James Axler - Red Holocaust

"No. If we meet trouble ahead, I'd rather have you along, providin' you don't smoke one of your bastard cheroots in here."

So the transfer was made, and the ailing buggy was left in the charge of Henn and Finnegan, who were both now recovered from the effects of the drugged punch. Despite intermittent snow flurries, visibility was generally fair.

"We should be near that valley," said J.B., holding a handgrip to steady himself against the rocking and lurching of the buggy.

"How far'll we go?" asked Krysty.

"Far as it takes. Looks like what's left up here is a big round zero," said Ryan. "Mebbe go back to the redoubt in a day or so and try movin' to warmer places. That the way you figure it, J.B.?"

"Sure."

The bazooka shell exploded near enough to the vehicle that it stopped dead, tipping up and over. The concussion was shocking, sending the three occupants toppling into instant darkness.

Ryan Cawdor was first to recover. He blinked and opened his eye, aware of a shattering ache in his head. He could feel blood crusted around his ears from the force of the shell.

Someone was looming over him; a man, well built. He wore some sort of silver band around his forehead, with a large red stone at its center. And his eyes were a peculiar golden color.

"Has the agony somewhat abated?" asked Uchitel, pronouncing the words carefully.

The Trader's rules had been simple. If you got caught by hostiles, you played it close and careful. That meant saying nothing and acting dumb.

The Narodniki hadn't bothered to tie Ryan, J.B. and Krysty. While the trio were unconscious, the Narodniki had taken their weapons, leaving them helpless in the camp of heavily armed guerrillas.

Uchitel still believed that this desolate land must have its legendary wealth somewhere. It couldn't possibly be this poor. Not after all he'd read and seen in the old books. Somewhere, there were towering buildings that scraped the sky; beautiful women who offered themselves to every man. All of that and more, was here in America.

Uchitel's more robust approach to questioning prisoners hadn't worked, so — fortunately for Ryan, J.B. and Krysty — this time, he was trying a more friendly approach, for a while. And this trio was utterly different from any of the shit-eating peasants he'd seen so far in America.

They wore clean clothes that were almost like uniforms and were made of excellent material, Uchitel observed; and they were physically in good condition, particularly the tall man who'd lost an eye. He was honed like a fine blade. The woman with the scarlet hair was also in marvelous condition: it had taken all of Uchitel's persuasiveness to prevent some of his followers from immediately raping her. The short skinny man with the spectacles didn't seem so powerful, but when they'd searched him they'd found he was a walking arsenal, carrying concealed guns, knives and explosives.

Their guns — modern, well greased, with no shortage of ammo for them — were better than anything that the Narodniki had ever seen. Most of the blasters looked as if they'd just come from an armaments factory.

While the trio was unconscious, the band had gathered around them.

"Did I not tell you?" Uchitel had said to his followers. "Here is wealth beyond reckoning! They drive a truck that can move over ice and snow! They must have fuel for it! Who has seen such things?" Nobody answered. "And where there are three, then must there not be more? Da there must . And their guns... their clothes... We are close, brothers and sisters, so close to more power and wealth than we have ever dreamed of."

"What if they are too powerful for us?" Urach had asked.

"We have seen these Americans — need the Narodniki fear such folk? Here are three of their best, at our mercy!"

And the Narodniki roared their approval of Uchitel's words.

Had his agony abated somewhat? The question confounded Ryan Cawdor... as did this stranger with the ornate headband and the golden eyes. Had that bang on the head made him delirious? Ryan remembered that O'Mara, the machine gunner from War Wag One, had once suffered a fearful crack to the skull and had thereafter boasted for days that he was the Trader's grandfather — and his grandmother, too.

Blinking his eye, Ryan realized that it was no blurred vision from a dream or nightmare before him, but something all too real.

It was night, and they were in a hollow protected from the biting wind by the slope of the land. Several fires, fuelled by pyrotabs, burned all around. To one side was the indistinct white shape of the buggy. It was tipped over. Ryan blinked and turned, and was relieved to see Krysty and J.B., both seemingly unhurt, though the Armorer was as white as the snow and had a bloody nose. But his chest was rising and falling steadily. Then Krysty moaned and, even as Ryan watched, put her hand to her head, opening her eyes.

"Where?.. " she began.

"Don't talk," said Ryan, quickly. "We're prisoners."

"Silence!" ordered Uchitel, grinning at his success in finding the right word from his tattered phrase book.

The girl sat up, burying her head in her hands. "I feel sick," she said.

J.B. Dix now also recovered consciousness and sat up and looked around. He said nothing at first. Taking off his glasses, he polished them on his sleeve, then replaced them. Finally he retrieved his beloved fedora and placed it on his head.

He looked at Ryan without expression. "They say anything?"

"Not well... I think they're foreign. Have you seen their blasters?"

Uchitel was watching them, trying to catch what they were saying. He did not want to appear foolish before his fellows.

"Yeah. They all got the old Makarov nine-mil pistols with double-action triggers. A few of 'em are carryin' Dragunova sniper's rifles. Lot of Kalashnikovs and seven-point six two sub-MGs, all Russian. Never seen any in the Deathlands, only in the old manuals. You heard 'em talk?"

"Not really. They don't look like us."

Many of the faces were Oriental: slanted eyes, sallow complexions, straggly beards and long, black moustaches. The four or five women visible had coarse features and large hands. Not one of them looked at all like a mutie.

Almost all of them looked like vicious murderers.

"Can you offer us service?" asked Uchitel, looking from face to face.

"What?" said Ryan.

"We are lost and desire directions."

"Who are you?" he asked the tall Russian.

Uchitel turned the pages of his book with laborious slowness.

"Ah. Who are you?" he repeated. Pointing to his chest, he said, "Uchitel." Then, widening the gesture to include the rest of the band, he added, "We are Narodniki."

"I'm Ryan Cawdor. This is Krysty Wroth. And this is J.B. Dix."

Beneath him, Ryan felt the earth tremble, as though some immeasurably huge animal had stirred in its sleep. The guerrillas wore thick furs, with hoods of leather and gauntlets of fur-trimmed hide. From the maps that they'd seen in the redoubt, Ryan knew that Russia had been very close to the old United States in this region, being almost within sight of the coast of Alaska. But there had been no sign that the Russians had ever crossed the ice as invaders.

"It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance," said Uchitel, stumbling over the last word.

"Talks like Doc, doesn't he?" said Krysty. "Like from the old times. Back in Harmony, I read books and that's how they talked. Mebbe that's what that book is. It helps him talk to us."

Ryan nodded. "Must be, since it seems none of them speak our language. But watch it, it could be a trick."

There was another minor tremor, this time accompanied by a faint rumbling of the earth. The flames in the fires danced as if some invisible giant had blown on them. Some of the horses whinnied in alarm, and several of the Russians looked uneasily at one another. It was fast growing dark, and the wind was carrying sharp flakes of ice in its teeth.