by James Axler
Ryan plunged down in the second wave, alongside the rest of the companions, Thompson, McPhee and Jordan. He had barely a second as they reached the lip of the valley to take in what had happened to the walls surrounding the ville.
In this fleeting glimpse he had enough time to note that the majority of the walls had been reduced to rubble. The gates had blown off, and through the gap, beyond the dust that had been raised, he could see the milling crowds, unorganized and confused. He prayed that they would remain this way long enough for his section of the war party to hit the floor of the valley and either try to find cover or head straight into combat. If not, then they were exposed and virtually asking to buy the farm.
Their luck held. The first wave of Inuit tumbling in front of them hit the valley floor running, firing into the crowds as they ran, driving some back into the maze of streets beyond the rubble, cutting others down where they stood, while a few ran the wrong way, coming out to meet the enemy and firing wildly, unable to take aim or form any kind of battle plan. If they were lucky, a stray shell plucked at the layers of skins and furs on the Inuit warriors, perhaps penetrating enough to take them down, if not chill them. Others hit home on dogs or pack mules, sending supplies across the floor of the valley. But none halted the advance, and those few who dared to stand and fire soon found themselves cut down.
Ryan hit the bottom of the valley in a roll, the thick clothing doing little to stop the bone-jarring jolt of the icy rock as he impacted at speed, driving the breath from his body. He got to his feet, shaking his head to clear it, trying to breathe deeply but finding that he was stopped by what felt like his panga blade driven between his ribs. He gulped, his eye watering, the sudden pain making him fall to his knees. He prayed that he hadn’t fractured ribs in the fall, making him a sitting target for any enemy sec. And then the spasm passed—painfully, but nonetheless subsiding. He was able to breathe again.
As he did, he cast an anxious glance around. He could see all of his friends had made it down in one piece and were advancing on the broken gates of the city. Krysty spared a fraction of a second to look back to see where he was. Satisfied that he was on his feet, she returned her attention to the battle zone ahead, knowing that just the one glance had been risk enough.
Ryan scrambled to his feet, not wanting to lose sight of his friends in the approaching melee. He could see Thompson, Doc—he couldn’t think of him as Jordan right now—and McPhee ahead of them, in the middle of the second wave.
Ryan gained ground on them as he approached the opening to the ville of Fairbanks skipping over the wreckage of the crow’s nests as they lay across his path, the bloodied, mangled remains of their inhabitants beneath, laying where they had been thrown before the wreckage followed them down, wiping out whatever chance they may have held of escaping the big chill.
The Inuit had wasted little time in driving the fighters of Fairbanks back into the heart of their own ville, the relentless onslaught of the Inuit taking them by complete surprise. They were still a mix of the dazed and confused, and the ardent defenders: but even these latter had some desire to stay alive and were stunned by the complete disregard of their own safety shown by the Inuit fighters. The tribe moved forward with no fear, with no thought for themselves. Their complete willingness to walk into a hail of fire to gain ground for those following was something for which the Fairbanks fighters had no answer. How do you stop those who didn’t wish to be stopped?
As he crossed the line that had once been marked by the now-departed gates, Ryan had little doubt that the Inuit war parties around the circumference of the ville were having the same effect. Their relentless drive would soon compact the conflict into one small area. It would make a massacre easier.
But it would make grabbing Doc and getting out a lot harder.
Chapter Eighteen
If the days leading to this moment had seemed to blur into one, being nothing more than hard slog in an inhospitable climate, then from this point on it seemed as though everything was in slow motion, each fraction of a second forever imprinted on the mind, every image seared on the retina forever.
The adrenaline coursed through the veins of every man, woman and child in the ville of Fairbanks as it was engulfed in the bloodiest battle it had ever witnessed. The walls that had for so long been thought an impregnable defense were now irrevocably breached, and the people within were now besieged by an unstoppable force. No matter what they may have thought before this moment, there was no way that they could have been prepared for the whirlwind of death and destruction that now engulfed them.
The Inuit knew little of these people and how they lived: furthermore, they had no concern. They didn’t care, and saw the inhabitants of the ville in the same way that those very people saw the sparse game that they hunted and trapped to eke a living off the unforgiving land.
Ryan and his people, too, knew little of what life had been like in the ville. They could surmise that these were people who lived hard and played hard: trapping and hunting, surviving on what little trade they could do with the few convoys that would come this far north, risking their wags on such hostile terrain. The buildings that now spilled forth fighters, or were consumed by fires started by blasterfire, hand-to-hand combat and grens were used as gaudy houses and bars, the flammable spirits feeding flames that licked at the outsides of the buildings, spreading along streets of old blocks and the ramshackle makeshifts that had been erected in the gaps from the rubble and wreckage.
The people of Fairbanks were mostly Caucasian, with a few who looked as though they may have blood that came from the Inuit or an associated tribe. They were not so well wrapped in furs and skins, betraying the fact that they had been inside but a short time before, forced out into the daylight by sudden attack, some clad in warm coats and furs, but most fighting the cold as much as the enemy.
They weren’t so well prepared and neither had they the drive and experience of combat. These were people who brawled and hunted, but had no real experience in chilling their fellow man.
Although they outnumbered the Inuit warriors, they were no match and were easily pushed back to the center of the ville.
As the companions followed in the wake of the first wave of Inuit, there was little for them to do other than watch their own backs from those stragglers who had escaped the coruscating attack of the warriors. Few were left alive who weren’t forced back, only small pockets of those who had taken shelter in the burning buildings. They were terrified and confused, appearing to fire wildly before being cut down by precision fire from their opponents. Others couldn’t escape the buildings, and threw themselves from broken windows, clothes ablaze, to plummet one or two stories onto the sidewalks and roadways, where they lay broken but not yet chilled, the fires still burning on their bodies as they mewled and moaned. For them, a shell to put them out of their miseries was little more than a kindness.
The old buildings, battered by the nukecaust and then by a century of neglect in the harsh conditions, were easy pickings for the flickering fires that found plenty on which to feed. The ramshackle buildings that stood between the older, predark structures were constructed of materials that fed the flames, the fires greedily taking the fuel and growing with an incremental fierceness.
Behind them, whole boulevards were alive with flames, the smoke choking the already foul air, clouds of thick darkness hanging pall-like over the valley. Collapsing and ruined two-story structures spread their rubble across the sidewalks and beaten-up old street surfaces. The air was filled with smoke, the sounds of crackling flames, people and animals screaming, and the incessant, arrhythmic chatter of blasters firing from all points within the ville.
In truth, just getting out in one piece would prove difficult, let alone fighting the Inuit and trying to snatch Doc while the surrounding area was turned into an inferno.
ON THE FAR SIDE OF THE VILLE, McIndoe was leading his war party through the streets with a ruthless efficiency. His brief—as with that of the other war p
arties—was simple. Overpower the opposition, drive them toward the center of the ville, and chill immediately those who would get in the way or would try to put up any kind of resistance.
The Inuit sec chief had complete faith in his people to complete the task. He may not believe in Jordan, and be uneasy about the man’s friends being in the war party, but he was as good as his word when it came to the firefight. His people were directed to forget about the companions and to concentrate on their task in rounding up the Fairbanks inhabitants for a ritual sacrifice.
As he marched, firing with unerring accuracy at the panicking Fairbanks fighters, whose shots flew high and wide, he kept his mind stoically on the task. The difference between his people and those in the ville was simple: the Inuit didn’t care if they lived or died. If they could survive, then good; if not, then it was the will of the Lord that they be taken. The greater good meant that a loss of life was no waste. So they did not panic as they marched and fought. This gave them a greater clarity and calm from which to make the right decisions—the ones that, ironically, would keep them alive when the fear of their opponents would cause them to be chilled.
Around his party, the ville was being consumed by fire. If this was to mean that his people would also be consumed—in effect, become as much of a sacrifice as those they had come to claim—then that, too, would be the will of the Almighty.
He led his people on, knowing that all the war parties would be acting in the same manner and that one way or another they would give their thanks to the Lord on this day.
MCPHEE DIDN’T FEEL the same way, an ironic turn of affairs for one who was the spiritual leader of his tribe. But the old man had spent too long going through the motions, without even really thinking about the truth of his religion, that he now found himself looking at events in a different light to those who had kept their faith.
Perhaps it was simply a matter of spending so many years with no real sign that their Lord was anything other than a figment of someone’s imagination generations before. Or maybe he was just old, tired and cynical. Either way, he could see nothing but bad coming out of this expedition. As he looked around him, firing on those poor souls who were desperately trying to get away from the Inuit onslaught, he found himself thinking of them as just that: poor souls. Not some glorious sacrifice for the greater good of the tribe. Shit, he’d long ago figured that they were on the downward slide. He’d seen others on the plains come and go with mutie shit that infected them after the nukecaust. Sterility was the best way, especially when you looked at some of the mutations that were fighting right now: shuffling on deformed legs, ignoring the pain of keeping up with others; or using vestigial arms to fire weapons that were made for normal limbs, bodies hunched to enable the action, and still achieving remarkable accuracy.
Yeah, they were good fighters, but they were on their way out. Nothing lasted forever. You only had to take a good look at the world before the nukecaust to see that. Some things are better left just to fade away. Maybe that’s what should happen to the tribe. Rather than this last hollow sacrifice, where they would lose half their people—and for what?—they should retreat and go to live their lives in peace, hunting and enjoying their day in the sun until such time as there were none left.
Face it, that was going to come pretty damn soon as it was. He couldn’t see them escaping being their own sacrifice. Not unless he could turn it around in some way.
FOR JAK LAUREN, this was indeed a strange experience. Following in the wake of the Inuit first wave, there was little fighting that the companions had to do. Instead, they were more concerned with keeping Doc in sight as the tribe war party swept through the burning streets.
Jak was used to being a warrior and leading the charge. His instincts, fired by the bloodlust and smell of cordite and chilled flesh around him, were yelling at him to step up his pace and step up to the base. He felt as though he should charge forward and join the Inuit horde as they drove their enemy back, chilling all those who were too slow to get out of the way.
Yet he could see that Ryan was holding them back for a purpose. If they were to seize Doc and try to get away with him, they would need to be detached from the main body of action. It was like hunting: you don’t run with the pack, you stay apart from it, waiting for the right moment to dive in and take out your victim.
J.B. spent most of his time watching the rear. He had noted with a growing sense of unease how the whole ville seemed to be turning into an inferno around them, with the route they had used to enter soon being blocked off by a combination of fire and rubble. If they were to make their way out of here in one piece, someone had to work out a route. And if no one else had thought of it, at least J.B. was going to make sure that he had that angle covered. As they progressed, he kept his eyes on each side road and alley, making sure he noted how many were blocked, how many were still negotiable, and if possible how they all linked up. He wished to hell that they had been shown a map of the ville or had a chance to recce it before the attack. That way, he could be sure of leading them out. But the Inuit didn’t seem to care if they got out alive.
J.B. sure as hell cared.
While the Armorer did this, Krysty was more concerned about keeping up with Doc, and how they would snatch him back. She was in the forefront of their party, level with Ryan, but keeping back from the Inuit who had gone in ahead of them. Even among the second wave of warriors, the natives had outstripped the companions in their desire to be part of this holy war. While Ryan wanted to keep Doc in his sights, there was no way he wanted to expose his people to any unnecessary risks, so he tried to keep their pace under that of their supposed allies.
Krysty could see that this was a delicate balance. They had to be able to reach Doc easily, but in his Jordan persona he was in the midst of the action, and it would be all that they could do to keep up with him without becoming sucked into the maelstrom of slaughter.
It was about waiting for the right moment. It was about choosing that moment.
But what if the moment wanted to choose itself?
What if it was about to do that right now?
THOMPSON WAS FIRING on those who came at him and directing his people to move those who remained to ward the center of the ville. It was easy for the Inuit to run the Fairbanks people like a herd of deer. They were scared and would flee from any danger with no compunction.
The chief was worried about the fires that raged around them. He didn’t want his people to achieve the aim of sacrificing others only to find themselves trapped and becoming a sacrifice of their own making. Yet he stubbornly held to the belief that he had to see this mission through to the bitter end. Although, it had to be said, there was a part of him that was beginning to worry if it was all folly.
He had believed in the stranger Jordan. Believed that he had been sent from the Almighty to save them from the slow and sterile chill of their tribe. Yet to look at the man as he joined the Inuit in action right now was to truly look into the howling face of madness.
Jordan was covered in blood and grime from the smoke, laughing and taking in great gulps of air that turned into choking coughs as the fumes reached down into his lungs. Yet this seemed to do nothing more than spur him to greater heights of hysterical cackling. He had discharged the shot chamber of the LeMat early in the attack, decimating a group of men who had rushed headlong into the Inuit party from out of a bar, carrying SMGs that they barely had time to raise before the lethal shot from the LeMat tore into them, the hot metal pulping their organs and splintering bone. Even those it didn’t chill, such as the man whose right arm had been severed by the charge, hanging loose from a few ten-dons while he watched it dangle, a high-pitched wail the only sound emanating from his widened mouth, were soon cut down by Jordan as he strode into them with his sword stick unsheathed, the fine Toledo steel slicing through flesh as though it were nothing.
The ball charge had put paid to a gaudy slut who was almost naked, but who still had the nerve to carry a remade H&K M
P-5 as she swung from the second story window of her blazing gaudy house, aiming to land on her feet to try to take out some of the opposition as she did. She had managed to let loose a brief volley of shots that had chilled two Inuit and wounded a third before the LeMat’s ball charge ripped her open from thorax to sternum, the smashed bones making light of her internal organs and causing a shower of blood to shoot from under her surprised expression before she was thrown backward onto the sidewalk.
Jordan had laughed hard enough to choke, as though the sight were comical; Thompson admired her as a brave warrior buying the farm nobly, despite her near-nakedness, and couldn’t understand what the messenger of the Lord could find so damned funny.
Now it seemed to him as though Jordan was nothing more than a madman who had led them into disaster.
The chief wasn’t the only one thinking that way. McPhee, although he had no idea that his chief had changed his mind, had long ago reached this conclusion, and he felt that unless he acted now there was no way that any of the Inuit would escape a fiery chill in the Fairbanks inferno. To his mind, if he had to make Thompson stop, then he would have to take Jordan out of the equation.
Slowing, psyching himself so that he slowed mentally as well as physically, and trying to achieve a state of calm that would be miraculous in these circumstances, he raised his Lee Enfield .303 rifle and got Jordan in his sight. It may bring the wrath of the tribe down on him, but it was the only way to stop them dead, to bring them to their senses.
He squeezed the trigger and the rifle jammed. He cursed and wondered if maybe he’d been wrong after all. The blaster had been working fine since they had entered the ville, and for it to jam only when he was aiming at the man they suspected to be a messenger of the Almighty was something that made him think again.
