Stumbling, dripping blood, feeling his way, he had backtracked through the tunnel, hoping to return to Little Mountain and the horses. He had no idea of the fates of Ryan or Joe, and his thinking was so clouded and fragmented, all he could do was stagger through the tunnel, flail across the river and stumble up the wooded slopes.
The effort exhausted him, and he crept into a hollow between two large, gnarled roots and lay down.
Now J.B.’s thinking was sharper, and he saw by his chron that only three hours remained until dawn. He doubted Little Mountain was still waiting. A rugged trek on foot stretched before him, a march he wouldn’t have enjoyed even if he wasn’t weak and racked with pain.
But J.B. had lived most of his life in the wild places of Deathlands. He had spent years on the ragged edge of death, and his inner fiber had been forged into an iron toughness. It was a point of pride with him. He wouldn’t break, would not give in to pain and let himself be whipped by anything or anyone.
He stood slowly, wincing and grunting, and examined the wound on his throat by touch. The bleeding had stopped, but his shirtfront was caked and sticky with blood. Though his throat hurt, he realized it wasn’t much more than superficial, more unsightly than critical. The swelling on the back of his head was more worrisome.
Mildred would diagnose it as a closed-skull injury, and he knew from his years on Trader’s war wags that head traumas were tricky. He could have sustained a skull fracture and be suffering from a cranial leakage of blood for all he knew.
Grim determination steeled his mind. He was going back to his friends in the forest city and would return with them to rescue Ryan or recover his body. His brains could start to ooze from his ears, but he was going back.
It was difficult to move at first, but as his stiff body warmed and loosened, the pain receded. He crept along the crest of the ridge, then down into the dell. He came across a little family of deer feeding there. For a minute he stood in the foliage and watched them, graceful, lovely things with their moist, black noses and great, innocent eyes a proud buck, two does and a small, spotted fawn.
J.B. walked toward them. The deer lifted their heads and froze. The buck took a step forward, lowering its antlered head in a warning. Then it snorted at the unfamiliar man-scent and the pungent tang of blood. As one, they whirled fleetly and bounded away.
When he reached the outermost edge of the forest, he paused, scanning the open plains before him. The stars burned overhead like millions of tiny match-heads, but he saw nothing but grass. He started forward, walking in a long-legged, ground-eating stride.
J.B. didn’t walk far before he wished he had a pair of moccasins. He’d probably end up cutting his combat boots off his swollen feet. The temperature had dropped, not enough to be dangerous, just enough to make him extremely uncomfortable. His breath plumed out in front of him with every exhalation.
He remembered a conversation he’d had with Hunaker, a fellow gunner on War Wag One. They had been hiding from a horde of stickies in a bug-infested swamp, and she had told him, “When the times get tough, just concentrate on a time that was worse.”
“Does it help?” J.B. had asked.
The green-haired woman had shrugged. “Nah. Generally the other time seems like a quilting bee in comparison.”
Hunaker was dead, chilled by crazy old Quint and his crazier wife. J.B. increased his pace, not wanting to think about her or any of Trader’s old crew. A gust of wind slapped at him, setting off a spasm of shivering and numbing his ears. He pulled up his long coat over the top and sides of his head, cursing whoever had stolen his hat.
The terrain dropped into a narrow declivity, which sheltered him from the chill wind for a little while. He was tempted to remain there, but he forced himself to keep moving. He could only become more tired, so it was best to tramp on before he dropped in his tracks from exhaustion.