they were after.
The gate was corrugated metal, showing that it folded back. Okie was there
first, reaching and tugging at the handle, polished by the years of tearing
gales.
“Locked!” she cried.
Henn was there next, throwing his great strength to help her. But they failed to
shift it. The man called Finnegan and J.B. were next, all heaving and straining
at the door, trying to get it open. Hun and Krysty, her overalls sodden with
Abe’s blood, arrived to help, but there was not enough room for them to get a
grip.
Ryan brought up the rear, supporting Doc, whose legs had gone so that he sagged
like a strawman, the breath rasping in his chest. Twice he had panted for Ryan
to leave him, but Ryan was grateful for Doc’s tip regarding the fog and aimed to
keep this source of good information as close to him as he could. Despite the
madness, Doc knew things. Things buried deep, maybe, but things that might save
them all.
“Here they come,” warned J.B., dropping to his knees and readying his favorite
Steyr AUG 5.56 mm.
“Krysty,” Ryan called, “you and Henn keep tryin’ the door. Watch for Doc. The
rest, let’s chill the bastards.”
With the Redoubt at their backs, the door towering sheer above them, there was
no longer anywhere to run. Ryan’s lips peeled back from his teeth in a vulpine
snarl of anger and hatred. He directed it at their enemy.
“Come on, you sons of hellsuckin’ bitches,” he hissed. “Dyin’ time’s arrived.”
The attackers had paused at the head of the trail, gathered in a group. His
estimate had been about right. Looked like closer to fifty, all male. They had
dark skins and their clothes were fringed and beaded in a way that recalled the
mysterious stranger at the time the Trader had gone walking out into eternity.
Some of them carried spears and some hatchets. Most had bows, either in their
hands or slung across their shoulders.
“No blasters,” said Okie. “We can take ’em all, easy as fartin’.”
“I figure them for Indians,” whispered J.B. “Some old tribe trapped up here,
safe from raiders.”
“What are Indians?”
Ryan stopped as one of the squat figures started to run toward them, waving a
long stick decorated with a double row of white and brown feathers. His mouth
was open and he was yelling an inarticulate cry of rage. None of his fellows had
moved, but stood watching him as he charged at the small group.
“Gone crazy,” said Hun.
Doc had collapsed as they reached the door, but he now pulled himself upright,
peering over Ryan’s shoulder at the running figure.
“Upon my soul!” he exclaimed. “A warrior of the Sioux nation, eager to count
coup upon us. How very… very… something or other.”
The man was a hundred paces away, the wind tugging at his long braided hair,
ruffling the thongs that fringed his jacket and trousers. Still nobody opened
fire, unable to believe such lunatic courage. Or stupidity.
The Indian was less than forty running steps from them when Okie leveled her
M-16 and put a round through the middle of his face. The high-velocity bullet
hit smack through the center of his nose, exiting in a straight line through the
back of his head, blowing away a chunk of skull the size of a woman’s palm,
blood and brains spraying out in the gale. He stopped as though he’d run into an
invisible wall, legs flailing in front of him, his trunk flying through the air
until he landed on his back. His arms kept twitching for several seconds.
“Stupe bastard,” said Okie, quietly, lowering the rifle.
The rest of the attackers gave a great roar of anger, but none of them tried to
follow their dying comrade. As Ryan watched, they withdrew around the corner out
of sight. “Now what?”
“We get the door open.”
“Won’t move,” said Henn. “Krysty tried. She… Look at the handle.”
The metal had become twisted and warped. Krysty leaned against the door, face
white as the snow, her breathing irregular. She was aware of them all staring at
her and managed a thin smile. “Can’t do… I tried. Used all I knew.”