tied back like Abe’s and she kept one hand always near the butt of her pistol.
When she spoke her voice had a distinctive Eastern twang to it.
“What d’you figure we’ll find in this stockpile? Gas? Bombs? More guns?”
Ryan grinned. “Quien sabe?”
“What?”
“Means who knows. Picked it up from a Mex mutie down south. But whatever’s there
has to be good to be guarded like that.”
“And nobody to stop us,” she said.
There was a faint hissing and a dull thunk. A gasp. Ryan spun on his heel in
time to see Abe dropping to his knees, hands to his throat. His neck was pierced
clean through with the shaft of an arrow, tipped with bright red feathers.
Chapter Sixteen
HENNINGS AND KRYSTY were first to the stricken man, while the others, weapons
drawn, faced around, their blazing eyes seeking the enemy. But there was nobody
to be seen. The cliffs towered above them, with pockets of snow scattered here
and there. The road wound beneath them, and the sheer drop to the river was
still at their other flank. Ahead, somewhere, was the mythical Redoubt.
“Where?” snapped Ryan.
J.B. pointed up and behind. “Arrow came from there. He’s behind us. Or they’re
behind us.”
“How is he?” He moved to stand where Krysty cradled Abe in her arms. The shaft,
with its barbed tip, still stuck through his throat at a grotesque angle, blood
trickling from both sides. The shaft was made of some sort of aluminum compound.
It was streaked crimson. The feathers were the same kind as they had seen on the
warning totems.
Henn looked up. “Bad, Ryan. Bad.”
Abe was fighting for breath, fingers moving convulsively on Krysty’s sleeve. Her
bright red hair framed his pale face. His eyes flickered, seeking Ryan, finding
him.
“Doesn’t hurt…” he said, voice muffled with the blood that was now seeping
through his lips. “But a blasted arrow, for nuke’s sake! Be funny—” he coughed a
great gout of arterial scarlet “—funny if…”
Another shaft came slicing through the air, pinging off the road and vanishing
over the edge into the gorge beyond. A third arrow came, striking a spark as it
struck the stone, missing Krysty by a hand’s span.
“Got to move, Ryan,” J.B. barked. “They’ll pick us off.”
The rules of the war wag had always been simple. If you can save the wounded,
then you do it. But if you can’t…
“Leave him,” Ryan said. “Sorry, Abe.”
If it had been some muties, especially stickies, then Ryan would have put a
bullet through the man’s temple. It looked as if Abe was dying, but there was a
chance the attackers might save him. Better than no chance at all.
“Go,” called Ryan, then strode ahead to lead the way in a zigzag, dodging run up
the road.
Immediately the arrows came whispering after them, biting into the track. But by
keeping moving and swerving, none of them was hit. Ryan risked a glance over his
shoulder at a bend in the trail, seeing to his shock that there were about forty
or fifty men after them, most with bows. Oddly, not a single one was carrying a
rifle. If one of them had a light MG or even a machine pistol, they could have
sprayed the road and wiped half of Ryan’s force away.
They appeared to be short, squat men, wearing what looked at a glance to be
leather.
“We could hold ’em here!” shouted J.B., pointing to where a fall of white rock
had half closed the road.
“They might get above us. Keep goin’!”
Another hundred paces and the arrows were less frequent. And around another turn
of the trail, there it was.
The trail widened to a huge plateau, wide enough for a dozen war wags to turn in
comfort, with the stubby remains of a metal fence ringing it. And at the far end
was a gate, made of gleaming metal, showing through peeling paint. All around,
on posts, on the walls, and on the gate itself, were the faded, illegible
remains of notices.
“That’s it.”
Ryan had seen enough Stockpiles in his time to be certain that this was what