was no sign of vegetation anywhere.
He wore his thermals, with a thick sweater and his trusty long coat. The LAPA
5.56 mm was on his right hip, the steel panga on the left. The SIG-Sauer was
holstered under the coat.
There were jagged peaks all around, vanishing into the murk, all of them layered
with snow. The cold was intense, making him think that the rumors of the
persisting nuclear winter were true. The sky was a sallow color, streaked like
bile, showing occasional flashes of silver brightness from the chem debris that
still permeated the heavens. Far off to the west, Ryan could make out a tall
mountain with a smear of orange smoke trailing from it, indicating an active
volcano.
For an instant, the ground vibrated beneath his feet from a minor earth tremor.
Ryan steadied himself, rubbing his right eye to clear the irritation from the
ocher clouds.
Squinting with his good eye, he spotted movement on the far side of the valley
beneath an overhang of gray rock. It looked like a pair of huge bears, their
coats of dirty white marked with yellow mud. As he watched them, they turned
toward him.
Although the bears showed no sign of becoming a threat, Ryan drew the LAPA,
holding it at the ready. They were probably a good half mile away as the mutie
gulls flew, probably five miles by the shortest trail. Ironically, the two
animals probably saved his life. Without them he wouldn’t have drawn his gun.
The attackers came from above and behind. They dropped on top of Ryan and sent
him crashing to the icy ground. He scrabbled to his feet, but just as he was
upright again, one of them hit him behind the knees and he went flying to one
side. But even as he fell, he snapped off a burst from his LAPA, the stream of
lead stitching two of the five diminutive muties. They went spinning away,
mouths open with screams, blood and intestines spilling from their torn
stomachs.
As Ryan hit the ground, his gun struck rock with a solid cracking noise. His
elbow and shoulder were jarred by the fall, but he was quickly up on one knee,
steadying the gun at the three remaining dwarfs, who were shrouded in furs so
that only their slit-eyes showed. One had obscenely long monkey arms that
trailed in the snow as he moved. Another seemed to have a residual third leg
sprouting from his left thigh. Ryan assumed that they were men, though there was
no evidence either way. All three carried long spears tipped with barbed ivory
points. Communicating with one another in grunts, they pointed at their two
dying comrades and stamped their feet on the rocky ground in obvious rage.
“Come on, you little fuckers,” said Ryan, holding his gun steady.
One of them waved his spear, shuffling nearer to the lone man. Still keeping
them covered, Ryan slowly rose glancing around in case more muties were sneaking
up behind him.
He held his fire as long as he could, though not out of any foolish milksop
ideas of mercy or kindness. It was always good to know as much as possible about
your enemies. Anyone not a friend was always an enemy. If Alaska was filled with
these bloodthirsty muties, then it was as well to know what their weapons were.
Did they have only spears?
They came closer, hissing menacingly, thrusting their wooden lances forward.
“Close enough,” said Ryan, tightening his finger on the trigger.
There was a metallic grating sound, and nothing else happened. The fall had
jammed the LAPA.
“Fireblast and shit!” snarled Ryan.
Chapter Eight
I hear that grim tyrant approaching,
That cruel and remorseless old foe,
And I lift up me glass in his honor,
Take a drink with bold Rosin the Beau.
The lyrics floated over the bare rocks, reaching the ears of the Russian
guerrillas. The words made no sense at all to them. Had they understood them,
they would still have been baffled, for the song came from distant antiquity. It
dated centuries before the nukes fell from the skies, bringing the long darkness
to all the world.