Ryan thought ruefully how like old times life had become, standing knee-deep among dead muties, blood hot on his hands, splattered in his face, holding a warm gun, while Trader whooped his victory.
J.B. went silently to the three wounded creatures of the night and, kneeling, carefully slit their throats from ear to ear. He wiped the blade on one of their sable cloaks, straightening, moving back to avoid the eerie flames of the oil.
“That’s it,” he said.
Ryan nodded. “Be a good idea to get the fuck away from this place.”
Trader was busily reloading the trusty old Armalite, levering in a handful of fresh 9 mm rounds from one of his pockets. “Guess I’ll drink to that,” he said, panting from the effort of the chilling.
Ryan stood still and listened, but the outburst of anarchistic violence didn’t seem to have reached the ears of any of the other inhabitants of the desolate ruined ville. Or, if any had heard it, they chose to mind their own business.
Trader had walked to look down at the woman he’d shot last. The bullet had taken away most of the upper part of her face, including the nose. But he was fascinated by her gaping mouth. “Think they file their teeth to get them pointed?” He laughed. “Who gives a shit?” In falling, the skirt of the female mutie had ridden up over her waist, showing her muscular thighs and the dark patch of pubic hair. Trader touched the corpse with the end of the Armalite’s muzzle, and laughed again. “Either of you ever get the clap from a dead mutie?”
IT WAS STILL FULL DARK as the three men emerged from the tomb into the fresh air.
Stars twinkled brightly above them, and there was enough moon for them to be able to pick their way safely through the rubble-strewed avenues of the ville.
Trader had abandoned his plans for going farther into the old heart of Seattle, leading the way back toward the east and south, where Abe was waiting for them with the hearse and the horses. But nothing had actually been said about changing their purpose. Ryan was more than happy to get out of the sinister ruins, but part of him knew he shouldn’t have let Trader make the decision for all of them.
THEY WERE HALFWAY out into the suburbs, with the first ethereal hint of the false dawn at their backs.
“Being watched again,” said Ryan, who was out at point position.
Trader stopped, close to a tall yew hedge on the right of the street. His head swung around, and he checked both sides. J.B. was at the back, and he too looked behind them.
They closed up the skirmish line so that they could talk quietly.
“You sure, Ryan?”
“Sure, Trader. Not a feeling. Saw a skinny young guy, carrying what looked like an M-16. He cut across the garden of a house about six down on this side. Just caught a glimpse of him moving fast and low.”
“Ambush?” J.B. tugged his fedora down. “Better get moving. There’s enough cover around here for a whole bunch of killers to hide up.”
“Take a side turning and try and get around whoever it is waiting for us.” Trader sniffed the dawn air. “Smell a fire someplace close.”
The bullet missed him by less than a yard, slashing into a thick holly bush. They all spun toward the hollow echo of the shot, seeing the tiny cloud of powder smoke drifting from around the corner of the wrecked house, less than a hundred yards behind them.
For an almost fatal moment, Ryan hesitated. Countless years of combat reflexes nearly destroyed him as he looked toward Trader for a command. He realized in that single heartbeat that his former leader had been taken totally by surprise and was simply standing on the sidewalk, staring back, the Armalite unlifted, as if he were waiting for further shots.
“This way!” Ryan yelled, shattering the spell, breaking through the hedge into the front garden of the nearest house, followed by J.B. and Trader. A fusillade of gunfire came at them from in front as well as behind, one of the bullets breaking a window at the front of the building, passing close enough to Ryan for him to feel the hot, angry buzz.