they were alone and take the consequences of such admitted weakness.
"We have no more guns."
There was a delay while Uchitel translated and digested that. "Nyet," he said, shaking his head. "Where are guns?"
"No," replied Ryan, standing up, stretching his legs. Krysty and J.B. also rose. All around them was a general movement of guns, muzzles edging in their direction. Putting up any kind of fight would be utterly suicidal.
"Give gun. Not gun, I give..." he found what he wanted on a page headed At The Hospital "...bad pain."
"No guns. These are all we have. No more."
Uchitel was becoming angry. Yet again, his careful plan was falling apart. These Americans were either poor and stupid or wealthy and stupid. At least these three had good clothes and guns, and the truck held all manner of treasures. He beckoned for Pechal to come to him.
"I want..." he began.
But Sorrow interrupted him. "The girl, Uchitel. Let me do the girl! Her hair is so..."
"Nyet. Not her. The man with the glasses. The others will watch."
Ryan and the others watched the exchange, guessing from the expressions on the men's faces what was going down. The gray-clad Russian with the soft voice had been licking his lips and staring at Krysty, rubbing his fingers together — long, strong fingers with long, hooked nails.
"Bad news time," said Ryan.
"Yeah," agreed J.B.
"He tell us guns where." Uchitel pointed at the Armorer and rattled off orders to his men to bind him. In moments J.B.'s hands were tied tightly behind his back, and he was brought to his knees and held there. Two dozen guns covered Ryan and Krysty.
"Are they going to torture him?" asked the girl.
"Seems they want guns like these. Must have come over as a raidin' party."
"Take my glasses off for me, Ryan," called J.B. "Don't want these stupes to break 'em. Had 'em for eight years. Don't know how I'd get on without 'em."
Watched by the Russians, Ryan did as J.B. asked, folding the glasses and putting them in his top pocket. The beardless Pechal moved in close to the kneeling man, looking down into his eyes. He touched J.B. on the side of the cheek with a forefinger, and the little man winced despite himself.
"Tell guns," said Uchitel.
"There aren't any more fuckin' guns you stupe bastard killer," shouted Ryan.
Uchitel nodded to Pechal.
Ryan watched, his face set like stone; the girl looked away. Pechal began gently, almost caressing the helpless J.B. He touched and pinched, twisting the soft, tender skin behind the ears and along the inside of the upper thigh. His nails dug into the Armorer's lips, pulling them until blood filled J.B.'s mouth and he spat it out in a fine spray over the Russian.
"Where guns?" asked Uchitel.
Ryan looked at him, his face showing none of the hatred and anger he felt. "I'll tell you this, you blood-eyed dog. You're fuckin' dead, friend. You're walkin' around, but you are dead as a spent bullet."
"What?"
Ryan shook his head in disgust. Krysty shuffled closer to him. "What can we do?"
"Nothin', lover. They got all the blasters. Man has the firepower, he gets to call the game. We watch and wait. Any half chance, take it and get the fuck out. Henn and the others must be comin' close. Head for 'em. That's all I can say."
Uchitel stepped in and swung an open palm across Ryan's face, knocking him on his back. Ryan sat there a moment, his head spinning from the blow, which had loosened one of his teeth. As Ryan got up, a lopsided smile came to his angular face.
"Do the same for you one day, cocksuckin' double-scarred bastard."
"Not talk. Talk guns. No pain."
The third earth tremor was vastly more powerful than the two minor quakes they'd felt earlier.
Ryan staggered sideways, retaining his balance only with effort. Nearly everyone was thrown off their feet. All the fires were shaken out, buried under a mist of ice and snow.
The air filled with a dreadful thundering roar and with so much dirt that it was difficult to breathe or see.
Ryan grabbed the girl by the arm. "Got to get J.B. Now."
There was a second quake, more violent than the first. It knocked both Ryan and Krysty off their feet. But Ryan's sense of direction and ice-cold nerve kept them going. Stumbling over bodies lying on the earth, they reached J.B., and Ryan knelt, still holding Krysty by her right hand.
"Took your fuckin' time, partner," said J.B., his voice as calm as if they were strolling across a summer meadow.
"Knife?"
"Right boot. They didn't find it."
Ryan slid his fingers inside the high combat boot, feeling the taped hilt of a small knife. Pulling it from the sheath, he used it to slice through the ropes that bound J.B.
As the last cord fell away, J.B. rose to his feet, leaning on Ryan. "Thanks. That bastard, that swift and evil fucker had hard hands."
The ground still moved. It was like being on War Wag One when it drove at speed along an old concrete highway in the Deathlands. A steady vibration.
"Get the blasters," said J.B. "That way."
Despite the darkness and confusion, they moved straight to the pile of guns and knives. Each of them grabbed what they could, holstering and sheathing their weapons. Ryan was still holding the long steel panga when someone grabbed him from behind.
"Fireblast!" he cursed, struggling to free his arms from the bearlike grip. But the man was strong, and it took all of Ryan's agility and cunning to free his right hand so that he could jab behind him with the point of the blade. Despite all the layers of fur that the Russian was wearing, the panga penetrated. There was a grunt of pain, the hold was loosened, and Ryan twisted his body clear. Then
he turned and swung the blade as hard as he could, feeling it jar and crunch as it hit the man's ribs. In the cold he was aware of the flood of heat across his hand from the wound.
As the staggering figure screamed something in Russian — it had to be a call for aid — Ryan pushed the man away and turned to where he'd last seen Krysty and J.B.
"You there?"
"Yeah," said J.B.
"Here," said Krysty, unable to keep her voice from trembling. All around them, the guerrillas were running and yelling. Across the camp someone fired a pistol four times. They heard a yelp of pain.
"South," said Ryan. "Keep close. Kill anythin' that moves if it's not us."
"Why not get the radio from the buggy?" asked the girl.
"No time. Got to move. There's thirty or more of 'em. We know where Henn and the others are headed. We'll meet up with 'em."
The earthquake was continuing with waves of varying power that made the ice-bound pebbles shift and rattle.
Ryan Cawdor was in the lead, Krysty slipped and stumbled behind him, and J.B. brought up the rear. Something loomed in front of him, and he slashed at it with the panga, then realized too late it was one of the terrified ponies, rearing and kicking. The steel opened a deep gash along its shoulder, but one of its front hooves caught Ryan a glancing blow on the arm. At that moment, the earth gave its strongest convulsion yet, and the ground beneath him rose eighteen inches or more.
He slipped and rolled forward, feeling snow all around him. A boulder hit him on the knee, making him yell with sudden pain. As he whirled down the slope he heard screams from behind, and men calling in Russian.
His mouth filled with powdery snow, and he coughed and choked as he rolled. With an effort, he managed to spread his arms and legs into a star shape, checking his slide down the hill.
The tremor passed, and he sat up, checking his blasters. His long coat was torn, his knee hurt, and there was a dull throbbing where the horse had kicked him. He could taste blood from a cut near his mouth.