He turned away from the brightness of the fire, but the sudden choking to his voice and the glistening of tears in his pale eyes told their own unmistakable tale.
Krysty picked up the moment. "How about you, J.B.? Best moment of your life. And don't tell us it was when you got given your first blaster at the age of eighteen months! Or whenever it was."
He shifted his feet, the toes of his combat boots scraping on the splintered floor. The red flames danced off his glasses, hiding his eyes. His beloved fedora was at his side, and he ran his fingers through the cropped stubble of his pale blond hair as he stared thoughtfully into the fire.
"A ball game. A chilling. A kind of growing. And a marrying. Four big moments. I don't think I got anything to match any of those."
"Quit dodging the question," Ryan teased, relishing the warmth and the feeling of a full stomach. And Krysty close by him.
"Best?" J.B. mused, biting his lip. "Guess it was the time — you recall this, Ryan — out near the rad lakes on the lower Miss. Got myself in a hole in a corner. Rock on one side and a damned hard place the other. For reasons that don't concern here, I hadn't got any of my usual weapons, but I had a beautiful Colt Navy. A .36, redrilled so's it'd take a .44. Still cap and ball. Up against five redneck drunks. All got Saturday night specials. Little .32s and the like. Killed four with six shots. Never got a scratch myself."
"Knew it'd have something to do with blasters," Krysty whispered loudly.
"I'll ignore that. Problem was, there was still one of the shit-eaters left. Figured I was out of ammo. Colt Navy holds six. I fired six. He still had three or four in his pocket Beretta. One door in the place and he was in front of it. Didn't even have a nail file on me. No blade at all. Fat son of a bitch, he was. Stood up, grinning. I can still see him. Patches of sweat rotting under his arms. Fat hand like a side of mutton, and this stupid toy popgun. He was going to chill me."
"Did he?" Jak asked.
"Course he..." J.B. began until he saw the joke. He grinned coldly at the teenager. "Nice one, kid. I chilled him."
"How?" the boy asked.
"With the Colt Navy."
"You said out ammo. Can't reload quick cap and ball."
"Right, Jak. But I killed him with it. Stood up slow. He was coming across the room, oozing delight that he got the ace on the line for me. No place to run. I was holding the pistol, down, by the barrel."
Ryan remembered the occasion. He'd gotten to the drinker too late, but he could still feel the stickiness of all the blood on the soles of his boots.
"Threw it at him underarm, real hard. Lovely gun. Best balance of any. One and a half turns in the air. Butt clubbed him across the top of the nose. Noise like a ripe apple under the heel. Down he went, pistol flying any which way. I walked over, picked up my blaster and hit him twice, just behind the right ear. Skull went soft after the first blow. Softer after the second."
He stopped speaking as abruptly as he'd begun. The room was silent until Rick Ginsberg spoke. "And that's it?"
J.B. nodded.
Ryan was conscious of everyone waiting for him to speak. He knew that the cup would eventually pass its way around the circle and reach him, and he'd been thinking of what to say.
"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!"