"Lover?" Krysty prompted.
"Been thinking about the best time. I can think of a lot of good times. Think of plenty of bad times, as well. Plenty."
"I do not believe that you can wriggle away, my dear fellow," Doc said. "Not good enough."
Ryan looked around the circle of waiting faces old friends, new and newer friends.
"Good fire. We're secure with the storm out there. My gut's filled with meat, and I'm with people I know and trust." Ryan squeezed Krysty's hand. "And I have love. This moment's about as good as any I ever knew."
Chapter Eleven
They all slept in the same room. Anyone who woke up at any time would toss another piece of dry timber onto the slumbering ashes of the fire. Outside the storm continued to shriek its wrath, plucking at the weathered walls, shaking the roof, trying to find more loose shingles to rip free and hurl into the whirling air.
Ryan and Krysty lay together, using the newly won fur coats as an extra covering. The hardness of the floor was no deterrent to a good night's sleep. Over the months that they'd been together, Ryan and Krysty could almost count their nights in a proper bed on the fingers of both hands.
As the fire sank lower and the wind began to ease, Ryan was awakened by a hand crabbing across his stomach. It inched its way lower, unbuckled his belt and eased his pants down over his hips. For some time Ryan tried to pretend that he was still sleeping, but Krysty's fingers on his body made him betray himself.
"Waking up, lover?" she whispered, stroking him, rousing him with the insistent rhythm.
"Looks that way," he replied, rolling over onto his back so that she could fondle him more easily so that he could reach her more easily.
"Gently," she murmured, lips brushing his ear. Both of them were aware of the sleeping sounds of the other four: Jak moaning and scratching his nails across the floor; Doc muttering a name that might have been his long-dead wife's; Rick, restless, his breathing fast and shallow; and J.B., on his back, hands down at his sides, like an embalmed corpse, his weapons within easy reach.
Tired by the effort of dragging the sled through the blizzard, Ryan found it difficult to begin the lovemaking. But Krysty's insistence and skill quickly overcame his reluctance and he managed to match her questing rhythm.
They climaxed close together, scant seconds apart. Ryan felt his whole body stiffen, eye closing, teeth clenched with the overwhelming power of the orgasm. He clutched her so tightly that he was vaguely aware of her muscles creaking.
In her turn Krysty gripped him, fingers leaving weals across his shoulders. She pressed herself so hard against him that it almost seemed as if she were trying to make them into a single, fused entity. She gave a little cry, burying her face against his shoulder to muffle the sound.
Afterward they slept again, close like a pair of spoons, his flaccid manhood nestling into the cleft of her firm buttocks. She wriggled back with a murmur of pleasure, the slight movement sufficient to set him off again along the same road.
"Thought you were tired, lover," she whispered over her shoulder as he slid into her from behind.
"Never done it in Russia before. Thought I'd check and make sure I enjoyed it as much as I did the first time."
"And?"
"Even better."
The dawn came up with a sullen, gray reluctance that barely lightened the large room, showing them a scene outside of utter bleakness. Snow now lay two feet thick over the land.
Jak was up first, poking at the ashes of the fire, crouching over and blowing through cupped fingers to try to revive the heat. He carefully put on a few dry splinters to coax the specks of glowing crimson embers into flaming life.
"Could use pyrotab," he muttered, flicking his hair away from his face. "Get fucker burning."
"Freshly squeezed orange juice followed by eggs Benedict on an English muffin. Side order of whole wheat toast and boysenberry jelly. And a jug of coffee, hot and strong enough to float a horseshoe," Rick suggested, leaning on one elbow to watch Jak's successful efforts to revive the fire.
"I believe the mixed grill, or perhaps a lightly poached haddock might suffice. A pot of Earl Grey tea and some Oxford marmalade would slip down a treat," Doc added, carrying on the freezie's joke. "When you have a moment, of course."
"Eat mutie shit, lazy mother!" Jak snarled, brushing smuts from his long white hair. "Got fire. Get own fucking food!"
"Watch your mouth, Jak," Ryan warned. "Don't forget there's a lady here."
"Sorry, Krysty. But done bit. Someone else get food."
"Fair enough," Ryan agreed. "There's smoked fish or meat. That's about all."
They held their council after everyone had eaten their fill. During the previous afternoon, before the storm blew in, Krysty had done a little exploring around the grounds of the old mansion and found a large lake, frozen over with ice thick enough to support a convoy of fully laden trade wags. More importantly, in a small courtyard at the rear of the house she'd come across a well. With a little effort she'd succeeded in reconnecting the drawing chain, enabling her to throw down the leaking copper bucket and haul up a supply of sweet, clean water.
"Least we won't go thirsty," she said.
"And there's food enough for a while," Ryan added.
"Can't be far to the ville that those horsemen came from." J.B. rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. "Night raid could top up the food. When we need to do it."
"But what about repairing the damaged gateway?" Rick asked. He'd been moving awkwardly around the building since dawn, trying to keep his ailing muscles in some sort of condition.
"We'll have to find the tools you need," Ryan agreed. "No choice. You can't trigger the system any other way?"
The freezie shook his head. "No way. We stay here or we mend the door. Mending doors makes good neighbors, someone said."
"No, he did not, my dear Rick," Doc argued. "It was walls. Walls, not doors."
"Let it pass, Doc," Ryan said. "Just try and focus on the problem."
Doc brightened. "Surely. And what would that problem be, my dear Ryan?"
"Door's fucked, Doc. Can't jump. Mend door, jump. Don't, stay. Get it?" Jak told him.
"Succinct, but perfectly comprehensible, my snow-haired compatriot. Of course."
Rick coughed. "I just figure I should say that even if I get the tools, you all have to realize I can't guarantee I can patch it up. I can try. I thinkit'll work. But it's no more than that. It's a long shot."
J.B. spoke for all of them. "Rick, it's the only shot we got."
They talked together for a little over an hour. There was general agreement that their best hope was to head in the general direction of where Moscow itself had once been.
Most of the big urban centers in the Deathlands had been razed, but suburbs were often new centers of population.
The only area of disagreement lay in who should go and who should stay.
Rick had to stay, and with his illness and the possibility of further hostile attacks, he needed two to stay with him. The problem was who it would be.
Grudgingly Jak agreed that his hair made him look too distinctive for safety in a foreign land.
"And I am too decrepit, I suppose," Doc said. "But I would dearly have loved to see the Kremlin. The galleries and fine buildings."
J.B. laughed. "C'mon, Doc. Our boys did their jobs, and all you'd get to see in Moscow is a big, big pile of rubble."
Rick described carefully what he wanted, but his inability to communicate some of the finer technical details frustrated him. "Hell's bloody bells!" he exploded. "A bypass multiple cell adaptor! You must know what it is."
Ryan shook his head. "Drop the rads, Rick! You gotta remember that all the technical science and everything folded up one long, dark day a hundred years ago. We'll do what we can. If worse comes to worst you'll have to come hunting with us."