caution between the tumbled, wet stones, Ryan led them to the river. Each of
them was carrying a blaster, ready for action: Hennings and Finnegan with their
HK-54As, Krysty with the silvered H&K P-7A 13 pistol, Ryan with his caseless
G-12, all covering the helpless Russians.
With the water now returned to its original level, Uchitel and the three other
survivors climbed warily down and were now facing Ryan across fifteen paces of
fast-flowing river. Slowly, Uchitel raised his hands above his head in the
universal gesture of surrender.
Krisa and Zmeya followed. Finally, scowling, Bizabraznia lifted her hands.
“Watch ’em,” said Ryan, crossing the jumble of stones and large boulders with
care. If he slipped on the ice, the water would carry him to his death.
Once he was over, he beckoned for the others to follow. He kept his eye—and the
muzzle of his blaster—pointed at the captive Russians.
“What’re we goin’ to do with the fuckers?” asked Finnegan.
“Ice ’em,” replied Ryan. “Mebbe try an’ talk to ’em first. You got that book?”
he asked Uchitel and mimed reading and flicking pages.
Krysty watched a trickle of water flowing over the lip of the ruined dam. “I can
see J.B., Lori and Doc near the ghost town,” she said.
“They’re wavin’,” added Hennings.
Ryan was still watching Uchitel, his good eye locked on the Russian’s amber
gaze. “The book, you bastard,” he repeated.
“I can hear—” began Krysty.
“What?”
“Horses. Earth Mother. I can hear so many horses, comin’ this way! I couldn’t
hear before with the noise of the river.”
“J.B. is pointin’ over that way,” said Hennings, gesturing to the west, where
Krysty was also pointing.
Uchitel’s face was impassive. He had delivered enough death in his time to know
that Ryan Cawdor’s face showed only the promise of killing. Moving carefully,
the Russian reached inside his coat and produced the damp copy of the phrase
book, throwing it down in the mud at Ryan’s feet.
As he stooped to pick it up, Ryan heard what the girl had detected: hooves
pounding on rock, coming toward them. He glanced toward the ghost town, but
J.B., Doc and Lori had disappeared.
“Let’s kill the sons of bitches and get us the fuck out of here,” said Hennings,
backing toward the river.
“No,” said Ryan. “Look at this bastard’s face. Whoever’s comin’ aren’t friends
of his. Must be Americans. We’ll wait and…”
The words died in his throat as he watched the ridge a quarter mile to the west.
While they’d been in the redoubt, he’d seen a couple of old vids called
westerns, involving savages that attacked villes and burned them down until sec
men called cavalry came to the rescue. Impressively, savages always seemed to
appear in single file on the crest of a MIL “Well, I’ll be…”‘ whispered Finn.
Bizabraznia fell to her pale knees and buried her face in her hands. The other
Russians looked scared.
“There’s nearly a hundred,” said Hennings with almost religious awe.
A hundred men, well mounted, all wearing a uniform, were approaching. Even at
that distance, Ryan knew that these couldn’t be friends or Americans. There
wasn’t a baron in Deathlands with the power to put a regular small army into the
field like this.
The rising sun glanced off badges on some of their gray caps. Most had rifles
slung across their backs.
“Any move and we’re cold meat,” said Ryan. “If it comes to it, take as many as
you can. Play it soft.”
They watched as the riders descended from the ridge, then cantered over the flat
trail, reining in a wide semicircle at a signal from the man who seemed to be
their leader. He was a pockmarked fellow with a bald head and a drooping
moustache. He heeled his horse forward. Stopping a few paces from Ryan, he
scrutinized them all, paying particular attention to their blasters.
Uchitel studied the officer, then barked a question at him in Russian. Zimyanin
ignored him.
Ryan tried to flick through the phrase book while still keeping his gun ready.
The bald man reached into his coat, pulling out a small red notebook, with some
writing on the cover in a peculiar, angular script that Ryan couldn’t read.