“Live forever,” Kinnison throated through his gritted teeth, tightening the sling. “No, I won’t, but I’ll live longer than you bastards. Oh, yes, I will.”
Chapter Ten
As the train of horses plodded along the mountainous trail, Ryan fought off a shiver, his coat offering little protection against the strong winds.
There had been enough horses for everybody, more in fact, but only saddles for about half and no supplies. Most of the freed sec man were in thin clothing. As the group climbed into the hills and the temperature quickly dropped, Krysty had gotten the horse blankets from under the saddles, and cut holes in the centers to make crude ponchos for the cold men. It helped, but not much. The horses were unhappy, but they didn’t have a vote in the matter.
Good thing the companions were wearing jackets, although only Krysty was actually warm in her bearskin coat. And those fingerless gloves J.B. wore were a godsend. Ryan’s own coat was too thin to be much protection against the bitter winds of the higher peaks, but it was a hell of a lot better than those ponchos. Mildred had loaned Ann some of her spare clothing, but the thin girl still looked pale and weak. Ryan wasn’t sure she could last much longer without a hot meal. The cholera had taken a lot out of her.
And everybody was hungry. The cannies hadn’t fed their prisoners since they had planned on eating them, and while the companions had lots of MRE food packs, they hesitated to display the predark wealth of the foil envelopes. Ryan had convinced Mitchum that the companions found their rapidfires and revolvers in the cannie armory. The lie was accepted at face value, but if they started showing MRE packs, flashlights, rad counters and such, the only possible conclusion would be that they were outlanders, and strangers got aced in these islands by order of the lord baron.
With a week’s worth of food in their backpacks, the companions rode along with Mitchum and his troops, stomachs growling, and watching the landscape for anything they could shoot for dinner, then breakfast and now lunch. Thankfully, there was lots of grass for the horses to munch on the lower hills, and plenty of snow for water. Filling a canteen only gave a few cupfuls after it melted from body heat. But it tasted pure and clean.
“Ville much farther?” Jak asked, his teeth chattering. The albino teenager had one hand stuffed into a pocket, the other holding the reins. And he switched them often. He couldn’t understand how it could be so damn cold in the tropics. But then, he’d seen a swamp turn into a desert in under a year in the Deathlands. Bastard weather was screwy across the globe.
“Mebbe by tomorrow morning we’ll see Ratak ville,” Colonel Mitchum said, tightening the belt strapped around his poncho. The wind kicked up tiny blizzards of snow and constantly dusted them with flakes. The officer filled his mind with memories of warm days on the beach, and savored what little heat came from the animal he rode.
“Ah! This reminds me of those carefree days in Moscow,” Doc said, his frock coat buttoned to the collar. “We were with a colonel then, too. Nasty fellow at first, but he turned out a decent enough chap.”
“Moscow? Where’s that?” a sec man asked, hunched under his dirty blanket. His breath fogged in the air, often hiding his unshaved face.
“It’s an island to the south of here,” Mildred lied, remembering only at the last second that the farther south you traveled in this hemisphere the colder it got. Almost said it backward. “Little place, lots of wolves.”
“Folks nice?”
“Baron was tough, but excellent shine.”
“Good enough.” Ann tried to laugh, but the sound died away in the cold breeze moaning around the craggy peaks and bare outcroppings.
“What the hell,” Dean muttered, slowing his mount and staring off to the side. There was a tiny cloud that appeared, and disappeared, near one of the snowbanks. Breathing out of the side of his mouth to see better, the boy suddenly realized the odd cloud was exactly like breath foggy from the cold. He drew his Browning semiautomatic pistol, and jacked the slide. Could be another buried coldheart like back in the cannie camp. Should he warn the others quietly or attack?