Red Holocaust d-2

by James Axler

  "Not that amazin', love. It must be as old as everythin' else in this redoubt."

  Following the printed instructions, Ryan turned on the Jacuzzi and started filling it with hot water. "You sure Quint can't read?" he asked.

  "Certain."

  "How?"

  "He told me."

  "When?"

  "Turn that tap farther. The water's not coming fast enough."

  Ryan did as she suggested. As he knelt, he was aware of Krysty moving behind him. He didn't turn his head, knowing that she was on his blind side.

  There was the breath of material falling softly to the floor. She leaned over him, her long rich crimson hair brushing against his nakedness, caressing him with infinitely soft movements. The touch was enough to arouse him, and she giggled in his ear, reaching over his shoulder with a long arm, her fingers rubbing his chest.

  "Krysty," Ryan closed his good eye for a moment, relishing the contact. He swallowed hard, fighting to control his breathing.

  "Yeah?"

  "When did Quint say he couldn't read?"

  "Yesterday. He took me to see that door to the outside. Said there was a whole mess of fuckin' wicked mutie dwarfs out there. That's what he said. They wait. Been waitin' for a hundred years. He talked about being the Keeper. Said that everythin' he knew, he'd learned from his father, who was Keeper before him."

  The bath was three-quarters full. The woman knelt behind Ryan, her arms around him, her breasts pressed against his muscular back so that he could feel her hard nipples. She was holding him with one hand, rubbing slowly up and down while, with her other hand, she traced the delicate lace of scars across his shoulders. And all the time her sentient hair was stroking him.

  "His father?"

  "Yeah, Ryan. Keeper before him. And his father's father was Keeper before that."

  "But why's there only three of 'em left? The muties get 'em?"

  "Didn't say. Ryan?"

  There was a change in her voice, and he finally turned around to look into her face, feeling for a split second as if he might drown in the green depths of her eyes.

  "What, Krysty?"

  "Muties, Ryan."

  He nodded. "I'm not goin' to fuck around, Krysty, and pretend I don't know what you mean. I do know."

  She sat back, drawing her long legs up, folding her arms around them, resting her chin on her knees. Her marvelous hair tumbled across her shoulders, coyly covering her breasts.

  "Now's the time for this, Ryan. We've known each other a short while. We made love — or we fucked. I thought it was makin' love. You?"

  "Yeah, Krysty. I didn't think we were fuckin'. I thought we..."

  "That's good. Now, you know I'm a mutie."

  "Not..." But she interrupted him.

  "Turn off the tap, or we'll flood the bastard redoubt in hot water."

  "There. Look, there's somethin' funny about your hair. Like it moves some."

  "Some. My mother was Mother Sonja, and the good and bad things about me come from her. She had the power, Ryan. Real power. Gave some to me — some by birthing me, some by teaching me."

  "Was she... a mutie?"

  "More than me. She could make her hair grow long and lift things with it. I saw her do it when I was little. She got older and didn't or couldn't do it anymore. My hair moves a little. Mainly when I'm happy or when I'm..." She grinned suddenly, lifting her face, dazzling him with her beauty. "I guess you noticed that, Ryan. And my hair hurts when it's pulled or caught. Or cut."

  "That all?"

  The washer on one of the taps in the whirlpool bath had rotted, and the water dripped steadily. Ryan watched it, conscious that he was beginning to feel cold.

  "No. You know that I've escaped twice with my wrists tied?"

  "And you damn near broke the handle on the main door to the redoubt in the Darks."

  "Yeah, I did. That's kind of a mutation. But it's more what I meant by Mother Sonja's teaching me things. She taught me how to do that."

  "What?"

  She looked down again. "It's a sort of focusing, a concentrating on how I feel. It's hard and it tires me some. I call on the Earth Mother, and she comes to help me."

  "Just how strong are you?" asked Ryan, still naked, standing and moving around the exercise room, conscious that his erection had vanished and that his penis now slapped limply against his thigh as he walked.

  "I don't know. I tried all I could on that door. Our lives were in danger. The effort nearly killed me. I nearly puked my guts up."

  In one corner, stacked on a chrome steel rack, there was a bar and a pile of weights. Ryan removed the collars and slid on some of the heavy discs, then replaced the collars and tightened the butterfly screws.

  "There are now one hundred and fifty pounds on each side. I figure it's about my top. Can you lift that?"

  "Not now." She rose and moved gracefully toward him. Her body was in marvelous condition, like a top fighter.

  "But, if you called... on the Earth Mother, could you then?"

  "Yes." There wasn't a hint of doubt in her voice as she looked at the equivalent of the weight of two grown men on the smooth bar. "But you first, Ryan. Press that above your head and..."

  "And what?"

  "Do it and see."

  "I don't usually lift things with my cock sticking out like this," he muttered, stooping in front of the weights.

  "Hanging out, Ryan," she corrected, with a wicked smile.

  Ryan waited, gathering his concentration, flexing his fingers around the cool metal. He closed his eye, focusing all his energy on lifting the bar. Six deep, slow breaths, then the explosive whoosh of effort. Feeling the strain at the small of his back and across his chest and shoulders, he lifted the bar from the rack. Ryan Cawdor didn't look that heavily muscled, but his wiry body was in excellent condition. A man didn't get to ride and fight with the Trader for ten years by being soft and flabby.

  "Very good," she said, clapping as the weights rose slowly but steadily to chest level, then with an extra boost, above Ryan's head. The tendons in his arms stood out like cords as he held it there, his face suffused with blood. He managed a wink at the girl before he lowered the bar to the floor with a thump.

  "Now you," he panted.

  "Give me a minute to ready myself."

  Krysty began to take deep breaths, her breasts rising and falling as Ryan watched with interest. Her legs were slightly apart, the triangle of brilliant scarlet pubic hair masking her sex. The muscles across the front of her thighs rippled and danced, and he could see the fluttering of her stomach. Her eyes were closed, and her lips moved. In the silence he heard her whisper.

  "Now, Mother of Earth, give me, I beg, the power to do that which is right. Let me render no evil. Give your daughter the power, the power, the power..." she chanted, the sound barely carrying to Ryan, three paces away. He stared at her face, seeing it transformed into a mask of carved bone, the planes of her cheeks shifted by an almost unbearable tension.

  Krysty stepped to the bar and bent in front of it, her tumbling hair hiding the weights for a moment. She gripped the bar with both hands and then straightened, hefting it above her head in a single, flowing motion.

  Ryan's jaw dropped. He'd seen some amazing sights before, but nothing to compare with the way the three-hundred-pound set of weights floatedup. There was no other word for it. Nor did the girl show any strain now that the deed was done. She held it above her head, her eyes half-open, her mouth sagging, a thread of spittle hanging from the corner of her lips, almost as if she'd fallen into a trance.

  "Thanks, Earth Mother," she whispered, then let the weights fall to the floor with a great crash. She staggered and nearly fell, putting her hand to her forehead. But before he could help her, she had straightened, smiling.

  "Krysty, are?.."

  "I'm fine. Bit tired. Always am. Shouldn't have done that. Showing off is not what the power's for."

  "It looked like it was no heavier than a fistful of air."

  "Yeah.
"

  "How much... heavier could you have lifted?"

  She shook her head. "The power of the Earth Mother isn't like that. It's what I want. If there were a buggy turned over on top of you, I could maybe lift it, maybe not."

  They stood in silence, looking at each other. Krysty spoke first, eyes locked to Ryan's face.

  "There. Now you know what sort of mutie I am."

  "Yeah. Now I know. But I think I knew before."

  "Now what?"

  He stepped close, lowering his head to kiss her softly on the lips, tasting her sweat, putting his arms around her, feeling the way she shuddered with the raw tension. Her breasts pushed insistently against his chest, and her hair rustled on his skin.

  "Now I want to get in that fuckin' big bath and make love to you for the rest of the day," said Ryan.

  "It doesn't matter, me bein' a mutie?"

  "Not unless you use your Earth Mother power when I’m inside you and crush me to pulp."

  "Don't joke about it, Ryan."

  "Sorry."

  She kissed him again, her tongue snaking over his teeth. Her right hand crept down over his stomach, touching the curling tendrils of hair.

  His response was instantaneous.

  "That's nice," she whispered. "Stickin' out, not hangin' out."

  Krysty led Ryan to the whirlpool bath. The water was still hot, and she pressed a violet-colored button to mix in some scented foam, making the exercise room smell like a meadow in summer. A square black button made the water churn and swirl. Great cascades of bubbles burst all around Ryan as he lowered himself cautiously into the bath.

  "Nice?" she asked.

  "Not bad," he replied, offering a hand to help her step in beside him. There was a ledge around the side of the bath and they sat together on it, the water only a few inches over their laps.

  Krysty, her back to him, lowered herself carefully into the water while he caressed her from behind. "Oh, yes. Yes, Ryan, that's great. Not too fast."

  Ryan reached around, feeling her nipples move against his palm. His right hand delved lower and deeper, under the water, between her parted thighs, found the tiny bud of flesh that nestled there. Rolling it between his finger and thumb, he enjoyed hearing the girl moan. It became swollen and she leaned her head back, half turning and nipping at the skin of his shoulder, drawing a ruby bead of blood.

  Gasping she removed his hand from between her legs, then gripped his rigid penis and quickly guided it into her body.

  Krysty had extraordinary control over all her muscles, tightening herself about him, squeezing his penis, bringing him toward a raging orgasm.

  Though he tried to hold back for her, the girl's skill was too much for Ryan, and he felt himself bursting inside her. But he stayed hard long enough for her to ride him to her own climax.

  All around them the scented water continued to bubble noisily. Still sitting on his lap, Krysty kissed him tenderly on the cheek. "Good. Thanks, Ryan."

  "It was real good." He paused. "Krysty... Oh, fireblast! Thanks."

  After a while they made love once again in the whirlpool bath, then finally got out, dripping water everywhere.

  "Should get some clean clothes, Ryan," she suggested.

  "Yeah. Tomorrow let's go to the store and find us some."

  They dressed in their old gear, making sure their weapons were in place. Krysty, ready before him, looked around the big exercise room, taking in the equipment and the mirrors. The bath was loudly draining.

  "Look."

  "What is it?"

  "The fuckin' spyin' old bastard." She stooped to pick up a length of ragged green ribbon from the floor near the door.

  The kind of ribbon that Quint, the Keeper of the redoubt, wore braided in his straggly gray beard.

  Chapter Six

  "How do the wolves survive, Uchitel?" asked Bochka, the Barrel, astride the largest horse in the party.

  "They eat the weak."

  "If there are no weak, brother?"

  Uchitel peered through the gap between his hood and the scarf around his nose and mouth. "Then they eat each other, Bochka." Raising his voice so the others could hear him, he added, "And if we fall on evil times and must devour each other, I take the leader's right of roasting Bochka all for myself."

  A ripple of laughter ran back along the column until it vanished in the murk of wind-blown snow. Since the raiders had left Ozhbarchik two days back, the weather had been deteriorating. Three times Uchitel had ordered emergency shelters to be dug in the packed snow; they used the long-bladed saws that they carried for just such a purpose. It took less than five minutes to throw up a wall of large snow bricks six feet high to protect them all from the lethal wind. During the rare calms, Uchitel had gazed back, trying to spot any sign of pursuit. Away to the north, he could make out the smoke-tipped cone of one of the many new volcanoes that had appeared at the time of the wars. The snow around it was tinted gold from the sulfur fumes, and there was no sign of any living thing in all that dreadful wilderness. Nothing except the huge mutated white bears that occasionally loomed from the blizzard, threatening the column.

  The bears... and the wolves — lean gray shapes with slavering jaws and thrusting muzzles, slinking at the corners of a man's vision. Several times over the years they had lost men to the wolves. It was one of the reasons that everyone feared becoming a straggler.

  Only the day before a man had gotten left behind. It had happened to Nul, a quiet, gray-haired man whose nickname was Zero because it often seemed as though he wasn't there. His pony had stumbled over a twisted piece of metal; it was a large mortar shell with tail fins intact, a relic of the missile testing that had once occurred in that area, which was just across the frozen expanse of the Bering Strait from North America. A deep gash in the pony's right foreleg had exposed the tendons, making the pony limp badly. Nul knew the rules as well as anyone. Move slower than the group, and you stayed behind. But there was always a chance of catching up. A man riding alone moved farther and faster than a party.

  There was always a chance of catching up again. All he'd have to do was stay alive.

  * * *

  "Fucking bastard! Cocksucking shit-swallowing bastard fucker!"

  Nul punched the stumbling pony on the side of the head, making it stagger and nearly fall again. Blood was drying on the streaked flanks where he'd lashed the pony with the buckle end of his belt. He'd hoped that by now he'd be rejoining the band. But the shaggy animal seemed to go slower and slower. Now darkness was less than an hour off, and the band was at least five kilometers ahead. If Uchitel persisted with his plan to cross the ice and invade what had once been America, they could begin crossing the strait in less than a week, maybe in only four or five days. At this rate, Nul figured he'd be more than a day behind by the time they reached the strait.

  It was time to stop, build a shelter and get a fire going. Their pyrotabs were often the difference between living and dying. Once lit, one of them would generate enough heat to burn brightly for three hours. Nul had about forty of them in his saddlebags.

  That should be enough. If he didn't catch up with the others before they crossed the ice, then he might as well kiss the barrel of the 9 mm Makarov goodbye.

  * * *

  Urach squatted by his leader in the lee of the big snow wall. The flames of the fires fought bravely against the swirling sleet. From beyond the circle of light, they heard the keening of the wolves.

  "Feedin' on Nul?" he said.

  "That's the cry of hunger. When that stops, then maybe they will have found Nul."

  "Britva will lose toes after falling through that pool this morning."

  "He can use his own razor. It'll teach the imbecile a lesson. Trying to gallop when there is no trail! There may even be live mines this close to the ocean. I have read how they sowed these hills. MZDs and AKSs all over the place."

  "What if the Americans are waiting for us, Uchitel? Then?.."

  The reply was a silent smile.

 
; "You think there is no danger?" asked Urach, holding out his hands to the flames.

  "I know there is no danger. If they were a powerful country, do you not think they would have overrun this land by now?"

  "I suppose..."

  "Of course. Brother, go and fetch me some of that fine meat we took from that dung heap of a village. I am hungered." Then, as Urach was leaving, Uchitel added, "The Communists have gone from this country, Urach. And the Fascists have gone from over there." He pointed to the east. "They have lost, as they always will. Only we remain. As we always will." And he began to laugh.

  * * *

  The pony was growing weaker rather than stronger. It was impossible to ride it, and Nul plodded alongside, cursing in an endless monotone. Like Uchitel, he carried a Kalashnikov AKM and every couple of hours he was forced to fire off a short burst to chase a pack of wolves away.

  But they returned, circling closer, bellies low to the ground, their gray-white coats melding with the sulfur-stained ice.

  The snow had eased, and the wind had also died down. At least he was no longer in immediate danger of freezing to death. The middle-aged man trudged relentlessly eastward, his face set to the ground, one foot following the other, trailing the rest of the party. Every step left him a little farther behind.

  Apart from checking the endlessly weaving pattern of the wolves, Nul never looked back.

  * * *

  High cliffs stood like jagged teeth above the packed gray-green ice of the Bering Strait. The sea was covered in a dense mist, overlaid with volcanic fumes. The air was heavy and caught at the back of the throat, producing coughs and reddened eyes.

  Somewhere beyond them was what had once been called Alaska. Now it had no name at all.

  In the year 2000, half a million people had been scattered over the six hundred thousand square miles of this inhospitable land. Now there were less than a couple of thousand people in the whole barren waste. To Uchitel and his band, the country that lay hidden in the acrid fog was the promised land, containing legendary treasures and riches. The books all said so.

  "We go that way, Narodniki," shouted Uchitel, waving his Kalashnikov above his head like a crusader's sword.