by James Axler
But now they were nearly done.
She'd been concentrating all of her attention on helping Rick and trying to flood him with her own healing powers. Now, for a moment she could relax and open her mind.
Krysty felt it immediately.
"Gaia!" she shouted.
"What?" J.B. asked, swinging around to face her, eyes widening in concern when he saw her shocked expression.
"They're in. Oh, Ryan, lover…"
RYAN RACKED HIS BRAIN, trying to remember whether any of the street brats in the gang they'd watched in the ville had been carrying blasters. Certainly none of the four at the top of the stairs had been toting guns. There'd been enough moonlight through the cobwebbed windows to see clearly, and Ryan's night vision had always been good.
But a knife could chill you just as surely as a full-metal jacket. And it was a knife thrown from the darkness of one of the rooms that confirmed Ryan's suspicion that the pack hadn't fled the building.
His eye caught the flicker of movement and he ducked, hearing the steel whisper through the cold air. The blade thudded point first into the paneling that flanked the stairs.
It wasn't a good idea to be caught halfway up and halfway down. Feather-light on his feet, Ryan ran down the last few steps into the hall and knelt, waiting for someone to make a move.
Despite their reflexes, the children weren't all that good at this kind of game. Give them a mutie gimp to mock, chase, trip and throttle, and they were experts. But put them in a silent house, against a man with a silenced blaster, and their nerves began to turn ragged.
Ryan tested what he could hear, smell and feel, using all of his hunter's senses: shuffling feet and a faint whisper from the large back room, the smell of sweat and fear, rank and heavy, from the same place.
And the feeling.
Ryan had lived through hundreds of such moments all over Deathlands, with friends and alone—the feeling that the scythe hung suspended in the air above your neck, that people would begin to die within a handful of heartbeats.
That feeling was as familiar to Ryan Cawdor as breathing. But the street gang wasn't used to it. They were urban hunters and chillers, used to running down weaker prey through ruined alleys and using their superior numbers to take them out.
This was different.
Two of them already lay dead, out in the stillness of the shadow-laked hall. Their leader, Dmitri, was wounded, blood leaking from the bullet hole near his shoulder. And there was an avenging angel waiting for them, still and patient. They huddled in the cavernous corners of the big room, gripping their knives and razors, trying to hold their breath.
There was the faintest creak of a floorboard behind Ryan. Someone descended the stairs. Moonlight flickered off something like polished metal or glass.
"Ryan?" The word was softer than a sigh.
"J.B.? In main back room. Could be five or six, probably more. Kids. Figure they're all shit-scared by now. Mebbe no blasters."
The voice of the Armorer was so quiet that it scarcely disturbed the tiny motes of dust that floated in the spears of moonlight. "Then let's go get 'em. I gotta mag-gren. Blinder. Been saving it for something like this."
"Ready," Ryan whispered.
That was all he needed to say.
ZIMYANIN HAD BEEN WATCHING the house through a pair of borrowed field glasses. He pulled away the eyepieces with a curse. "What the…!"
A sudden dazzling flash of burning white light had erupted somewhere inside the dacha. Even at that distance it was enough to almost blind him, making him blink and rub his eyes to try to remove the tiny specks of crimson that blurred his vision.
Then came a spattering of spaced shots, some desultory cries and a single scream, which was followed by darkness and silence.
"That's it," Zimyanin crowed in triumph.
THE MAG-GEN WAS only the size of a hen's egg and made of dull metal. A colored strip ran around its top to differentiate it from shraps, implodes, frags and stuns.
Ryan closed his eye, covered it with the flat of his left hand and turned his head away from the impending explosion. The effect of a mag-gren at close range was, quite literally, blinding.
J.B. lobbed the small grenade across the hallway, underhanded. It bounced once into the rear chamber, then exploded with a muffled plopping sound.
Despite all his precautions, Ryan was conscious of the burst of stunning light that the mag-gren released on impact. It filtered through his hand and through the closed eyelid, like the glow of a distant forest fire. He could hear J.B. counting in a quiet, controlled voice.
"Four and five and six and seven and eight. That's it, Ryan."
He opened his eye, stepping to one side of the doorway. The grenade had blazed through its phase of devastating white light, and was now burning with a steady red glow. J.B. moved into place on the other side of the doorway.
The gutter brats were all there. Ryan counted around a dozen, scattered about the room. All were crouched and huddled, hands pressed against streaming, blinded eyes. If you weren't ready for a mag-gren, the intensity of the light could literally burn out your retinas. Some of the kids were crying, others staggered about, waving their weapons helplessly in the empty air. Not one of them posed any sort of threat to J.B. or Ryan.
"Bullets cost," the Armorer reminded him.
"Fuck that," Ryan snapped. "No different than chilling a pack of rabid dogs."
The executions took less than a minute. Each man walked carefully around the chamber, avoiding the desperate lunges of the children with their homemade knives and boned razors. Getting behind them, one by one they put them away with a single round through the back of the head.
The leader was last to go. Hearing the single, spaced shots, and the thumping sounds as the corpses of his gang hit the floor, he retreated into a corner. Blood leaked, forgotten, from the wound to his shoulder. Eyes squeezed tight, he waved a bone-handled knife with a serrated edge toward the sound of the approaching men, trying to hold them off.
"Like a trapped polecat." J.B. leveled his blaster and squeezed the trigger once.
The 5.6 mm round hit the teenager through the temple, kicking his skull back against the wall. As the boy slid sideways, he left a smear of dark blood and brains in a gruel on the faded paint. Tiny splinters of bone gleamed white against the crimson.
"Thats it," Ryan said.
"Like fish in a barrel," J.B. agreed. There was no regret in his voice for the bloody massacre. He knew why the children had creepy-crawled into the old mansion. He and Ryan had beaten them by being much better. It wasn't a game, not when losing was terminal.
"Gren's near finished," Ryan observed, carefully reloading his pistol.
"Caught in the floor." J.B. walked across the room, stepping over one of the corpses, the soles of his combat boots peeling stickily from the blood-soaked wood. He nudged away the molten remnants of the grenade with his toe, stamping out the circle of glowing charcoal.
"Don't want the whole place going up in smoke," Ryan said, holstering the silenced blaster at his right hip.
"Not yet. Mebbe when we get out of here. After the jump. Be good way to leave it for the Reds. Handful of ashes."
"How's the gateway?" He paused. "And how did you know there was trouble?"
"I felt it," Krysty said from halfway down the stairs.
"How's the work?"
"Getting there." She walked into the hall and looked into the back room, where the grenade had almost burned out. "Gaia! Seems like you chilled a whole kindergarten in here."
"Them or us, lover."
ZIMYANIN WAITED another thirty minutes on the chance that someone might come from the dark bulk of the mansion and tell him what was going on. But in his heart he knew what had happened. Ryan Cawdor and his terrorist gang had been far too good for the wolf pack. He felt no grief for the murderous gang of young thugs.
"They who live by the sword shall surely perish by the sword," he said to himself in English. His 1
911 phrase book had a section devoted to popular proverbs and sayings.
"What are we to do, Comrade Major-Commissar? We have collected many local villagers, as you instructed."
Zimyanin tugged thoughtfully at the drooping ends of his mustache. "Time to remove the glove of velvet and use the fist of steel. We will attack in force."
Chapter Thirty-Six
"NOT THAT LONG TO DAWN," Doc said, glancing at the sky through the crooked timbers of the roof. Old beams, fire-marked, some with the original shingles, were still nailed in place.
Nearly a half hour had passed since the explosion of the mag-gren and the butchery of the killing pack of teenagers. There'd been no sign of any further hostile activity from the dark fields, though Ryan was certain that there was a sizable force hiding out there. Probably less than a mile away.
Only Krysty remained down in the basement with Rick. The work on the gateway was nearly done. The main wiring had been repaired, and the damaged metal hammered and pressed back into something approximating the proper shape. Some final work remained replacing lock plates and checking the fittings on the main gateway contacts. Krysty could handle that with some guidance from Rick.
Jak and Doc had joined J.B. and Ryan on the upper floors of the rambling dacha, each with his blaster at the ready. Both J.B. and Ryan had fetched their assault rifles, hoping to deter an initial attack before it got too close.
"Light'll help us more than them," Jak said, squinting at the distant village. He was wearing his fur coat, and his white hair floated about his shoulders like living frost in the cold wind that winnowed in from the east.
"Sure. We can pick them off from cover. If they don't use any heavy-ex they'll have to get close to shift us." Ryan glanced at the secret door, knowing that once they retreated inside it, their options became limited.
They could make the jump successfully, surrender… or die.
"SEND THEM IN," Zimyanin ordered. "Hold the sec patrols in reserve back by the wags. I want to keep the chillings to a minimum among our men. Tell them to hurry. It'll be first light before long. Then the advantage will lie with them."
"HERE THEY COME," J.B. said. "From toward the river. Anything on any other side?"
"Nothing," Jak replied from the rear.
"No." Doc's voice floated from the attic. "Not a creature is stirring. Not even a mouse."
"Nothing this side," Ryan added. "Looks like a one-in, all-in attack then. How many?"
"Around thirty or forty, straggling. Can't see sec men. Most got muskets and old blasters. Don't seem in too much of a hurry."
Ryan walked around to the front and called Jak to join him and J.B., leaving Doc to watch the other sides from the roofless attic.
"Zimyanin's using stupes as a first wave to draw fire, use up ammo. Mebbe take one or two of us out if they're lucky. Cold bastard!"
Zorro, tucked inside Doc's fur coat, whimpered.
The peasants were strung out across the field in a rough skirmishing line. They had proved so reluctant to follow the wolf pack toward the sinister dacha that Zimyanin had been forced to use a handful of his precious trained sec men to push the villagers along with the threat of a bullet in the back.
He watched them begin to advance, then turned to order the heavy wags to warm up their engines and to have the two gren launchers broken out and set up. He suspected that they might soon need them.
"TIME TO SLOW 'EM," J.B. said. "They're inside six hundred paces."
"Close enough," Ryan agreed.
His Heckler & Koch G-12 caseless rifle bragged a laser-enhanced sniper scope. He pressed the butt into his shoulder and squinted along the barrel, seeing the slow-moving serpent that wound its way toward them. A faint mist was rising from the river, drifting lazily across the fields. It enveloped the feet of the advancing Russians, rising to their waists, so that they seemed to be wading through water.
J.B. fired his H&K MP-7 SD-8, the integral silencer making each round sound like a dainty sneeze. The rifle also had a laser-optic sight that made the targets as clear as day.
Both men had their long-range blasters set on single-shot, not wanting to waste any ammo on triple-burst or full-auto. At less than half a mile, against such passive victims, single shots were all it took.
"BY LENIN'S TOMB! They will kill them all, long before they reach the house."
Zimyanin nodded. "I think so. I hadn't known they had rifles. Such men would be skillful with such weapons. Yes, Comrade, I think you are right. Pass the order."
"To retreat, Comrade Major-Commissar?"
"No. To advance on the double."
"But—"
"But what, Comrade?" His voice was like a steel blade caressing the jugular.
"They are being smoothed away by the blasters of the terrorists."
"Correct. And the terrorists will not have that much ammunition. The more they waste on that stinking offal, the less they will have to shoot at our sec men when they go in. Carry out my order, quickly, will you, Comrade?"
"Yes, Comrade Major-Commissar."
"And bring up the gren launchers. We shall be needing them soon. Very soon."
THE BODIES FLOPPED to the freezing mud at regular intervals. Zimyanin's planning was partly correct. Neither Ryan nor J.B. had a limitless supply of ammo. Both men found it hard to believe that the Russians kept on coming. Indeed, after a couple of minutes they began to move faster, their ambling walk speeding to a clumsy trot. And they began to return fire with their antique muskets, though none of the shots reached the dacha.
In the first two and a half minutes, firing steadily and taking careful aim, Ryan and J.B. had put down over a dozen of the peasants, most dead before they hit the ground.
"How much longer before they quit?" the Armorer asked as he paused to wipe his glasses.
"I figure we'll chill every one of them before they get close enough to do us any serious harm. Looks to me like the sec men are driving them on."
"Mebbe we should lay them down first?"
"More we chill, the less there are to come at us again. Let them come, J.B., and we'll oblige them with a trip to the coast."
RICK HAD BEEN SLEEPING for several minutes while Krysty ran up to the top of the stairs to recce the situation. The freezie woke to the sound of her boot heels clattering on the steps as she came back down into the gateway control room.
"We winning?" he asked.
The woman told him what was happening and he nodded and smiled.
"Remember the Alamo," he croaked, coughing with the effort of speaking. "Ryan Crockett and J.B. Travis. Guess I'm like Jim Bowie, wounded down here. But I'm ready to take some of the bastards with me. Blow these gas cans to hell and back. Got a pyrotab, Krysty? Give it me."
"Don't be triple-stupe," she replied. "When we go you come with us. You don't need a pyrotab for anything."
The smile of the dying man grew broader, tearing at Krysty's heart. "Now who's… who's triple-stupe, lady? I know where I'm going, and…there won't be nobody on the road with me. Give me the firelighter. I can just make it, even with my fingers fucked."
Krysty reached in the pocket of her pants and handed him a small pyrotab. All Rick had to do was flip open a catch and he'd have instant ignition. With an effort Rick managed to grip the tab in one trembling hand.
"Thanks, sister. Hey, Santy Anna, we're killin' your soldiers so near, so the rest of Deathlands'll hear. And remember… remember…" Another coughing fit made it impossible for him to carry on. Krysty knelt and helped him take a sip of water.
"THEY'RE RUNNING."
"Stop shooting," Ryan ordered. "Once they're broke, there's no profit in chilling any more of them."
The dawn's pale light was creeping across the misty land, throwing shadows ahead of the fleeing men and boys. By now the fog had filled in all of the hollows, so that most of the corpses lay invisible in the swirling whiteness.
"How many dead, Comrade Corporal?" Zimyanin asked. "You watched through the glasse
s?"
"Yes, Comrade Major-Commissar," answered the young, smooth-chinned noncom. "I counted twenty-three fall, of which all but one failed to…" He lost the thread of his sentence through his fear of the blood-eyed officer.
Zimyanin smiled thinly. "You mean that twenty-two are dead and one wounded?"
"No, Comrade Major-Commissar. The wounded man rose and was shot immediately and fell again. He did not rise a second time."
"Thank you, soldier. Time for the final wave of the attack, I believe. Bring up the wags and ready the gren launchers. They are to fire only at my personal command."
"THEY COME AGAIN?"
"Course they will, Jak," Ryan replied. "It's coming down to the gun. Russkies know we're here. Know we can't run."
"But we can jump," J.B. said. "Now the gateway's nearly ready."
Doc had been listening from the damaged floor above them, with Zorro cowering at his side. "The door is nearly completed, gentlemen. That is perfectly true. But I fear that it doesn't mean we will necessarily find the chamber working when we attempt it. The only way to test it is to use it."
"What could go wrong, Doc?" Ryan asked.
"Who could know that, my dear friend? Who knows the face that launched a thousand ships and something something the topless towers of somewhere or other? If you take my meaning."
"No."
"Tarnation! The mat-trans might simply not function at all and we shall look pretty fools sitting there waiting for our Communist friends to pop us in their bag. Or, it might work a little."
"Then fucking what, Doc?" Jak asked.
"Then we might all occupy a little space somewhere between the stars. A smudge of displaced molecules positioned roughly between eternity and infinity. I do not believe there would be much pain in such an ending."
"Thanks, Doc," Ryan said. "Sure gives us all something to chew on for a while."
"You're most welcome, my dear chap."
"SEND THEM BACK to their hovels. I want them out of the way before the final assault."
