"We winning?" he asked.
The woman told him what was happening and he nodded and smiled.
"Remember the Alamo," he croaked, coughing with the effort of speaking. "Ryan Crockett and J.B. Travis. Guess I'm like Jim Bowie, wounded down here. But I'm ready to take some of the bastards with me. Blow these gas cans to hell and back. Got a pyrotab, Krysty? Give it me."
"Don't be triple-stupe," she replied. "When we go you come with us. You don't need a pyrotab for anything."
The smile of the dying man grew broader, tearing at Krysty's heart. "Now who's... who's triple-stupe, lady? I know where I'm going, and... there won't be nobody on the road with me. Give me the firelighter. I can just make it, even with my fingers fucked."
Krysty reached in the pocket of her pants and handed him a small pyrotab. All Rick had to do was flip open a catch and he'd have instant ignition. With an effort Rick managed to grip the tab in one trembling hand.
"Thanks, sister. Hey, Santy Anna, we're killin' your soldiers so near, so the rest of Deathlands'll hear. And remember... remember..." Another coughing fit made it impossible for him to carry on. Krysty knelt and helped him take a sip of water.
"They're running."
"Stop shooting," Ryan ordered. "Once they're broke, there's no profit in chilling any more of them."
The dawn's pale light was creeping across the misty land, throwing shadows ahead of the fleeing men and boys. By now the fog had filled in all of the hollows, so that most of the corpses lay invisible in the swirling whiteness.
"How many dead, Comrade Corporal?" Zimyanin asked. "You watched through the glasses?"
"Yes, Comrade Major-Commissar," answered the young, smooth-chinned noncom. "I counted twenty-three fall, of which all but one failed to..." He lost the thread of his sentence through his fear of the blood-eyed officer.
Zimyanin smiled thinly. "You mean that twenty-two are dead and one wounded?"
"No, Comrade Major-Commissar. The wounded man rose and was shot immediately and fell again. He did not rise a second time."
"Thank you, soldier. Time for the final wave of the attack, I believe. Bring up the wags and ready the gren launchers. They are to fire only at my personal command."
"They come again?"
"Course they will, Jak," Ryan replied. "It's coming down to the gun. Russkies know we're here. Know we can't run."
"But we can jump," J.B. said. "Now the gateway's nearly ready."
Doc had been listening from the damaged floor above them, with Zorro cowering at his side. "The door is nearly completed, gentlemen. That is perfectly true. But I fear that it doesn't mean we will necessarily find the chamber working when we attempt it. The only way to test it is to use it."
"What could go wrong, Doc?" Ryan asked.
"Who could know that, my dear friend? Who knows the face that launched a thousand ships and something something the topless towers of somewhere or other? If you take my meaning."
"No."
"Tarnation! The mat-trans might simply not function at all and we shall look pretty fools sitting there waiting for our Communist friends to pop us in their bag. Or, it might work a little."
"Then fucking what, Doc?" Jak asked.
"Then we might all occupy a little space somewhere between the stars. A smudge of displaced molecules positioned roughly between eternity and infinity. I do not believe there would be much pain in such an ending."
"Thanks, Doc," Ryan said. "Sure gives us all something to chew on for a while."
"You're most welcome, my dear chap."
"Send them back to their hovels. I want them out of the way before the final assault."
"They are unhappy, Comrade Major-Commissar. So many lost."
"They are not lost, you mumbling, fish-fucking cretin! If they are simply lost we can wait until the sun rises properly and burns away the mist. Then they will be found again. They are notlost! They are out there dead."
"The claims for..." the local commander continued, torn between fear of Gregori Zimyanin and the knowledge that the survivors would probably assassinate him for his part in the massacre.
"It will come under Industrial and Allied Pension and Personal Injury Claims, Comrade. Arrange for the appropriate forms to be handed out tomorrow."
"Yes, Comrade Major-Commissar."
"And tell the sec patrols we attack in precisely fifteen minutes. I want the one-eyed American in my hands within the hour."
Chapter Thirty-Seven
"Next time'll be the big one," Ryan predicted.
"Yeah," J.B. agreed. "Won't be a bunch of kids. Won't be a suicide squad of dirt-poor stupes. It'll be the sec men, and they won't give up easy."
"I can hear something," Krysty said, leaning against the window, head on one side. Doc had taken her place in the deep basement, checking over the last connections to the gateway. Rick had said that it should finally be ready within the hour. Ryan's worry was that they might not have that long before the Russians broke in.
"Wags?"
"Yeah. Four or five. There."
They could all see them, four wags that had come all the way from Moscow. Three of them had heavy armaplate on the front, protecting the cabs and the beds from ordinary bullets. Ryan guessed that they'd all be packed with armed sec men. They'd drive straight at the front of the house, and there was nothing the defenders could do to stop them.
"Any armapiercers, J.B.? Or any grens?"
The Armorer sniffed. "Nope. Not enough to stop them. You?"
Ryan shook his head. "Nothing. Could take out the tires when they get closer. Pick off one or two when they break for the house."
"Burn big stairs," Jak suggested, eagerly handling his huge cannon of a blaster. The teenager was frustrated that, so far, he'd been able to contribute nothing to their defense.
"Could. Trouble is, start a few flames in the center of the house and the whole place could go. Last resort, mebbe."
Krysty touched Ryan on the shoulder. "Didn't tell you what the freezie wants, lover."
"What?"
"He's ready for death. Welcoming it. Insisted I gave him a pyrotab, and he's sitting there with the cans of gas. Says that as soon as we jump, he'll blow the whole place. Himself with it. He means it, lover. I know."
"Fine. I'm not going to stop him. Couple of gallons of gas down there would come up the stairwell like a blasting nuke. Be a hell of a good way for a man to go." The admiration rode high in Ryan's voice.
"Long as he doesn't light it too soon," J.B. warned.
"They got a gren launcher," Krysty announced, shading her emerald eyes from the bright cutting edge of the rising sun.
"Then it's time we moved," Ryan growled. "Get ready for Cawdor's last stand."
Unless the defenders had some secret cache of nukes, Zimyanin knew his men couldn't fail to destroy the damaged building. They could pound it with high-explosive rounds until it was only rubble. Or they could napalm it and roast the Americans alive. But that would leave vital questions unanswered. Questions that Marshal Siraksi would be asking in the next few hours.
Who were these terrorists?
What were their aims?
Did they have allies within the homeland?
How did they get into Mother Russia?
What did the age-old dacha hold that was so important to them?
Zimyanin's own promotion would depend on how many of those questions could eventually be answered. And if he simply chilled them all, the answers would be few and far, far between.