James Axler - Red Holocaust

But at last they were picking their way along the ridge of the valley, heading toward the final scene of the drama.

"Ol’ J.B. got the ace on the line," whooped Ryan Cawdor, staring unbelievingly at the chaos below him. The main torrent had abated, and the morning was so bitingly cold that the rocks on both sides of the valley were slick with ice.

"Let's go," said Finnegan, hefting his gray Heckler & Koch submachine gun.

"Watch 'em. They've probably got guns left," warned Ryan.

"Not that fat sow," grinned Henn, pointing at the huge Bizabraznia. "Unless she's got a hider pistol tucked in her snatch."

"Got room for a mortar up there," cackled Finn. Descending with the utmost caution between the tumbled, wet stones, Ryan led them to the river. Each of them was carrying a blaster, ready for action: Hennings and Finnegan with their HK-54As, Krysty with the silvered H&K P-7A 13 pistol, Ryan with his caseless G-12, all covering the helpless Russians.

With the water now returned to its original level, Uchitel and the three other survivors climbed warily down and were now facing Ryan across fifteen paces of fast-flowing river. Slowly, Uchitel raised his hands above his head in the universal gesture of surrender.

Krisa and Zmeya followed. Finally, scowling, Bizabraznia lifted her hands.

"Watch 'em," said Ryan, crossing the jumble of stones and large boulders with care. If he slipped on the ice, the water would carry him to his death.

Once he was over, he beckoned for the others to follow. He kept his eye — and the muzzle of his blaster — pointed at the captive Russians.

"What're we goin' to do with the fuckers?" asked Finnegan.

"Ice 'em," replied Ryan. "Mebbe try an' talk to 'em first. You got that book?" he asked Uchitel and mimed reading and flicking pages.

Krysty watched a trickle of water flowing over the lip of the ruined dam. "I can see J.B., Lori and Doc near the ghost town," she said.

"They're wavin'," added Hennings.

Ryan was still watching Uchitel, his good eye locked on the Russian's amber gaze. "The book, you bastard," he repeated.

"I can hear..." began Krysty.

"What?"

"Horses. Earth Mother. I can hear so many horses, comin' this way! I couldn't hear before with the noise of the river."

"J.B. is pointin' over that way," said Hennings, gesturing to the west, where Krysty was also pointing.

Uchitel's face was impassive. He had delivered enough death in his time to know that Ryan Cawdor's face showed only the promise of killing. Moving carefully, the Russian reached inside his coat and produced the damp copy of the phrase book, throwing it down in the mud at Ryan's feet.

As he stooped to pick it up, Ryan heard what the girl had detected: hooves pounding on rock, coming toward them. He glanced toward the ghost town, but J.B., Doc and Lori had disappeared.

"Let's kill the sons of bitches and get us the fuck out of here," said Hennings, backing toward the river.

"No," said Ryan. "Look at this bastard's face. Whoever's comin' aren't friends of his. Must be Americans. We'll wait and..."

The words died in his throat as he watched the ridge a quarter mile to the west.

While they'd been in the redoubt, he'd seen a couple of old vids called westerns , involving savages that attacked villes and burned them down until sec men called cavalry came to the rescue. Impressively, savages always seemed to appear in single file on the crest of a mile. "Well, I'll be..." whispered Finn.

Bizabraznia fell to her pale knees and buried her face in her hands. The other Russians looked scared.

"There's nearly a hundred," said Hennings with almost religious awe.

A hundred men, well mounted, all wearing a uniform, were approaching. Even at that distance, Ryan knew that these couldn't be friends or Americans. There wasn't a baron in Deathlands with the power to put a regular small army into the field like this.

The rising sun glanced off badges on some of their gray caps. Most had rifles slung across their backs.

"Any move and we're cold meat," said Ryan. "If it comes to it, take as many as you can. Play it soft."

They watched as the riders descended from the ridge, then cantered over the flat trail, reining in a wide semicircle at a signal from the man who seemed to be their leader. He was a pockmarked fellow with a bald head and a drooping moustache. He heeled his horse forward. Stopping a few paces from Ryan, he scrutinized them all, paying particular attention to their blasters.

Uchitel studied the officer, then barked a question at him in Russian. Zimyanin ignored him.

Ryan tried to flick through the phrase book while still keeping his gun ready. The bald man reached into his coat, pulling out a small red notebook, with some writing on the cover in a peculiar, angular script that Ryan couldn't read.

"I am Major Gregori Zimyanin, and I bring greetings from the party."

The accent was heavy, but Ryan found it easier to understand than Uchitel's garbled words. He bowed slightly to the Russian.

"I take prisoner this mans," he said, waving with the book at Uchitel and the other three.

"Let him," hissed Finnegan.

"No," said Ryan. "They're my prisoners."

Zimyanin glanced through his book as if he wasn't sure he believed what he said. " Nyet. I take. He Russian. I take."

"No," repeated Ryan, conscious of the others spreading out behind him supportively.

The officer pored over his book, lips moving as he rehearsed what he wanted to say. "You are four. We are many. We kill."

"We kill many of you," answered Ryan, trying to show a confidence he didn't truly feel.

"He Russian," the major said, pointing at Uchitel again.

Ryan made his move. Taking care not to spark off a firefight, he stepped in and moved Uchitel and the woman to one side with the barrel of the Heckler & Koch. Then he pushed the other two prisoners toward the man on horseback.

"I'm a great believer in compromise," he said, knowing that the soldier would not understand; knowing as well that the gesture was obvious.

Zimyanin hesitated. He could see that these Americans were not helpless peasants. They could only be some sort of unofficial militia, roaming the land to repel invaders. There weren't many of them, but their guns looked more lethal than anything he'd ever seen before. And they'd blown that huge dam.

Ryan faced him, raising his eye questioningly. "Yes, my friend?"

"Da."

The smooth, gray rifle slipped inside the long coat. Ryan drew the SIG-Sauer P-226 9 mm pistol, relishing the familiar weight in his hand. Standing three paces from Uchitel and the blubbery bulk of the woman, he fired three spaced shots.

The first two entered the woman's chest between her sagging breasts. The impact sent Bizabraznia staggering backward, and Ryan put the third bullet carefully into the middle of her face.

The entrance hole of the final shot was lost in the pasty expanse of her round face with its layers of jowls. It hit the center of the upper lip and exited near the top of her head, removing a chunk of skull as large as a grown man's fist.

Instantly there was some talk among the watching horsemen, but Ryan couldn't tell whether it was from approval or anger. He stepped toward Uchitel, who faced him impassively.

" Nyet ," Zimyanin called then rattled off a string of commands in Russian. He pointed toward Zmeya and Krisa, who fell to their knees and began to babble their pleas for mercy.

The Americans watched as six soldiers swung down from their horses. One man took Zmeya's left hand in both ofhis while a second cavalryman took the other hand. They tugged as hard as they could to get the kneeling guerrilla to rise. While they pulled him, a third soldier took a short length of waxed rawhide from his belt and looped it around Zmeya's neck.