his back. Ryan sat there a moment, his head spinning from the blow, which had
loosened one of his teeth. As Ryan got up, a lopsided smile came to his angular
face.
“Do the same for you one day, cocksuckin’ double-scarred bastard.”
“Not talk. Talk guns. No pain.”
The third earth tremor was vastly more powerful than the two minor quakes they’d
felt earlier.
Ryan staggered sideways, retaining his balance only with effort. Nearly everyone
was thrown off their feet. All the fires were shaken out, buried under a mist of
ice and snow.
The air filled with a dreadful thundering roar and with so much dirt that it was
difficult to breathe or see.
Ryan grabbed the girl by the arm. “Got to get J.B. Now.”
There was a second quake, more violent than the first. It knocked both Ryan and
Krysty off their feet. But Ryan’s sense of direction and ice-cold nerve kept
them going. Stumbling over bodies lying on the earth, they reached J.B., and
Ryan knelt, still holding Krysty by her right hand.
“Took your fuckin’ time, partner,” said J.B., his voice as calm as if they were
strolling across a summer meadow.
“Knife?”
“Right boot. They didn’t find it.”
Ryan slid his fingers inside the high combat boot, feeling the taped hilt of a
small knife. Pulling it from the sheath, he used it to slice through the ropes
that bound J.B.
As the last cord fell away, J.B. rose to his feet, leaning on Ryan. “Thanks.
That bastard, that swift and evil fucker had hard hands.”
The ground still moved. It was like being on War Wag One when it drove at speed
along an old concrete highway in the Deathlands. A steady vibration.
“Get the blasters,” said J.B. “That way.”
Despite the darkness and confusion, they moved straight to the pile of guns and
knives. Each of them grabbed what they could, holstering and sheathing their
weapons. Ryan was still holding the long steel panga when someone grabbed him
from behind.
“Fireblast!” he cursed, struggling to free his arms from the bearlike grip. But
the man was strong, and it took all of Ryan’s agility and cunning to free his
right hand so that he could jab behind him with the point of the blade. Despite
all the layers of fur that the Russian was wearing, the panga penetrated. There
was a grunt of pain, the hold was loosened, and Ryan twisted his body clear.
Then he turned and swung the blade as hard as he could, feeling it jar and
crunch as it hit the man’s ribs. In the cold he was aware of the flood of heat
across his hand from the wound.
As the staggering figure screamed something in Russian—it had to be a call for
aid—Ryan pushed the man away and turned to where he’d last seen Krysty and J.B.
“You there?”
“Yeah,” said J.B.
“Here,” said Krysty, unable to keep her voice from trembling. All around them,
the guerrillas were running and yelling. Across the camp someone fired a pistol
four times. They heard a yelp of pain.
“South,” said Ryan. “Keep close. Kill anythin’ that moves if it’s not us.”
“Why not get the radio from the buggy?” asked the girl.
“No time. Got to move. There’s thirty or more of ’em. We know where Henn and the
others are headed. We’ll meet up with ’em.”
The earthquake was continuing with waves of varying power that made the
ice-bound pebbles shift and rattle.
Ryan Cawdor was in the lead, Krysty slipped and stumbled behind him, and J.B.
brought up the rear. Something loomed in front of him, and he slashed at it with
the panga, then realized too late it was one of the terrified ponies, rearing
and kicking. The steel opened a deep gash along its shoulder, but one of its
front hooves caught Ryan a glancing blow on the arm. At that moment, the earth
gave its strongest convulsion yet, and the ground beneath him rose eighteen
inches or more.
He slipped and rolled forward, feeling snow all around him. A boulder hit him on
the knee, making him yell with sudden pain. As he whirled down the slope he