from Ryan, the vehicles stopped about thirty paces from the watchers.
An extremely tall man, his face exposed to the elements, strode toward them, his
hand raised in the universal sign of peace.
Ryan noticed the dark crucifix on the wall behind the man, recognizing it as a
symbol of the old religion. Over years of traveling with the Trader they’d come
across a few ruined churches, but they’d never been of any interest and
obviously held nothing of real value, like food or blasters.
“Cut the engines down to idle,” he ordered, using the radio. “These people don’t
look dangerous—they’re mainly women, and I can’t see anyone in the huts—but keep
alert.”
“Welcome,” called the emaciated man. “Welcome in the name of the Dark Lord.”
“Is that a baron?” asked Krysty. Ryan shook his head.
“If you come in peace, we will share with you what little we have. As we are all
gathered here at the river by the throne of our Lord, we welcome you. Step down
from your wagons.”
Ryan flicked the switch on the speaker. “You got blasters?”
“Weapons are an abomination against our beliefs. We carry clean steel and that
is all.”
Ryan looked at Krysty, who shrugged. “I don’t know, lover. We need some local
knowledge. Do you think mebbe they can help?”
He nodded. “I’m goin’ out. If there’s no trouble, then you come. Tell J.B. and
his team to follow, then Henn and his team last of all. All right?”
“Sure.”
Ryan opened the hydraulic door, stepping out on the snow, holding his new G-12
caseless automatic rifle casually at the ready. “My name is Ryan Cawdor,” he
said. “These are my friends.” The sweep of his arm took in the buggies and their
occupants.
“My name is Apostle Ezekiel Herne, and these are the sisters and brothers of the
Church of the Dark Lord Waiting. We have dwelled here in this field of blood for
many years now, coming together from all over Laska.”
Ryan looked around, beckoning Krysty to follow him. The sight of the tall girl
with her tumbling mane of brilliant red hair brought chattering from the women.
Their talk was quelled by an angry glare from their skinny priest.
“This is Krysty Wroth,” he said. Then, as the occupants of the second buggy
emerged, he continued, “The guy in the battered hat there is J. B. Dix, and the
fat man’s Finnegan. The lady with hair like straw is called Lori.”
“What is straw, Brother Cawdor?” asked Herne.
“Let us pass, friend,” replied Ryan, waving to the occupants of the third buggy
to come out. They followed his lead, all of them hefting blasters
ostentatiously, ready for action.
“The old-timer is called Doctor Theophilus Tanner, and the lady’s name is Okie.”
The black man was last out, holding his gray Heckler & Koch 54A submachine gun
with its built-in silencer. As he stepped down he threw off his thermal hood,
showing his face and his mass of cropped, curly hair.
The effect of Hennings’s appearance was amazing. Everyone except for Herne gave
a great cry of terror and exultation and fell immediately to their knees,
prostrating themselves on the barren stones, moaning and shouting. Ryan and his
party dropped into defensive positions, fingers tight on triggers, eyes flicking
nervously. A single wrong move, and all of Herne’s group would be iced.
The priest himself stood still, trembling and shaking, hands clutched together
in front of him, his long bony fingers tangling like a nest of worms. His voice
shook when he finally spoke.
“Lord, Lord, you have come. As it was foretold in the great books of defense and
survival, you walk again among us.”
“Lead us to salvation, Dark Lord,” screamed one of the women, scrabbling forward
on hands and knees toward the black man, who nervously backed away from her. But
she seized him by the ankles and pressed her chapped lips to the steel toe cap
of one of his polished black combat boots. Licking the gleaming leather, she
writhed in ecstasy.
“Get this fuckin’ gaudy slut away from me, Ryan,” said Hennings, raising his
blaster as if to crack it into the woman’s skull.