RED HOLOCAUST BY JAMES AXLER

“Enough.”

“Sure. Take that slut’s part, Ryan. Look after your bawdy-house hooker.”

“I said enough, Okie. There’s eight of us here. Either we watch each other’s

backs or we can all be dead. It’s not a fuckin’ game, lady.”

“Mr. Cawdor!” shouted Doc, pointing with a tremulous finger down the corridor.

It was as he’d guessed. The passage was split into sections, each separated by

retractable armor-plated bulkheads. One of them was dropping from the ceiling

like an executioner’s ax, bisecting the corridor. Before any of them could move,

it settled solidly in place on the floor with a metallic clang.

“Bastard!” spat Ryan, spinning around to see precisely what he’d expected.

Twenty paces or so in front of them, another door was falling, inexorably

sealing them to an exitless part of the complex. And it looked as if the

bulkheads were made of some vanadium alloy that would resist their plastic

explosives and grenades.

“No bombs,” pleaded J.B., looking quickly around the group. “The concussion

could kill us.”

There was a dreadful moment of tension. Everyone in the party except Krysty and

Doc had often put their lives on the line. On the war wags, ambushes and traps

were part of everyday life. The best chance of escape was almost always in the

first paralyzing breaths. Everyone knew that.

Now all of them moved and turned like caged animals, fingers white on triggers,

eyes raking the walls and floor and ceiling for some hint of an escape route.

But the only marks that sullied the smooth whiteness were the pockmarks where

Okie had wasted the vid camera.

It was a frenetic ballet of nerves. Knowing that everyone was riding the knife

edge, Ryan called for calm. “Easy. Easy. Whoever it is, they’ve got us cold.”

A voice reverberated from a hidden speaker, so distorted that it was difficult

to tell whether it was male or female, young or old. But the message was clear.

“All dressed up to kill… but look who’s goin’ to die. Guns down, slow and easy.

Hands up on heads. You have ten seconds, then I let the gas in. It’ll kill you

in less’n half a minute.”

Ryan spotted another camera near the top of the bulkhead in front of them and

guessed the speaker was linked to it. Which, he realized, was a useless bit of

information.

“Quickly!” the voice barked, changing then, frighteningly, to a childish

whisper. “Do it. Game’s done. Ally, ally oxen free. Ally, ally oxen free.”

Ryan put his guns on the stone floor and placed his hands on his head. The

others followed.

Chapter Two

AFTER THE NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST of 2001, Russia ceased to exist. The U.S.S.R.

vanished overnight and, in sixty searing minutes, the purging flames of the

brief war that ended all wars destroyed every single Russian city and industrial

complex. Every armaments factory and missile base, every port and bridge, was

nuked. The destruction was total.

In places—particularly the farthest recesses of the north and east in the

devastated Kamchatka Peninsula, in Siberia and the parts of old Russia near

North America-—the nuclear winter lingered just as in other regions of the

globe, the leaden skies and bitter cold had reigned for a generation.

To survive in temperatures that rarely rose above five degrees required a brutal

adaptation. The trees of the taiga were destroyed; only a few stunted, mutated

pines were left in millions of acres. Most of the wildlife had succumbed as an

almost universal death spread across the North. What animal life survived became

mutated like the trees.

And the children of the people who survived, many of them were born mutated like

the animals.

The peasants in the Russian hamlet of Ozhbarchik knew little of living. What

they understood was how to barely exist. They understood how to maintain the

breath in their scrawny bodies on a diet of dried fish and the occasional lucky

find of the carcass of a small mammal that the wolves had abandoned. Beyond

that, there was watery milk from the village’s four rack-boned cows, and an

endless diet of potatoes, turnips and other root vegetables. One of the peasants

owned a few chickens, and once every few weeks found a tiny egg among the

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