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precise, you push the boot to the floor and give her the gas and get out. From
then on you're on your own."
"What about a relief party?" Cohn asked J.B. and Ryan.
"There won't be one, you stupe bastard," snarled Ryan. "Hundred hours and
we're not back, you go."
"Where?"
"Watch my lips, Cohn," interjected J. B. Dix. "We go. You stay. We come back
in less'n a hundred hours, all fine. If not, then War Wag One is yours. And
you'll be low on gas and supplies, so get out fast. Now just nod your head if
you understand."
"Sure," Cohn replied with a nod. "That's fine. I'll be here like you say. And
if there's problems, call it in."
Each member of the team carried a pistol and rifle of their own choice. Each
carried four grenades on the belts, a mix of incendiary, stun, implosion,
high-ex, shrap, nerve gas and smoke. Each of them had a knife or edged weapon
of his or her choosing, ranging from Krysty's delicate throwing knives in her
bandolier to
Finnegan's butcher's cleaver that would take the head off a horse in one blow.
They carried enough food for five days, with a small supply of water-pure
tabs.
Ammunition supplied most of the weight to their packs, along with a radio
operated by Henn. No spare clothes or sleeping gear. There was no room for
that kind of comfort.
They agreed that the best time to leave was around dawn the next day. Koll was
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designated to take charge of Doc, whose mind still vacillated between extremes
of brief clarity and long spells of catatonic madness. His only response when
Ryan
Cawdor told him that they were planning on going toward the hidden Redoubt was
to smile and bow, his hat nearly falling off. Krysty had managed to sew some
strong elasticized cord for him to use when they ventured outside into the
gales.
He'd refused any helmet or goggles like the others, saying that a scarf for
his throat would suffice.
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"Suffice" was the word he'd used. Now he just asked Ryan about the guard dog.
"What dog? You mean the fog, Doc?"
"No. I speak of the canine deterrent& Ah, what memories that word brings back
to me, Mr. Cawdor."
"What memories?"
A look of pain flitted across the aquiline features of the old man. "Sadly,
that has escaped me, sir. But I believe there was something about a dog."
That night Krysty came to Ryan in his bunk, and they managed, despite the
tightness of the accommodation, to make slow, tender love three times before
reveille finally woke them.
Farewells were short and formal. During the years that Ryan Cawdor had ridden
with the Trader he had seen literally dozens of relationships formed and
broken in the war wag. Many formed from loneliness and fear. Many broken by
death.
Ryan noticed Hun taking a long time in quiet talk with a little girl called
Sukie who had only joined War Wag One from Three a day or so before the fall
of
Mocsin as a relief gunner on the mortar.
For the rest it was mainly a quick shake of the hand and a muttered word. Ryan
had once seen a scratchy antique vid about some Westerners in a fort. Or had
it been a church? There they were taking last messages to families and loved
ones.
That didn't arise in the Deathlands. Either your family and loved ones were on
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War Wag One or they weren't anywhere.
"What's the weather, Cohn?"
"Minus fifteen. Wind around fifty, from north, veering east. Some hail in it."
Ryan rubbed at the stubble on his chin. "Sounds a fine day for a short walk in
the
Darks. Be seein' you, Cohn."
"Good luck, Ryan. Give the bastards broken teeth." The two men shook hands and
the main entry port slid open, letting in a flurry of snow and a biting wind.
Ryan pulled up his goggles and exited with a jump, waving for the others to
follow him.
Ice crunched beneath his boots. While he waited he glanced down, seeing the
mark on the right toe where a rabid dog had tried to bite his foot off. It had
taken a
3-round burst from the LAPA to blow the mongrel away.
Between his feet, in a small hollow sheltered among some scattered pebbles, he
noticed a tiny bunch of flowers. White petals, with a heart yellow as butter.
Surviving in one of the least hospitable places on earth. For a reason that he
couldn't explain, the sight of the frail plant lifted his spirits.
He tucked the weighted silk scarf around his neck, trying to fill the chinks
where the wind was thrusting icy water. He took a quick finger count to make
sure the group was all there. Nine. With J. B. Dix bringing up the rear as
ten.
After fifty paces Ryan turned around, bracing himself against the driving
gale, squinting back at where he knew the war wag was. But it had already
disappeared in the general whiteout. Without a compass he knew that they had
absolutely no chance of ever finding it again.
The track was very rough, often barely visible, and the weather was worse than
he had anticipated. But after a half hour they rounded the massive corner of
an overhanging bluff and the wind dropped dramatically.
"Way Kurt called it, there's a half day's walk to get to where the fog was
waitin'."
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"I am of the decided opinion that the fog will still be here and waiting for
all comers, Mr. Cawdor," said Doc. His cheeks were almost blue from the biting
cold of the wind, yet beads of perspiration hung in the deep furrows of his
cheeks, glistening in the stubble on his chin.
"You know that?" asked J.B.
"It is an axiom of some veracity that a good guard dog never sleeps. Cerberus
was assuredly of the best, Mr. Dix."
"Every piece cocked," instructed Ryan. "Round under the pin. Fingers "
"On triggers," finished Okie, unsmiling. "We know that, Ryan."
They went on.
The road, if that's what it had once been, wound and twisted like a
broken-backed adder, clinging to the edge of the ice-sheeted cliffs, a dizzy
abyss plunging away to their left. At one bend Ryan held up a gloved fist,
halting the party, waving them forward.
"What do you see?" asked Hennings, his dark skin pallid against the black fur
hood.
"Down there," replied Ryan, pointing to where the tumbling waters of a river
in flood tore over gray boulders. Visible now and again through the gusted
clouds of snow were the red and brown metal bones of several vehicles. Torn
and twisted, spotted with ice and blown spume. It was impossible to make out [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]