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  Jak, moving as light as quicksilver, darted from window to window, rubbing at the cobweb-covered glass and peer­ing out. "Nothing."

  Ryan moved to the front door. "I'll go and keep look­ing around. You two get into that meat. And leave some for me." His hand was on the carved wooden latch. "And I'll—"

  He didn't get to finish the sentence.

  The door burst open, sending him tumbling across the room, knocking the legs from under J.B. and pushing Jak off balance. A shaft of light pierced the gloom as the door flew off its hinges, but the pale rectangle was swiftly blot­ted out.

  "Fireblast!" Ryan shouted, fighting for breath.

  "Dark night!" J.B. exclaimed.

  "Bastard!" Jak yelled, voice cracking with shock.

  Chapter Nine

  ONE OF THE LONGEST-LASTING by-products of the destruc­tion of ninety-five percent of all humanity was the endless chain of genetic mutations that resulted from the poison­ous rad clouds that drifted clear around the globe. This was made infinitely worse by the inbreeding that followed in the myriad small villes and hamlets that survived: cousin lay with cousin, brother made love to sister, father to daugh­ter and mother to son. And the spawn of these blasphe­mous couplings carried the taint on and on for every succeeding generation, on down the line. The curse lin­gered, like the malevolent smile of a habitual poisoner.

  And muties came in all shapes and sizes.

  What came in through the door was either a Russian version of a Rockies grizzly bear, or the biggest mutie that Ryan Cawdor had ever seen.

  The man—this time there was no possibility of any mis­take—stood at least eight feet tall. He'd stooped to enter the hut, and his head now scraped the rafters. Since he was wearing layers of fur, it was difficult to judge his weight, but Ryan's instinctive guess put the mutie at around seven hundred pounds.

  His face showed all the intelligence of a fencepost and all the friendliness of a cornered rattlesnake: his eyes were like tiny chips of malachite, scarcely visible behind the rolls of puffy fat that swelled from his cheeks; his nose was a raw hole in the center of his face, edged with dribbling candles of green snot; his ears, under the fringe of straggly blond hair, were mutilated lumps of red gristle.

  The man bared his teeth, his cracked lips surrounded by a downy mustache and beard. His huge hands flexed an­grily, reaching toward the three invaders of his squalid de­mesne. He roared, the sound accompanied by billowing waves of stinking breath that made Ryan wince.

  The cramped cabin wasn't the best place in the world for hand-to-hand combat with someone of that size.

  "Mine!" Jak shrilled, recovering his balance and diving at the human monolith. He aimed a lethal kick at the giant's right knee.

  The mutie never moved. Feet planted wide apart, he swatted the boy away from him as if he were merely an im­portunate gnat.

  His hair like an explosion of frost around his face, Jak bounced off two walls, hitting a table on the way down. He landed near the fire and lay still, eyes closed.

  "Fuck this," Ryan snarled, drawing his 9 mm pistol.

  The mutie peered down at the neat blaster, threw his head back and bellowed with laughter. Used only to work-worn single-shot muskets, the giant was telling Ryan he thought he was holding a toy.

  Ryan squeezed the trigger on the P-226.

  The built-in baffle silencer did its stuff. There was a sound like a nun coughing discreetly during Compline, and a thin trace of smoke trickled from the end of the barrel.

  Ryan had used the gun quite a few times and was used to seeing men go down when they were hit. For a mind-toppling few seconds he actually thought that the auto­matic must have misfired. He knew there was no way on the good earth that he could have missed the mutie at such close range. It would have been like missing a barn wall when you were shooting from the inside.

  The Russian didn't even rock on his heels. He stopped his shout of rage and looked at Ryan with a puzzled expres­sion. Slowly his right hand reached out and he touched himself in the lower part of his chest, where Ryan had aimed. In the gloom of the hovel it was impossible to make out any sign of the bullet's entry on his matted fur coat.

  "Again," J.B. urged, his own blaster also drawn.

  "Yeah." Ryan felt the first tremor of unease. The Deathlands was full of stories of muties, always someplace over the next hill, who were invulnerable. It was hard enough to waste a stickie, but a good head shot would send them off on the next ferry.

  He got off two more rounds, feeling the satisfying kick of the pistol against his braced wrist.

  The huge figure took a half step backward, into the doorway. He clutched his chest, this time his hand coming away smeared with bright blood.

  "Fireblast!" Ryan shifted his aim higher, seeing that the full-metal jacketed rounds weren't having much more ef­fect than a spitball at a war wag.

  Two more shots, one in the center of the throat, and blood sprayed from the torn exit wound at the back of the giant's neck.

  The fifth round, delicately placed, whipped clean through the mutie's open mouth, barely burning his lips. The slug then sliced the creature's tongue along its length, angling upward off a broken back tooth. It began to tum­ble and distort, tearing the soft palate apart in rags of flesh, breaking the side of the top jaw. The round tore through the brain, exiting at the top of the man's head and taking with it a fist-size chunk of the skull. A gulp of pinkish-gray brains and blood splattered over the greasy ceiling of the hut.

  Appallingly, the mutie colossus still didn't go down. When he lurched into the doorframe his shoulders got jammed, holding him upright as gouts of blood flowed down over the face.

  His eyes were still open and his hands, as big as plates, waved helplessly in the cold air like someone in the last stages of drowning.

  "Again?" J.B. asked, the edge to his voice showing his own unease.

  "Waste of good lead," Ryan replied. "He's chilled, but he just doesn't know it yet." He shook his head in wonder. "Sure is… Hey, best see to the kid."

  Jak's lips moved as they leaned over him. "Don't call me fuckin' kid." They knew he was all right.

  BY THE TIME they'd got Jak on his feet again and shared a hasty meal of the now well-roasted venison, the mutie's corpse had sagged immovably into the doorway, blocking off the light from the front of the hut. Since the back door was torn off its single hinge, there was some light from the rear. Ryan and J.B. took turns stepping outside into the leaden cold to carry out a swift patrol, though neither expected to see anyone else. The cabin had obviously only held two occupants, and both were unarguably chilled.

  "Mutie shit stinks," Jak growled, wiping drips of fat from his narrow chin.

  "Generally do when they're alive," Ryan agreed. "Being dead never made them any sweeter."

  "BEST MOVE." Ryan stood and led the way out of the hut, across the crisp snow, toward where they'd found the sled. "Others'll be wondering where we've gone."

  The sky seemed to be sinking closer to the earth, like the canopy over some murderously suffocating four-poster bed.

  The wind was still rising, and flakes of bitter white were carried in its teeth. From the dark horizon, it looked as though a bad storm could be on the way.

  They loaded up quickly with what they wanted: fur coats—enough for everyone in the group; the gnawed rem­nants of the warm meat and the pot of turnips. There had been some rough black bread in a cupboard and a pitcher of sour milk. Jak discovered some canteens in the shed, stenciled over with what could once have been Russian military markings and numbers.

  "That it?"

  J.B. looked around. "Looks that way. Jak, put on the dried meat and fish so we can go."

  "Not yet," the albino said, looking past Ryan and the Armorer.

  They both turned and saw that they had company.

  Ryan had guessed that the lane at the back of the filthy cottage could well lead, eventually, to a hamlet. Maybe even to a ville. The presence of food like fish and milk spoke of barter.
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br />   The three stocky men on shaggy ponies had come in from that direction, the noise of the wind swallowing the sound of their arrival.

  They sat, fetlock deep in the powdery snow, about fifty paces away, each shrouded in furs from head to boots. The men rode bareback, and muskets were slung across their shoulders. As far as Ryan could judge, they simply seemed to be mildly surprised at the sight of the trio of strangers with the loaded sled. Certainly, none showed any signs of menace.

  "Could lead to ville," Jak muttered, his fingers twitch­ing near the butt of his .357.

  "Could send us to buy the farm," J.B. added grimly.

  Ryan weighed the odds. It now seemed as if there was a ville of some sort not too far away. That could mean food and shelter. He didn't know much about how the Russkies felt about Americans, but his guess was that they wouldn't welcome them with open arms. The old mansion was der­elict, which made it a good place to hide.

  If the word got around that there were three outlanders on the rampage, then life would be measured in hours. No more.

  He glanced at the sky.

  "Be serious snow within the hour," Ryan said quietly. "Cover any tracks."

  J.B. nodded. "Chill 'em."

  "Middle one," Jak whispered.

  "Left," the Armorer chose.

  "Right." Ryan selected the nearest of the silent horse­men. "Now!"

  It took four bullets. Two booming rounds exploded into the stillness from the teenager's pistol, the second needed after the first hit his man high in the shoulder, kicking him over his animal's back. He landed on hands and knees in a flurry of white.

  Both Ryan and J.B. put their targets away with single head shots.

  "And the horses."

  Obviously trained to remain still under gunfire, the three ponies had barely moved as their masters toppled dead into the snow. Ryan moved in a few steps closer, briefly recon­sidering his own order. It wasn't a situation where they needed to conceal the killings. The wind and rising bliz­zard would hide their tracks. If there was a small ville nearby, they'd know where the riders would have gone and find the bodies easily enough. There was no way in a fro­zen land that a man could bury three horses.

  "No, leave them," he said. "By the time anyone comes out here, we're long gone."

  IN HIS SHORT TIME with the group, Rick Ginsberg had commented on several occasions about the way everyone seemed to have an almost uncanny sense of direction.

  "I don't get it, guys," he'd say. "I need my fax to tell me which subway stop I want."

  Krysty had replied the last time the subject had come up. "You miss a stop on your underground wags, Rick, and what happens? You have to go back. You miss a stop in the Deathlands and one of your friends gets to sprinkle dust in your face."

  All the others were able to find their way around, either by the sun or the stars. Or without either of them. That was a vital skill as the storm descended, the wind screeching in from the Urals, one of the most rad-touched regions on the planet. It carried blinding snow across its shoulders, visi­bility dropping from a half mile to a dozen yards within seconds.

  Trees bowed like dowsers' wands and a man's footprints disappeared within seconds. Ryan and J.B. stooped to the traces on the sled, chests heaving, heads down, while Jak picked his way just ahead of them, guiding them through the instant whiteout.

  They stumbled past the corpse of the old woman, now a low hump, snow-buried. Every few minutes they'd change places. Ryan would take the lead while Jak pulled along­side J.B. Then the Armorer would take a breather out front, and Ryan went back to pull with the albino boy.

  The noise of the wind rose and became deafening. To communicate it was necessary to put your lips close against the other man's ear and shout at the top of your voice. The furs they wore became heavy with ice. The temperature had dropped fast, and Ryan was aware of the uncomfortable feeling of the hairs inside his nostrils becoming coated in frozen condensation. The skin across his cheeks felt taut and numbed—the first whispering warning, he knew from previous experience, of the threat of frostbite.

  All landmarks vanished.

  After an hour's straining against the frozen ropes it crossed Ryan's mind that there was a possibility that they weren't going to make it. He'd heard men who had nearly died in snowstorms say that it wasn't a bad way to go. You just got more and more tired, lay down and fell sleep.

  And you never woke up again.

  It was a relief to make out the rectangular bulk of the mansion, looming before them out of the murk.

  Chapter Ten

  THE FIRE CRACKLED MERRILY, the wood blazing and spit­ting sparks. Steam rose from the fur coats of Ryan, J.B. and Jak.

  The boy stretched out and rubbed at his swollen stom­ach, belching his delight at the surfeit of food that they'd all enjoyed. "Eaten. Warm. Good times. Good."

  Krysty smiled. She was lying on the floor, resting on the gray fur coat she'd picked out for herself. "You're right," she agreed, looking around the large room, watching the shadows that danced into the corners and alcoves. Outside the windows the storm still raged, well into the late after­noon, rattling the broken glass and breathing drafts along the bare boards.

  "We got enough food to keep us all going for a few days," J.B. said, loosening the brass buckle on his belt by a single notch.

  "Or a few of us for a couple of weeks." Ryan leaned back against the wall, picking at his teeth where shreds of the venison had lodged. The discomfort from his cavity had eased away again.

  Rick was dozing. While the three had been out hunting, the others had climbed down into the hidden staircase to check the damage to the gateway. The freezie's report had been a whole lot less than encouraging.

  "It can be mended. Krysty surely doesn't know her own strength."

  She'd shaken her head and whispered, "You're dead wrong about that, Rick."

  "If I had access to my laboratory then I could have it fixed in a half hour. If I had stores facilities I could simply order up the new parts and change them over. If I—"

  "If the little dog hadn't stopped for a piss, then he would most surely have caught the little rabbit," Doc finished.

  "How long without anything, Rick?" Ryan had asked him.

  "Without anything? No tools or…" He shook his head. "No. I need some basic tools. Hammers, wrenches, stuff like that. Then—maybe then—it could be fixed in a week or so. But it's a bastard hard job. You have to realize I'm—"

  "We'll get tools," Ryan said. "Don't worry, Rick. Just don't worry about it."

  "It's not just that, Ryan. My sickness… I've been through a sort of period of remission since you thawed me out. I've got a feeling that's over now, baby blue. Over."

  Bleak tidings indeed.

  But now that had been pushed to one side while the companions ate and grew warm. The wood for the fire came from the less damaged timbers of the attic floors, which had been broken up and piled high in the open hearth.

  Now was a time for relaxing.

  Doc, who sat beside Rick, sang quietly to himself.

  Western wind, when wilt thou blow,

  That small rain down can rain?

  Oh, if my lover were in my arms,

  And I in my bed again.

  "That's nice, Doc," Krysty said. "This is definitely one of the good times."

  "Reminds me of Christmas at Granny Laczinczca's, feeling stuffed with food. All we need is some of those wafer-thin chocolate peppermints and some orange-and-cinnamon punch. Oh, those were…"

  Rick's words faded away and Krysty leaned forward. "Go on. Tell us. I know. A game we used to play back at Harmony ville. You think what's the best ever moment you can remember. Let's do it. Who'll go first? Doc? Rick?"

  The freezie thought for a moment. "Yeah. January, late nineties. My sickness hadn't begun to bite all the way, and I had some furlough owing to me. I'd watched the final two games in the World Series. Last time it was played at the old Yankee Stadium up in the Bronx. Guys calling 'Yo, beer,' all around. A three
-run homer in the top of the sixth clinched it. But then it was the Superbowl. Don't remem­ber where. West Coast. San Diego?" He shook his head, "I can't be sure. But it was the Giants. My Giants, following on the win of my Yankees. They were playing against the Anaheim Colts. Used to…can't recall. But we won it, and I was there, a young man full of living and the sun and all those people. That was the best I can remember."

  The room had been quiet during his memory.

  A length of joist, burning clear through, broke in two in a noisy rustle and a burst of bright orange sparks.

  "How about you, Jak?" Krysty asked.

  "Me? Best time ever? Seeing Tourment fucking die. Best."

  Rick had closed his eyes, exhausted with the effort of visiting the perilous land of Nostalgia. Now he opened them again. "What?" he said. "Did I miss something? Who is…?"

  "Before your time," Ryan said. "Man called Tourment chilled Jak's old man. Got himself chilled. End of story."

  "Short and sweet. Krysty? What's your best moment ever?"

  She considered the freezie's question for many long heartbeats, her hand across Ryan's arm.

  Finally, "Mother Sonja was still alive. I was…1 can't remember how old I was. I know it was summer. It was al­ways summer then. Harmony lay amid a bowl of gentle hills, heather-covered, sweet and protective to me as a young girl. I broke fast early on fresh wild strawberries and cream and new-baked bread. Walked alone up to a high waterfall, closed in a narrow valley with polished boulders clustered together at its foot. The purple-and-pink chem clouds were gone that day. I often used to go there when I was on my own. There was a pool, deep and clear and pure as crystal. I peeled off and plunged in. It was… was so good. I swam around for a while and then pulled myself out on a flat rock, sun-warmed. I slept—rested and slept and cleaned my mind of all the… what Uncle Tyas McCann used to call excess baggage. I always remember that day because I thought a lot about the earth force and Gaia. There were some odd little black flowers up there, soft and delicate."