Chill Factor

by James Axler

  "Small trickle behind me. I can turn my head and lap at it. Undignified, but there it is."

  Kate spoke for the first time. "What did you do to for them to…"

  "I fear that I made the mistake of trying to preserve my wife from the unwelcome attentions of the powerful Russkie."

  "Zimyanin?"

  "Yes." For the first time the calmness lost its hold on his voice. "Him."

  "What did—" Ryan began.

  The man interrupted him by lifting his right arm and pointing into the next pool of dark shadows. "There," he said. "She's just along the tunnel."

  Kate moved first, Ryan at her heels. Both saw what hung there.

  "Oh…" The young woman dropped to her knees and crossed herself in what he knew was the Catholic way. "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou…" Her voice faltered into tears.

  The man behind them coughed once. "Bad, isn't it? Can't see too well as the lights are poor. But there were a dozen brought us here and they all took her. Used her in every way you can think of. Couple used me, too. Laughing and laughing and laughing and… I'm sorry. Then they did what you see. Sharp knives, weren't they? Opened her throat last of all. Wish they'd done it first. Or done it to me first."

  "I'm sorry," Ryan said quietly. "Bastard useless word, isn't it?"

  "Best I've heard in a while, friend. I may call you my friend, might I not?"

  "Sure."

  "Last word she said was my name. Even as the blood was drowning her, she called my name. Said she'd wait for me."

  Kate had finished her prayer, rejoining Ryan. "Can't we break him free?"

  "No. Not without ex-plas, and that'd chill him. Chains too thick. Wish I could."

  The man was smiling in the dimness. "I knew that, friend. Just a matter of waiting."

  Ryan stepped closer, the blaster bolstered. "I've got a good blade. I can finish it for you. Put you out of—"

  "Misery? I am not miserable, friend. And once I am dead, then everything that my wife and I did and meant and loved will end."

  "There's the world beyond," Kate said fiercely. "You said she promised to wait for you."

  "No, child, no. You get given a single ride on the carousel. The horses go up and down and around and around. Then the music ceases, the dust gathers in the manes of the painted ponies and the ride is over. I know that, friend. No, you leave me here. I don't think it'll be very long. Few hours and then I'll sleep, and it'll be done."

  "You're sure? We won't likely come past this way again."

  The chains rattled as he shook his head. "I thank you, friend. Go your way."

  Kate stepped close and stretched up, kissing him on the cheek, turning away to hide her tears.

  Ryan touched the man on the shoulder, feeling the flesh deathly cold to his hand. "Go well," he said.

  "Put out the light. I loved reading, you know."

  The voice faded behind them.

  When they'd turned a corner, there was a sudden shout.

  "You ever meet the Russkie again, friend?"

  Ryan paused in midstride. "Yeah. Suppose I do?"

  The voice echoed behind and in front of them. "Make it slow and hard for him, friend. For me and for her. Don't forget."

  "You got it!" Ryan called.

  They went on their way in silence.

  KATE BROKE THE STILLNESS when they were walking up a steep sloping gallery ten minutes or so later.

  "Miserable, rotten ending." Her voice was ragged, close to weeping.

  Ryan stopped. "Let's take five."

  They both squatted on their heels, Kate avoiding Ryan's eye.

  He sighed. "Miserable? He's not in pain. Too cold and numb. Soon be over."

  "But I don't believe that the soul—"

  "Shit! Listen, I'll tell you something I once saw in some stinking pesthole frontier ville, not far from Juarez. Ten years ago. Mebbe more. Baron had died. Big occasion. Lot of jack. Prettiest death wag you ever saw. Glass sides and lots of polished brass, silver and ebony. Coffin inside was covered in a mess of flowers. Four horses. Hooves painted black. All four were colored like a dream of midnight. Silver harness jingled soft in the dusty stillness. Each horse had a big plume of black feathers on its head that tossed, rustled and whispered as they moved. Best damned send-off a man ever had."

  "So what? I don't understand."

  Ryan looked at her, his face white under the faint light of the lamps.

  "On the way out of the ville that evening I saw a pair of fat gaudy sluts kicking the corpse of a naked man into a sewage ditch. Worst send-off a person could have."

  Kate stood up. "Yeah, I get the parable. They were both dead so it didn't matter to either of them."

  "You're right, Kate," he said, standing and leading the way deeper into the isolated sections of the mines.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  THERE WASN'T A SINGLE second of warning. The weight of the man dropping from a shaft in the ceiling knocked Ryan down to his knees. The coldness of the attacker's skin and the aura of fishiness told immediately that the trackies were onto them. He heard Kate yell out, then he was fighting for his life.

  Despite their small stature, the muties were lithe and muscular. The one that had fallen from the roof had locked an arm around Ryan's neck, while it attempted to kick its heel into his groin. Instead of trying to get up off the floor, Ryan rolled himself over, pushing back hard, so that his full weight was on top of the creature.

  Two more of them were on the edge of the fight, both holding tridents, darting around, waiting for a moment to thrust at him, unable to do so because of the closeness of their colleague.

  Ryan tucked his chin down and loosened the arm around his neck, grabbing it and biting as hard as he was able. He gagged at the vile taste, his teeth barely penetrating the tough, scaly skin. But it was still enough to make the mutie yelp in pain and let go for a moment.

  With an effort, Ryan managed to snatch hold of the trackie by its sacking, heaving it at the nearest of the waiting pair. With a defensive reflex, the creature tried to fend the flailing body off with its spear, succeeding in ramming the triple points deep into its fellow's guts.

  Ryan didn't even watch, drawing his blaster and pumping five rounds into the trio of attackers. The spear in the belly had already killed the first of them, and the other pair went down, shot through chest and head respectively.

  "Help me!" The voice, shrill and terrified, would have shattered crystal at a quarter mile.

  Two of the trackies had seized Kate and were trying to hustle her off through the passage they'd just left. The young woman was taller than the muties and was kicking and struggling. But with one clinging to each wrist, she was almost helpless.

  Ryan leveled the SIG-Sauer and shot both of them carefully through the head.

  "Oh, Blessed Mary! Ryan they… Look out, behind you!"

  He spun, seeing a bunch of trackies stalking toward them from an unseen side tunnel, all holding single-pointed spears.

  There were so many of them, so close, that Ryan had no choice. All he could do was squeeze the trigger and hold on to the bucking automatic. The silencer kept the noise down, so that there was just the snuffling ripple of sound.

  But the muties danced and screamed and fell and bled.

  And died.

  It was only when he went around with his cleaver, administering the finishing blow to any still living, that Ryan realized there had been seven trackies in the second wave of the attack.

  He slid in the last magazine, looking back at Kate. "Fifteen rounds left. Won't last us that long. You okay?"

  "Sure. Ever since I met you life's been a whole mess of laughs. I can't wait for the next excitin' adventure."

  Within two hundred yards they were attacked by three more of the diminutive, murderous trackies, coming howling at them, all armed with strange, short-hafted hatchets.

  Ryan expended seven more rounds to chill them, the P-226 blaster growing warm with its exercise.

>   "Eight bullets," he said.

  "ANY IDEA WHERE WE ARE?" he asked as they walked along.

  "No. I'm sorry, Ryan, but—"

  "Forget it."

  "What time is it?"

  He angled the compact wrist chron toward the nearest light, peering to read the digital display. "Closing in on four in the afternoon."

  "Hungry."

  "Yeah." At least they'd had plenty of drink. The mine was riddled with innumerable streams, small rivers and spraying falls of water. Some were brackish and soured with chemicals, but most were fresh.

  "Got to find a place to hole up for the night. Go for it in the morning."

  "I can't make it, Ryan."

  "Then you stay here and die, Kate. I'm not about to argue with you."

  "Why can't we try to hide in one of the huts, just for one night?"

  "Think about last night."

  "But we—"

  "Fireblast!" He kicked out in anger at some loose stones, sending them skittering along the passage. "Zimyanin's called a parade where he'll check out every man. He'll remember me from this." He touched his eye patch with his gloved right hand. "And it'll be goodbye time. Get it?"

  "Sure, I know—"

  She was interrupted by a cold voice from the shadows. "You fuckin' lovers best get back on the shift face or I'll turn you in to the Russkie."

  Ryan looked around, taken completely by surprise, staring into the blackness and not seeing the speaker.

  "I got an ace right on the shittin' line for you, so do like I say." The man laughed. "Might've gotten away with your bit of suck 'n' fuck if you hadn't disturbed them stones."

  THE ONLY SMALL PORTION of good news was that Ryan was able to conceal the SIG-Sauer in the small of his back before they walked out with the sec guard.

  There'd been the faint hope of jumping the sentry, but as soon as Ryan saw him he forgot about the idea. He wasn't one of the lazy timeservers you found in most sec forces. This was someone who took a true pleasure in his work. He was around six feet five inches tall, skinny as a Kentucky musket, with narrow eyes that watched Ryan and the woman over the top of the sights of his M-16.

  "She worth the risk, One-Eye?" he asked, a thin grin breaking through a dark beard.

  "Good as they come," Ryan replied.

  "Now get shoveling."

  Ryan walked slowly away from the guard, picking up a shovel and going to the rock face. Kate hefted a pick and joined him.

  "Work off some of that energy." The man laughed. "Seein' how much you like it so much, lady, I'll mebbe come a callin' on you after lights-out tonight. What hut are you in?"

  Kate turned and looked at him. "Mean you don't know which hut?"

  "Sure. Nineteen with all the rest of your shift. Look out for me. Keep your eyes open and your legs shut. Later I'll want things t'other ways around. You hear me?"

  "I hear you."

  "Now get workin'."

  RYAN KEPT LOOKING, with increasing desperation, for some way out of the section. But he gradually came to realize that they'd achieved part of their objective by fumbling their way through the deserted mine workings toward the main entrance again.

  They'd succeeded all too well.

  They were at Level One, within a scant three hundred yards of the openings that carried iron carts on their wavering rails. The small trucks rattled and bumped, wheels screeching as they came in empty, then labored and groaned as they were filled with the wet mixture of earth and ore.

  Because of their proximity to the freezing open air, the guards were far more numerous and alert than in the deeper recesses of the tunnels.

  The tall skinny sec man paid them particular attention, as though there were something about them that interested him. Kate's concern grew less when she realized that the sentry was fascinated with Ryan.

  "I don't recall seem' you before his afternoon," he said.

  "I been around."

  "How long?"

  "Long enough?"

  The muzzle of the rifle caught him just over the kidneys, making him wince.

  "Try a better answer."

  "Four weeks, near as I can remember."

  The man nodded. "Better. Where did they pick you up?"

  "In the Darks."

  He considered that answer. "I don't… But there's all kinds of comings and goings here. You come in on your feet and go out on your back, down the river. One-way ticket, thanks to Major-Commissar Gregori Zimyanin."

  Ryan sniffed. "I know that."

  "Sure you do." He half turned away from Ryan, then stared at him again. "Somethin' about you I can't get a handle on. You was never in Tucumcari, was you?"

  Ryan had been down there several times with the Trader. "No. Never."

  "Louis?"

  "No."

  "Around the Lakes?"

  Ryan shook his head again. "Never."

  The guard spit. "Shit! You ain't never been nowhere, have you? Get on digging. Not much longer before you can stop early tonight."

  "Why?" Ryan knew the answer.

  "Russkie got a special parade for himself. Don't know why. Sure as shit won't ask him why. Last man to question an order went into the river bit at a time. Took two days."

  THE CHANCE OF MAKING a break for it never came. A whistle blew several long blasts, followed by a couple of shorter ones.

  "Shovels and picks down! Move your asses! Come on, outside."

  As they were the nearest to the entrance, their working party was first into the chill evening. It had been snowing once more, whiteness piled everywhere, stained yellow around the spoil heaps.

  Ryan looked around for a sight of the Russian, but Zimyanin was keeping in the warmth until they were all ready and waiting.

  "Kid just waved at you," Kate said out of the corner of her mouth.

  "Where?"

  "The coming shift. Two work units to the left. Second row."

  "Can't see anyone."

  "He was there. Short kid. Mebbe he's pulled back to hide."

  "Mebbe."

  Ryan scanned the rows of faces, trying to spot Dean. But it was a hopeless task. The shift going into the mines was at least reasonably free of the stinking mud. But all wore an array of rags and furs, including hoods, piled around themselves, so that it was impossible to tell man from woman, old from young.

  "What now?" Kate whispered, terrified of drawing attention to them.

  "Wait. Trader used to say that if there was a bullet coming your way, it was only a triple stupe that ran toward it."

  "More mud."

  Ryan looked at her. "What?"

  "Smear mud on your face. Hide the patch."

  "Zimyanin'll be looking for that."

  "There he is."

  The stocky figure was unmistakable, striding along a balcony at the front of one of the main admin buildings.

  He was clearly visible through the dark green railings, pacing back and forth in gleaming black leather knee boots, with built-up heels to increase the five feet and six inches. His snug-fitting jacket of black leather sported two silver circles on the lapels, and was belted tightly around his barrel chest.

  Despite the cold the Russian was bareheaded, the lights above gleaming off the shaved, polished skull. His black mustache seemed fuller and more luxuriant than when Ryan had last seen him. He wore a side arm that looked like a 9 mm Makarov. He clapped his gloved hands together as he walked, his breath hanging in front of his mouth like a cloud of steam.

  As Ryan glanced up at him, the Russian leaned over the railing and called out an order to one of the senior sec men below.

  The command was passed along the line and whistles began to blow. Voices were raised and the working shifts were organized into roughly straight lines, ready for the inspection.

  "Here we go," Kate said.

  Ryan grabbed her by the elbow. "Give me your knife."

  "What?"

  "Quick! Just give me your knife!"

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  THE WEATHER IN the cold no
rth of the American continent was harsh. It was a bleak land of raw rock and deep gorges where howling gales came screaming from the Arctic Circle. It snowed most days of the year, and when it wasn't snowing it was generally raining. For three hundred days of the year the temperature never rose above freezing.

  For Oregon Zimyanin, it reminded him very much of the Kamchatka peninsula where he'd made his reputation as a tough military commander.

  He'd hated the weather then, and he hated it now. Perhaps the weather at the sulfur mines was even worse than the wilderness of northeastern Russia.

  But there was an important difference.

  Back in Mother Russia, Oregon had been under orders—orders that had to be obeyed without fail, or the reward would be the muzzle of an automatic pressed to the nape and a muffled explosion.

  Here, his own word was law.

  There was nobody to cross him, no chain of command stretching across thousands of miles of open tundra to headquarters in Moscow.

  "This land is my land," Zimyanin said proudly to himself.

  DEAN CAWDOR COULDN'T BE certain. The light was poor in the gloom of the wintery evening, and everyone looked more or less the same in their collection of patched and torn rags.

  But the man standing next to the crop-headed woman had looked, for a moment, like his father. Dean had risked waving, knowing the danger of drawing attention to himself. And to Ryan.

  If it was Ryan.

  The boy had heard the news about the Russian's demand for an extra special parade and wondered why. Now, if it was really his father standing across the trampled dirt of the mine entrance, then his heart leaped into his throat at the thought that Zimyanin might be suspicious.

  But there wasn't a thing that he could do.

  "AS I GO BY I want each rank to take one step forward march, if you please," the Russian ordered.

  "Yes, Major-Commissar."

  There was a relay of orders and a ragged shuffle of feet in the frozen slush. Zimyanin stepped into the center of the spotlight's cold glare, his eyes scanning the long lines of slave workers.