"No," replied Ryan, standing up, stretching his legs. Krysty and J.B. also rose. All around them was a general movement of guns, muzzles edging in their direction. Putting up any kind of fight would be utterly suicidal.
"Give gun. Not gun, I give..." he found what he wanted on a page headed At The Hospital "...bad pain."
"No guns. These are all we have. No more."
Uchitel was becoming angry. Yet again, his careful plan was falling apart. These Americans were either poor and stupid or wealthy and stupid. At least these three had good clothes and guns, and the truck held all manner of treasures. He beckoned for Pechal to come to him.
"I want..." he began.
But Sorrow interrupted him. "The girl, Uchitel. Let me do the girl! Her hair is so..."
"Nyet. Not her. The man with the glasses. The others will watch."
Ryan and the others watched the exchange, guessing from the expressions on the men's faces what was going down. The gray-clad Russian with the soft voice had been licking his lips and staring at Krysty, rubbing his fingers together — long, strong fingers with long, hooked nails.
"Bad news time," said Ryan.
"Yeah," agreed J.B.
"He tell us guns where." Uchitel pointed at the Armorer and rattled off orders to his men to bind him. In moments J.B.'s hands were tied tightly behind his back, and he was brought to his knees and held there. Two dozen guns covered Ryan and Krysty.
"Are they going to torture him?" asked the girl.
"Seems they want guns like these. Must have come over as a raidin' party."
"Take my glasses off for me, Ryan," called J.B. "Don't want these stupes to break 'em. Had 'em for eight years. Don't know how I'd get on without 'em."
Watched by the Russians, Ryan did as J.B. asked, folding the glasses and putting them in his top pocket. The beardless Pechal moved in close to the kneeling man, looking down into his eyes. He touched J.B. on the side of the cheek with a forefinger, and the little man winced despite himself.
"Tell guns," said Uchitel.
"There aren't any more fuckin' guns you stupe bastard killer," shouted Ryan.
Uchitel nodded to Pechal.
Ryan watched, his face set like stone; the girl looked away. Pechal began gently, almost caressing the helpless J.B. He touched and pinched, twisting the soft, tender skin behind the ears and along the inside of the upper thigh. His nails dug into the Armorer's lips, pulling them until blood filled J.B.'s mouth and he spat it out in a fine spray over the Russian.
"Where guns?" asked Uchitel.
Ryan looked at him, his face showing none of the hatred and anger he felt. "I'll tell you this, you blood-eyed dog. You're fuckin' dead, friend. You're walkin' around, but you are dead as a spent bullet."
"What?"
Ryan shook his head in disgust. Krysty shuffled closer to him. "What can we do?"
"Nothin', lover. They got all the blasters. Man has the firepower, he gets to call the game. We watch and wait. Any half chance, take it and get the fuck out. Henn and the others must be comin' close. Head for 'em. That's all I can say."
Uchitel stepped in and swung an open palm across Ryan's face, knocking him on his back. Ryan sat there a moment, his head spinning from the blow, which had loosened one of his teeth. As Ryan got up, a lopsided smile came to his angular face.
"Do the same for you one day, cocksuckin' double-scarred bastard."
"Not talk. Talk guns. No pain."
The third earth tremor was vastly more powerful than the two minor quakes they'd felt earlier.
Ryan staggered sideways, retaining his balance only with effort. Nearly everyone was thrown off their feet. All the fires were shaken out, buried under a mist of ice and snow.
The air filled with a dreadful thundering roar and with so much dirt that it was difficult to breathe or see.
Ryan grabbed the girl by the arm. "Got to get J.B. Now."
There was a second quake, more violent than the first. It knocked both Ryan and Krysty off their feet. But Ryan's sense of direction and ice-cold nerve kept them going. Stumbling over bodies lying on the earth, they reached J.B., and Ryan knelt, still holding Krysty by her right hand.
"Took your fuckin' time, partner," said J.B., his voice as calm as if they were strolling across a summer meadow.
"Knife?"
"Right boot. They didn't find it."
Ryan slid his fingers inside the high combat boot, feeling the taped hilt of a small knife. Pulling it from the sheath, he used it to slice through the ropes that bound J.B.
As the last cord fell away, J.B. rose to his feet, leaning on Ryan. "Thanks. That bastard, that swift and evil fucker had hard hands."
The ground still moved. It was like being on War Wag One when it drove at speed along an old concrete highway in the Deathlands. A steady vibration.
"Get the blasters," said J.B. "That way."
Despite the darkness and confusion, they moved straight to the pile of guns and knives. Each of them grabbed what they could, holstering and sheathing their weapons. Ryan was still holding the long steel panga when someone grabbed him from behind.
"Fireblast!" he cursed, struggling to free his arms from the bearlike grip. But the man was strong, and it took all of Ryan's agility and cunning to free his right hand so that he could jab behind him with the point of the blade. Despite all the layers of fur that the Russian was wearing, the panga penetrated. There was a grunt of pain, the hold was loosened, and Ryan twisted his body clear. Then he turned and swung the blade as hard as he could, feeling it jar and crunch as it hit the man's ribs. In the cold he was aware of the flood of heat across his hand from the wound.
As the staggering figure screamed something in Russian — it had to be a call for aid — Ryan pushed the man away and turned to where he'd last seen Krysty and J.B.
"You there?"
"Yeah," said J.B.
"Here," said Krysty, unable to keep her voice from trembling. All around them, the guerrillas were running and yelling. Across the camp someone fired a pistol four times. They heard a yelp of pain.
"South," said Ryan. "Keep close. Kill anythin' that moves if it's not us."
"Why not get the radio from the buggy?" asked the girl.
"No time. Got to move. There's thirty or more of 'em. We know where Henn and the others are headed. We'll meet up with 'em."
The earthquake was continuing with waves of varying power that made the ice-bound pebbles shift and rattle.
Ryan Cawdor was in the lead, Krysty slipped and stumbled behind him, and J.B. brought up the rear. Something loomed in front of him, and he slashed at it with the panga, then realized too late it was one of the terrified ponies, rearing and kicking. The steel opened a deep gash along its shoulder, but one of its front hooves caught Ryan a glancing blow on the arm. At that moment, the earth gave its strongest convulsion yet, and the ground beneath him rose eighteen inches or more.
He slipped and rolled forward, feeling snow all around him. A boulder hit him on the knee, making him yell with sudden pain. As he whirled down the slope he heard screams from behind, and men calling in Russian.
His mouth filled with powdery snow, and he coughed and choked as he rolled. With an effort, he managed to spread his arms and legs into a star shape, checking his slide down the hill.
The tremor passed, and he sat up, checking his blasters. His long coat was torn, his knee hurt, and there was a dull throbbing where the horse had kicked him. He could taste blood from a cut near his mouth.
But he was alive.
The patch over his missing left eye had shifted and he tugged it back in place. He stood, trying to determine where he was. He was at the bottom of a steep ravine, with water a few inches deep under his boots.