"Me, too, lover."
Ryan steadied himself against the wall of the tunnel, cupping his hands so that Krysty could step up, balance and stand on his shoulders. It would give her the height to look through the open mouth of the tunnel above and blast anything that moved.
If it didn't blast her first.
Her boots were slippery, and she nearly fell. She grabbed his head to steady herself, her fingers tangling in his hair, which made him yelp.
"Watch it," he moaned.
"Keep still. You're rocking around like an aspen in a hurricane."
Then she was up on his shoulders. Ryan braced himself, wincing in expectation of hearing the roar of a gun from some hidden enemy. But all was quiet. She half turned, the heels of her cowboy boots scraping his ears, which made him wriggle again, then she pushed upward, and her weight was off him. He looked up and saw her legs vanishing into the hole above, momentarily blocking the light.
"Anything?"
Her face reappeared, the long red rags of her hair dangling down, almost touching him. "Nothing. Come on up, lover."
She reached down, giving him a wrist to grip. In one steady motion, he hauled himself up to the higher level. Slumped against the far wall of the tunnel, which was wider than the one below, was the corpse of the third mutie, its head more or less pulped off its shoulders by the burst of lead from the G-12.
"Time we got out of this bastard warren," Ryan said, stooping and peering as far as he could into the dimness. The light at their elbow was a small clay lamp, with a wick floating in liquid fat.
"I can hear something," Krysty whispered. "Way we came. Could be J.B. and the others."
"Let's go, then," Ryan said, leading the way, finger ready on the trigger of the H&K.
It took them an hour to reach full light and fresh air. Ryan stood in the entrance to the tunnel, drawing in deep breaths. "That is sogood, lover. I wasn't meant to be a fucking mole. If we ever find another redoubt like that, I'm going to get right on back into the gateway and move along to the next stop."
"Me, too."
The sky was an unusual color — clear pale blue, with only a few wispy white clouds streaking across it. From the cold thin air, Ryan figured they had to be up a considerable altitude. From experience, it felt like around a mile high.
At first he saw no sign of another living being. There was the edge of what looked like a big lake, not too far away, and a lot of mountains all around, many snowcapped. The wind was from the north, clean and light.
"It's beautiful," Krysty said, putting her arm around his shoulders. "What Uncle Tyas McCann would have called 'God's Country,' I guess."
Ryan moved to the sharp-cut brink of a drop and looked down. He turned to Krysty, a smile on his face, and said, "They're here."
"Where?"
"Down," he told her, pointing with the muzzle of the mud-streaked blaster. "All of 'em."
Several hundred feet lower on the sharp, scree-covered slope of the mountain, five minute figures were visible. One with white hair, stark against the gray rock. One with yellow hair and one with a clumsy black hat. One round figure and one with glasses that glittered as he looked up toward Ryan and Krysty.
Ryan held his G-12 above his head, waving it slowly to and fro, signaling they were all right.
"They're safe," he said. "We all made it."
Chapter Seven
"He killed how many?"
Finnegan grinned. "Six."
Ryan looked at Jak Lauren, who was shuffling his feet like a kid caught with his hand in the candy jar. "How did you take six muties all on your own, son?"
"With spear," he replied, flicking the sections in his fingers so that they blurred into the full-length weapon. Ryan saw that the cane shaft was streaked with dried blood.
"All six?" It was hard to believe. "What the chill were you doing, Finn?"
"Stopping me from sinking in the water and being drowned. Thank you, Ryan," Lori said, with affronted dignity. There was a little congealed blood around the corner of her mouth, and a deep purple bruise on the left side of her jaw, making speech difficult.
"No other way," Ryan said, looking across at Doc to see if the old man understood.
"Oh tempora! Oh mores!" Doc replied. "Means when you're up to your neck in shit, you can't get along by smelling roses."
Lori nodded. "I suppose I know why you hit me, Ryan. Sorry I made trouble. But I still didn't like it very much."
Finnegan was eager to tell Ryan and Krysty about Jak's prowess in the underground battle. "I never seen nothing like the bleached-out little fucker. Like fucking poetry in motion, Ryan. One after another, like skewering fish in a pisspot."
"Was easy. They came one at time, so killed 'em one at time." Jak's red eyes sparkled at the memory.
"You gut-rip 'em?" Krysty asked.
"No. Barbs on spears catch clothes. Snag on furs. No time rip clear. Had to stab at necks and faces."
"I swear he hit three out of the fucking six right splat in the middle of the fucking eye. They was down and thrashing in a row."
"Got no more brains than 'gator shit," Jak muttered. "Came together and I'd been chilled."
"I couldn't get my blaster to waste any of 'em for him. An' Doc and J.B. was bursting out the water, all pop-eyed. Real stiff in that river. Trying to tug you down and under."
"Sure," Ryan said. "We know it, Finn."
"It got fucking weird, you know. The light was real dark. Most times I could see his hair, like a whirlwind of fucking snow. Hear them screaming. The blade ripping them open. And the blood spurting every which way round the tunnel. I tell you..." His voice faded away into mute admiration.
There was a silence. Doc Tanner was hugging the trembling Lori, both of them still dripping muddy water from their new fur coats. J.B. squinted up at the sky.
"Could be a storm. Road down yonder. Mebbe best we head for it."
"Anyone got any pyrotabs?"
There was a general shaking of heads and shrugging of shoulders. Jak looked at J.B. "What are they?"
"Pyrotabs? Self-igniting pellets. Start a fire quick and easy."
Ryan whistled between his teeth. "Going to get cold in a while. Need a fire."
"I got matches. Always carry 'em." Jak fumbled in the pockets of his jacket, pulling out various small, intriguing packages, most of them wrapped in clear plastic to keep them from getting wet.
"What's that?" Krysty said, reaching out as fast as a striking rattler to snatch a packet of fine white powder off the boy's palm.
"Give it back."
"Careful, son," Ryan warned, sensing trouble in the way the albino's body had tensed.
"Gimme, Krysty."
The girl eased open the self-seal top and dipped the tip of her index finger into the powder. She raised the finger to her lips then pulled a face. "Jolt."
"Can I try?" Lori asked. "I like jolt. Quint had some. And crack. Jolt was best."
"No," Krysty said. "Jolt's the worst. Mix of heroin and coke. Lift you up and knock you down all in one hard hit."
"Quint, my husband, said jolt was good. Gave me a lot all the time."
"Yeah," Finnegan said quietly. "And we know all about that poisonous little double-poor bastard."
"Give it back," Jak repeated. "I can handle it. Only do some now and then."