They loaded up quickly with what they wanted: fur coats enough for everyone in the group; the gnawed remnants of the warm meat and the pot of turnips. There had been some rough black bread in a cupboard and a pitcher of sour milk. Jak discovered some canteens in the shed, stenciled over with what could once have been Russian military markings and numbers.
"That it?"
J.B. looked around. "Looks that way. Jak, put on the dried meat and fish so we can go."
"Not yet," the albino said, looking past Ryan and the Armorer.
They both turned and saw that they had company.
Ryan had guessed that the lane at the back of the filthy cottage could well lead, eventually, to a hamlet. Maybe even to a ville. The presence of food like fish and milk spoke of barter.
The three stocky men on shaggy ponies had come in from that direction, the noise of the wind swallowing the sound of their arrival.
They sat, fetlock deep in the powdery snow, about fifty paces away, each shrouded in furs from head to boots. The men rode bareback, and muskets were slung across their shoulders. As far as Ryan could judge, they simply seemed to be mildly surprised at the sight of the trio of strangers with the loaded sled. Certainly, none showed any signs of menace.
"Could lead to ville," Jak muttered, his fingers twitching near the butt of his .357.
"Could send us to buy the farm," J.B. added grimly.
Ryan weighed the odds. It now seemed as if there was a ville of some sort not too far away. That could mean food and shelter. He didn't know much about how the Russkies felt about Americans, but his guess was that they wouldn't welcome them with open arms. The old mansion was derelict, which made it a good place to hide.
If the word got around that there were three outlanders on the rampage, then life would be measured in hours. No more.
He glanced at the sky.
"Be serious snow within the hour," Ryan said quietly. "Cover any tracks."
J.B. nodded. "Chill 'em."
"Middle one," Jak whispered.
"Left," the Armorer chose.
"Right." Ryan selected the nearest of the silent horsemen. "Now!"
It took four bullets. Two booming rounds exploded into the stillness from the teenager's pistol, the second needed after the first hit his man high in the shoulder, kicking him over his animal's back. He landed on hands and knees in a flurry of white.
Both Ryan and J.B. put their targets away with single head shots.
"And the horses."
Obviously trained to remain still under gunfire, the three ponies had barely moved as their masters toppled dead into the snow. Ryan moved in a few steps closer, briefly reconsidering his own order. It wasn't a situation where they needed to conceal the killings. The wind and rising blizzard would hide their tracks. If there was a small ville nearby, they'd know where the riders would have gone and find the bodies easily enough. There was no way in a frozen land that a man could bury three horses.
"No, leave them," he said. "By the time anyone comes out here, we're long gone."
In his short time with the group, Rick Ginsberg had commented on several occasions about the way everyone seemed to have an almost uncanny sense of direction.
"I don't get it, guys," he'd say. "I need my fax to tell me which subway stop I want."
Krysty had replied the last time the subject had come up. "You miss a stop on your underground wags, Rick, and what happens? You have to go back. You miss a stop in the Deathlands and one of your friends gets to sprinkle dust in your face."
All the others were able to find their way around, either by the sun or the stars. Or without either of them. That was a vital skill as the storm descended, the wind screeching in from the Urals, one of the most rad-touched regions on the planet. It carried blinding snow across its shoulders, visibility dropping from a half mile to a dozen yards within seconds.
Trees bowed like dowsers' wands and a man's footprints disappeared within seconds. Ryan and J.B. stooped to the traces on the sled, chests heaving, heads down, while Jak picked his way just ahead of them, guiding them through the instant whiteout.
They stumbled past the corpse of the old woman, now a low hump, snow-buried. Every few minutes they'd change places. Ryan would take the lead while Jak pulled alongside J.B. Then the Armorer would take a breather out front, and Ryan went back to pull with the albino boy.
The noise of the wind rose and became deafening. To communicate it was necessary to put your lips close against the other man's ear and shout at the top of your voice. The furs they wore became heavy with ice. The temperature had dropped fast, and Ryan was aware of the uncomfortable feeling of the hairs inside his nostrils becoming coated in frozen condensation. The skin across his cheeks felt taut and numbed the first whispering warning, he knew from previous experience, of the threat of frostbite.
All landmarks vanished.
After an hour's straining against the frozen ropes it crossed Ryan's mind that there was a possibility that they weren't going to make it. He'd heard men who had nearly died in snowstorms say that it wasn't a bad way to go. You just got more and more tired, lay down and fell sleep.
And you never woke up again.
It was a relief to make out the rectangular bulk of the mansion, looming before them out of the murk.
Chapter Ten
The fire crackled merrily, the wood blazing and spitting sparks. Steam rose from the fur coats of Ryan, J.B. and Jak.
The boy stretched out and rubbed at his swollen stomach, belching his delight at the surfeit of food that they'd all enjoyed. "Eaten. Warm. Good times. Good."
Krysty smiled. She was lying on the floor, resting on the gray fur coat she'd picked out for herself. "You're right," she agreed, looking around the large room, watching the shadows that danced into the corners and alcoves. Outside the windows the storm still raged, well into the late afternoon, rattling the broken glass and breathing drafts along the bare boards.
"We got enough food to keep us all going for a few days," J.B. said, loosening the brass buckle on his belt by a single notch.
"Or a few of us for a couple of weeks." Ryan leaned back against the wall, picking at his teeth where shreds of the venison had lodged. The discomfort from his cavity had eased away again.
Rick was dozing. While the three had been out hunting, the others had climbed down into the hidden staircase to check the damage to the gateway. The freezie's report had been a whole lot less than encouraging.
"It can be mended. Krysty surely doesn't know her own strength."
She'd shaken her head and whispered, "You're dead wrong about that, Rick."
"If I had access to my laboratory then I could have it fixed in a half hour. If I had stores facilities I could simply order up the new parts and change them over. If I..."
"If the little dog hadn't stopped for a piss, then he would most surely have caught the little rabbit," Doc finished.
"How long without anything, Rick?" Ryan had asked him.
"Without anything? No tools or..." He shook his head. "No. I need some basic tools. Hammers, wrenches, stuff like that. Then maybe then it could be fixed in a week or so. But it's a bastard hard job. You have to realize I'm..."
"We'll get tools," Ryan said. "Don't worry, Rick. Just don't worry about it."
"It's not just that, Ryan. My sickness... I've been through a sort of period of remission since you thawed me out. I've got a feeling that's over now, baby blue. Over."
Bleak tidings indeed.
But now that had been pushed to one side while the companions ate and grew warm. The wood for the fire came from the less damaged timbers of the attic floors, which had been broken up and piled high in the open hearth.
Now was a time for relaxing.
Doc, who sat beside Rick, sang quietly to himself.
Western wind, when wilt thou blow,