Deathlands 071: Ritual Chill

by James Axler

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the companions joined those who were among the last to filter through the path and down to the main trade trail. Once they had reached this point, the pace of the party began to pick up. Soon they were treading the trade trail itself, headed in the direction they had taken—was it only a few days before? Whereas the trail had seemed long, winding and capable of hiding a multitude of dangers back then, now it seemed to be too small and insignificant to take the vast party that crammed its boundaries, moving at a brisk pace.

  The Inuit kept close together, clustering in a main body with a sec patrol at point to scout in advance when they reached harsher regions and a party at rear to insure the pace was kept and also to watch for wildlife approaching from the shelter of the woodlands at their backs.

  The path wound down toward the sheltered rock in which the companions had been trapped and turned back so recently. Perhaps it was because they were so familiar with the terrain this time around that it didn’t seem to take up such a distance as before. It wasn’t too long before they were overshadowed by the rock walls, the front section of the party emerging onto the frozen wastes. Already, as they traversed beyond the warm streams of air fed by the outlying pockets of volcanic activity, they noticed the way in which the icy winds began to bite, making them huddle into their furs. It was a crisp, clear day, with no visible signs to betray a chance of storm and snow, and little ice circulating in the air. But what there was still constituted enough to chill the air in their lungs and freeze their breath as it emerged from their mouths and nostrils in streams of steam.

  The walls of rock narrowed into an overhang that seemed to dangle oppressively, as though at any moment it would collapse in upon them and solve their problems for once and all. But before this gloomy atmosphere could overtake them, the walls came to a sudden halt, widening briefly before leading out onto the vast expanse of ice and rock that stretched to the horizon, with little to break the monotony other than the occasional outcrop and banked snow.

  From their position at the rear of the caravan, they could see the ranks of the Inuit stretch in front of them. Their pace was steady, but surprisingly brisk for all that. Fairbanks was some distance away, and the trail was across harshly exposed terrain, marked now by the warriors as they began to spread out a little on a winding path that picked its way between deceptively jagged rock and ice, and potholes that harbored potentially deadly pockets of ice and snow that would entrap like quicksand. Although there was no glacial activity that could be defined, these isolated spots operated in much the same deadly manner.

  The companions stayed to the rear of the war party, not wanting to work their way up—partly to conserve energy and partly because it was useful to them to stay at the rear. Jordan—Doc—was at the head, with Thompson and McPhee, and so out of reach. It would have been preferable if the old buzzard had been within easy reach, but it was more important to try to keep as distanced as possible from the beginnings of any action. Their priorities were clear. Stay alive and try to extricate Doc from any mess he may get them into while he was still Joseph Jordan. The two may actually turn out to be exclusive. Hanging back at the rear of the caravan could give them the chance to make a break for freedom if an opportunity arose.

  This, however, looked far from likely. There were sec men at their rear who occasionally came up close, their demeanor suggesting that they wouldn’t hesitate to shoot first and ask questions after. There was little chance of dropping back farther from the caravan.

  Those Inuit who were closest to them also cast disapproving glances in their direction. It was pretty clear that a good proportion of the tribe found it hard to trust them. Which meant, in turn, that they were under close surveillance.

  It was going to be a long haul to Fairbanks.

  TWO DAYS OF MARCHING across terrain that was unwelcoming and unforgiving. The clear skies of their departure gave way to chem clouds that turned the skies a yellow-gray, the stench of sulfur trapped beneath their oppressive weight. The strength of the winds, unbroken by any land mass, began to increase, and within a few hours the first storm had broken. Nowhere near the force of other storms previously encountered, no one sought shelter. Jordan, Thompson and McPhee were driven men, forcing their charges to proceed along the trail, fighting against the horizontal rain and snow that whipped in the darkened air.

  The terrified whining of the animals could be heard, straining to break through the howling winds, and the tribesmen in front of the companions became nothing more than a vague blur. The caravan had stayed close together to facilitate such action during a storm, but nonetheless the range of vision grew smaller with each passing minute.

  At the rear, this made the companions more determined to keep the caravan in sight. Although the storm would give them cover in which to slip away, where would they go? Right now, they needed the protection and sense of direction the caravan could bring.

  Speech was useless, words whipped away by the storm before they had a chance to travel to their intended target. Instead, they used gestures to communicate. The five closed up, Ryan leading them nearer to the Inuit pack a few yards in front.

  It was as he moved forward that he caught the slightest glimpse of a small figure moving swiftly from the side—his blind side, so he caught it too late to react quickly enough. Launching itself forward, the figure cannoned into him, knocking him off balance on the slippery, icy rock of the trail. Letting out a yell that was lost in the storm, Ryan fell sideways, thrusting an arm out to try to break his fall. He felt the bones in his wrist and forearm jar heavily when they hit the rock, the shock catching a nerve and numbing the arm from the elbow down.

  The figure was heavy on him and difficult to come to grips with. The skins and furs swathed the figure so well that it was hard to tell where the Inuit ended and the swaddling clothes began. Ryan felt the cold seep through into his back as he grappled with the figure atop him. In the poor visibility, even at such close range, it was hard to see what kind of weapon the Inuit held. A cold, metallic clang on the rock by his head and the sparks from steel on stone told him that it was a blade. The figure had masked its face, so he wouldn’t be able to identify it; more importantly, unless he fought off the tribesman, he wouldn’t be in a position to even attempt this. One-armed, it was all he could do to keep the Inuit from chilling him, using his working arm to fend off the blows. There was little chance of him having the luxury of reaching for a weapon.

  There was only one chance to get the little bastard off him and try to get things back on an equal footing. Shifting so that the bulk of his attacker’s weight settled on his lower body, Ryan thrust upward with his hips. The sudden movement pushed the Inuit warrior upward, relieving Ryan of his weight. With his legs momentarily freed, Ryan braced his feet and pushed up harder, the increased momentum propelling the tribesman up and over his head to land on the rock with a sickening crunch.

  Ryan was scrambling to his feet when he felt rather than heard or saw someone at his side.

  “Me, Ryan,” Jak whispered in his ear before the one-eyed man answered the instinctive urge to strike out. “What happen?”

  Ryan, one arm still numbed, fumbled the panga from its sheath with his good hand as he spoke. “Some little bastard just tried to chill me. He’s…” His voice trailed off. There was no sign of his attacker where he had heard the tribesman hit the rock. No sign of any kind that he had been attacked.

  The other companions had now clustered around, but before they had a chance to ask further questions, they were on the sharp end of Lee Enfield .303 barrels as the sec men closed on them.

  “Keep moving—mustn’t lose sight of the others,” one of the sec men snapped.

  In the storm, there was no chance to discuss or to explain. Seeing that the retreating caravan was almost out of vision, the companions moved on, some not even aware of the attack on Ryan, but feeling nonetheless uneasy about what had occurred.

  At the end of the second day, the storms beg
an to abate. As darkness closed on them, the skies began to clear. The crescent moon and some constellations were visible through the heavy, chem-tinged atmosphere, and their faint light cast an unearthly glow over the flattened landscape, the banks of snow showing blue against black stretches of rock.

  The caravan stopped to pitch camp and Ryan spoke hurriedly and in hushed tones as he relayed to the others what had happened to him.

  “Not just you,” Krysty said firmly when he had finished. She noted the questioning looks she received from the others and continued, keeping her tones as low as Ryan’s. “During the storm, I was attacked. Not directly, not like you were. Mebbe it was the same person, which would figure if it was one of the sec behind us, but…” She shook her head, aware that she was getting off the point. “I saw someone moving past me and then they seemed to drop back a little. I never heard the shot, but I felt the slug go past me—so close that I could feel how damn hot it was. It made me pull up quickly, but… I dunno, I couldn’t quite believe it, thought I might have been mistaken. I think I’d probably still be thinking that if you hadn’t just told us what you have,” she finished, looking at Ryan.

  “Dark night, we’re gonna have to be triple red from now on,” J.B. muttered. “Some of these bastards might be okay with us tagging along, but others are gonna be direct about showing how they don’t like it.”

  Ryan looked around. The Inuit had made camp for the night out on the trail. The sleds driven by dogs had carried tents that were pitched and weighted to act as windbreaks on the vast expanse of wasteland. Behind these, groups of Inuit huddled together under extra skins and furs while the dogs hunkered down close to them. Allocated sec patrols were visible, carrying lamps and blasters, scouting the surrounding area.

  The companions had their own windbreak, and gave themselves some distance. Jordan was out of sight, but the prime objective now was to stay alive during the night. They divided into watches of their own and got an uneasy night’s rest, unwilling to trust to the sec patrols of the Inuit.

  As Ryan took watch, he looked to the horizon. In the direction they were headed, there was a small ville within view, laying about five hundred yards from the path of the trading trail. He figured they had probably passed one during the storm, as well. No signs of life from either. The Inuit had acted as though it was a direct route to Fairbanks, with no problems en route, and he could see why. They had already laid waste to anything that may lay between the volcanic region and their destination.

  How many of the bastards wanted to lay waste to them, as well?

  It was only when morning came that he felt he could relax, which wasn’t a good thing. How could they stay on top of the game if they had to keep awake while the Inuit slept, and then tried to keep pace with the caravan? They would need their wits about them when they hit Fairbanks, but another day of this and they would be operating below their best.

  No time to consider this as they set off across the wastes once more, the windbreaks and extra furs stowed on the sleds, the dogs and packhorses setting pace with the leading Inuit.

  It came to the point where all attention was focused on putting one foot in front of the other. At least the day was clear of storms. The winds still blew strong, but only carried residual particles of ice. The clouds scudded across the skies, too fast to settle and dump their loads on the caravan below.

  At least they were making rapid progress, so much so that they had arrived at the deserted ville before the sun was halfway across the sky. Consisting of little more than a few log and cinder-block huts, it had an air of desolation, as though it had been deserted for some time. As they neared it, the companions could see that the caravan had halted on the trail. Jordan was conferring with Thompson, and both men were gesturing toward the deserted ville. The chief beckoned McIndoe over to him, and after a few brief words the sec chief began to make his way to the rear of the caravan.

  “What’s going on?” J.B. queried.

  “Something I’m betting we’re not gonna like,” Mildred replied wryly.

  The sec chief approached them. “We’re checking that ville—see if anyone’s still around.”

  “I’m guessing that you could just as easily tell that from here,” Ryan replied.

  McIndoe made no indication of his feelings, just shrugged. “Not my job to say, just to do.”

  “So why are you telling us?” Ryan continued.

  “Because the old man wants you to come with us, see what’s there,” McIndoe answered.

  Ryan exchanged puzzled glances with the rest of the companions. Why would Jordan want to send them into an empty ville, unless it was to prove their loyalty to the cause? It wasn’t a prospect that held much appeal. To be in a deserted ville with plenty of cover for any Inuit who chose to take a shot at them? On the other hand, who would be so stupe as to do that in front of the whole caravan? While it would be useful to know who they were up against when the firefight started at Fairbanks, it would only expose their enemies to the wrath of the Inuit chief and shaman.

  In the end, they had no real choice in the matter. They had to prove Jordan’s faith in them, or else the whole of the community, including the chief and shaman, would turn against them.

  While the caravan waited, strung out along the trail, half a dozen Inuit sec, along with the companions, walked in silence the five hundred yards to the outskirts of the ville. In truth, the settlement was so small that it was almost an exaggeration to call it such.

  As they approached, all they could hear over the constant sounds of the windswept landscape was the banging of doors and window shutters, random and seemingly at the mercy of wind currents that constantly changed on this flat plain.

  “Sure as hell sounds empty to me,” Mildred murmured.

  “Yeah, but it ain’t whoever lived there that we’ve got to worry about,” Krysty returned.

  “Got that right.”

  McIndoe directed his men so that they spread and combed the ville. He gestured to Ryan that he should do the same with his people. Reluctantly, as he was unwilling to separate them in the maze that the settlement represented, Ryan followed suit, directing his people to follow the Inuit sec into the ville.

  The settlement had been evacuated quickly and violently. Ryan frowned as he saw doors ripped from the fronts of cabins and shattered windows. There were dark patches in the clustered ice around the tracks that snaked between the huts and some remnants of bone. It was an almost identical scene to the ville they had encountered before stumbling into the Inuit hunting party, and the sudden recall made the one-eyed warrior recoil slightly.

  The huts were empty, their contents nothing more than a mass of broken wood and ripped-up material.

  Mildred turned a corner and came fact-to-face with McIndoe as he stepped out of a hut.

  “Shit, you frightened me,” she gasped.

  “Just making sure,” the Inuit replied.

  “Making sure of what?” Mildred questioned, but the sec man didn’t reply, turning and walking away without a sound.

  The two parties met up at the edge of the settlement that led back to the trading trail.

  “Anything?” the sec chief asked simply. His men didn’t speak, merely inclined their heads to indicate that nothing had been found. He looked at Ryan questioningly.

  “Empty,” the one-eyed man replied. “Not sure what the hell we were supposed to find anyway.”

  The two parties began to make their way back to the trail, where the caravan waited patiently for them. As they walked across the plain, there was a sound from the settlement. A dull whump, as though something had fallen over heavily onto a bank of snow. Except that there was no snow.

  “What—” Ryan whirled, to see a plume of smoke rise from the far side of the settlement.

  “You said you found nothing,” McIndoe yelled, his voice suddenly louder than any of the companions had heard before. “You didn’t look. Go back, dammit!”

  Ryan felt his guts churn in warning. McIndoe was one of tho
se who were set against them. It had to be. He had deliberately raised his voice and chosen his words so that they would carry to Thompson, McPhee and Jordan. If the companions refused to go back and search the ville once more, then they would look like cowards and incapable in the eyes of the caravan. If they did, then there was a trap waiting for them. And if McIndoe was against them, it was safe to assume that the majority of the sec would follow him.

  They had no choice.

  “Let’s go back,” Ryan said through gritted teeth.

  Realizing the position they were in, the companions turned and jogged toward the ville. They had their blasters to hand, but knew that they were unlikely to face a living enemy. Smoke was now rising from one hut within the cluster of the settlement, and Mildred knew it was the one she had seen McIndoe exit from. She relayed this as they ran.

  “Triple red, you don’t know what that bastard has laid in there,” Ryan said. “Fan out, approach with extreme caution.”

  The companions spread out, each taking a separate route into the settlement. J.B. opted for the most direct. The Armorer had an idea of the kind of trap McIndoe might lay, and wanted to be first on the scene.

  As he approached the hut that had been fired, the smoke was beginning to billow out in waves that threatened to stop him getting closer. But why would they be sent back to a building that was too fired to entrap them?

  It was obvious, but he needed to make sure. Choking back the smoke, ignoring the way in which his eyes were streaming, J.B. forged ahead into the doorway of the cabin. The fire had been set in the far corner, but why? J.B. scanned the room through the thick smoke and caught sight of what he was after: a large block of plas-ex in the near corner, with a fuse attached…a fuse that was attached to a tallow wick to fire it. The flames from the fire were closing on the wick.

  A block that size would take out half the ville. He had to move quickly. J.B., coughing heavily and spitting phlegm, pulled himself away from the cabin and began to run, yelling loudly to get the hell back. Despite the maze-like design of the settlement and the winds, he was able to make his voice heard, and in turn each of the companions turned and backtracked. They trusted J.B. implicitly and knew that if it was that urgent, then they had to move.