the surrounding trees. The lodgepole pine burned with a crackling intensity,
spitting out sap in spluttering bursts like rifle fire. Ryan lay back against
the trunk of a fallen cottonwood, watching the gray pillar of smoke as it
disappeared above him, vanishing long before it reached the top of the forest.
The wind was rising, bringing the stinging taste of a cold blue norther. The
patches of sky that he could see through the trees were raven black, torn across
every few minutes by the jagged silver lace of lightning. Above the crackling of
the pine logs he could hear the far-off rumbling of thunder in the tall peaks of
the Darks.
In the clearing around him were all the survivors of the massacre at Mocsin,
sitting or lying sprawled. There had not been the time or the opportunity to
save anyone outside of War Wag One. Even as Ryan had driven away, heading north
and west through the sleeting rain, the heavy vehicle had rocked and twisted
against the explosions of the rest of the train. The time bombs had all done
their work successfully, just as they’d been designed to.
The big combat carrier now stood fifty paces away, on the edge of the rutted
track. In the quiet, he could hear the clicking of the armor plate as it cooled
in the evening chill. There were four or five men still on board, carrying out
essential maintenance checks. Loz was clearing up after the meal of heated stew
and beans. Cohn was running around the dials of his radio of many parts, trying
to pick up news of pursuit.
The rest of the survivors were all around Ryan, some already asleep. Something
rustled out among the pines, and Ryan’s hand dropped to his pistol. Abe grinned
at him from the far side of the fire.
“Only a marmot.”
Abe had the best eyesight of anyone Ryan had ever met, except for muties. Ryan
relaxed and lay back again, trying to ease the tension from his sinews. It had
been a bad couple of days.
“Real bad,” he muttered, hardly aware that he had spoken aloud.
“Very true,” nodded Hovak to his left. She had the strained look around the eyes
that they all had from the effects of the gassing. Her speech was slurred and
the whites of her eyes were tinted pink. But she’d been luckier than some. When
Ryan had finally stopped the war wag two hours out of Mocsin and helped Krysty
to collect everyone together, seven of the crew hadn’t made it, their hearts and
lungs stilled by the nerve gas.
There was enough of a crew to operate the war wag, but if they came into a heavy
combat situation, they’d be short on firepower. Ryan ticked them off on his
fingers.
Apart from those in the vehicle, there were he and Krysty. The fire glinted off
her vermillion hair as it rolled about her neck and shoulders where she slept on
the opposite side of the clearing. Ches, the driver, and O’Mara were next, heads
together, talking quietly. Kathy lay, smoking a crudely rolled tobacco
cigarette, next around the rough circle. Rintoul, Hooley and Lint, were all
either sleeping or sitting up and looking vacantly into the darkness. In all he
made it twenty-four. It wasn’t a whole lot to tackle the Deathlands.
The glitter of firelight off steel caught his eye and he saw the chubby figure
of Finnegan, whittling away at a broken hunk of the dead cottonwood with his
razored butcher’s knife. The man saw Ryan watching him and held up the piece of
wood for him.
“Recognize the bitchin’ bastard?” he asked with a grin.
Even in the poor light, Ryan could make out in the rough planes of white wood
the gaunt features of Cort Strasser.
That was a debt to lay on the table. A debt that would get settled one day, Ryan
had no doubt. Though their situation was dismal, with so many friends and good
comrades dead and stiff behind them, it was a damned long way from being
desperate.
“Ryan.”
“Yeah?”
“Here.”
He rose and stretched, feeling the tightness of his muscles, picking up the LAPA