"Glasses again. Sweat and rain don't mix well. Won't be..." The words disappeared as he bent his head over the spectacles.
"Reload now," Ryan suggested. "Can't hear any pursuit."
They were a mile past the roadblock, following the winding, heavy river. Its sullen rumbling was the only sound they could hear, though there'd been sirens and a scream a few minutes back.
It was looking good.
"Reckon the kid should get the freezie on through," J.B. said, checking his reload then snapping the mag snugly into place.
"Sure. Jak's good. Better than he knows. Those damaged wags'll block the road off for their own vehicles. He can get close enough to go in on foot. Help Rick where he needs it."
"This rain could stop. Make tracking them easy over the last mile or so."
The Armorer had a fair point. It was one of the reasons that time was vital.
"Yeah. Could be we travel in the light. What d'you reckon?"
J.B. shook his head. "No. Too many eyes and ears about. We'd stand out like a knife in an eyeball. No. Do what we planned. Make some miles. Stop around dawn."
At one point the route out of Moscow ran along a narrow embankment. All around there were signs of the devastating nuking of a century earlier, and the old track lay buried beneath a vast, stinking swamp. The heavy rains had washed away one edge of the road.
It was close to dawn, and Ryan and J.B. waited on the ville side of the levee, deciding whether to cross it now or wait for the next evening. They could see that a gang of men was already at work repairing the rain damage. But there was a sinuous mist oozing from the morass on either side, and it was difficult to make out any details. The diffused glow of a bank of arc lights made it even harder to see what was going on.
Ryan stood with J.B. in the shelter of a clump of young conifers, weighing the odds. Behind them, they could hear the noise of several wags laboring up the rise toward their hiding place.
"Farther out we get before first light the better," J.B. reminded his friend.
"Yeah. If they've found the bodies where we lifted the wag, they could have an ace on the line for us if they got a good tracker. I say we risk it."
J.B. nodded. "Yeah. Looks like they're all kind of busy out there. Walk steady and keep moving, blasters hid."
As they neared the center of the raised causeway the mist cleared a little, and they began to appreciate that it might not be so easy. But they were committed, and behind them they could now see the lights of a half-dozen sec wags. They had to keep going.
At least fifty men worked at repairing the earthslide, using shovels and iron buckets, most of them already slimed in thick mud. And a dozen or more armed and alert sec men kept them company.
"Fireblast!" Ryan whispered. "Best get ready, J.B. This could be a bad one."
They kept walking until they were level with the first of the guards. Then they stopped.
Chapter Thirty-One
Jak dumped the stolen wag among the trees. He helped Rick out and supported him as they crossed and recrossed the narrow river twice. They eventually reached the big house a little after four in the morning. The boy was close to exhaustion, barely managing the bag of tools and the dying freezie.
Doc Tanner saw them coming. He'd been dozing on the second-floor landing, and had been awakened by the excited barking of Zorro.
Krysty moved quickly to open the sturdy main doors, running out across the sodden turf to where Jak was struggling with Rick. Doc strode along at his best pace and between them they managed to get the sick man into the house. On the threshold Rick elbowed them aside, standing unsupported for a moment. He reached inside his mud-stained coat and unfurled the torn flag.
"Good to be back in the land of the free and..." He slipped to the parquet floor, deeply unconscious.
Ryan and J.B. stopped. Just as they thought they'd succeeded in slipping past the work patrol, one of the sec men turned around and spotted them. He leveled his rifle and called out.
"Don't draw!" Ryan ordered. "Better prisoners than chilled in the dirt. Fake deaf."
He smiled at the Russkie, shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. The man shouted again and gestured with the muzzle of the elderly 7.62 mm Tokarev.
Both Americans managed a nervous smile for the sec man, trying to convey their willingness to do whatever it was he wanted, without actually having to do it.
The Russian stepped closer and lifted the butt of the rifle in a menacing gesture, pointing to a pile of picks, and forks and spades that lay in the trampled mud.
Ryan nodded, walked forward and picked up one of the shovels, followed by J.B. Just for a moment their apparent resistance had turned the heads of several of the other guards. Now, seeing their obedience, they went back to watching the members of the subbotnikwork group, laboring to restore the roadway.
Ryan risked provoking more anger from the stocky guard by glancing behind him, over to the ville side of the embankment where the group of wags had stopped. He wondered if this was the pursuit from Moscow. If it was, then it looked like their freedom was going to be measured in racing heartbeats.
He and the Armorer had both pulled up their hoods as they tried to pass the work gang, concealing their faces from the sec man who'd first stopped them and ordered them to start laboring.
At J.B.'s elbow, as they made their way to the bottom of the slippery path, Ryan talked quickly and urgently.
"I think Zimyanin could be close. These shit-dippers didn't spot us. Pocket your glasses and do whatever I do."
It was a long and desperate shot.
Ryan paused for a moment, then reached up and slipped the leather patch from his left eye, wincing at the unfamiliar feeling of cold air and rain on the puckered, empty socket. At his side, J.B. palmed his glasses and dropped them into one of his pockets.
The mud beneath their boots was slick and greasy, making the descent difficult. Several of the local Russians pressed into the work detail stopped for a moment to watch the two newcomers making their delicate way down to join them. Ryan had noticed that the mud at the edge of the river was particularly deep and noisome.
Behind him he heard the screech of brakes as one of the pursuing wags came skidding to a halt at the earth-fall. Doors clicked open and slammed shut again. There was a loud, confident voice, sounding as though it was used to command.
"How long has this road been blocked, Comrade Corporal?"
"Just over an hour, Comrade Major-Commissar. We have a work unit pressed into repairing it."
Zimyanin tugged at the dripping ends of his mustache. This was a holdup he couldn't possibly have anticipated, but it could prove a massive hindrance to his plans to capture the Americans.
"You know about the stolen armawag?"
"Yes, Comrade Major-Commissar. It has not passed along the road since we have been here. The blockage would have stopped it. Since then nothing has gone past us. Indeed, I said to my friend here, who also happens to be the sister of my wife's second cousin and..."
"Your mouth, Corporal. Close it."
"Yes, Comrade Major-Commissar."
Zimyanin's attention had been caught by a couple of local peasants, who he assumed were the latest "volunteers" for the subbotnik. They were trying to get down to the bottom of the earthslide, toward the surging and swollen river. The way they kept staggering, it looked as though at any moment they might go tumbling into the sticky mud.
Bracing himself, and holding his breath, Ryan deliberately allowed himself to lose his footing. He waved his arms, dropped the shovel and uttered a great bellow of shock and terror. He contrived to snatch at J.B.'s arm, bringing him down with him.