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where the force of the flash flood had ripped away his Heckler & Koch MP-7 SD-
8 and carried it off. "Only just got that blaster," he said, shaking his head. "Nice
rifle. Integral silencer. Laser-optic sight. Nice feel. Still, at least I took off my
glasses and put them safe before that big red wave came down the pike and hit
us."
Ryan looked around at his friends, realizing that it had been sheer luck that had
brought all six through the disaster. The wave of water and mud had rushed across
the old highway at lethal speed, carrying all the horses and the mule with it. At
least everyone had been able to keep their heads above the flood, and they'd all
managed to battle out of the rending current. As far as they knew, not one of their
mounts had come through. Certainly the land was bare of life.
A hundred yards to the south he could see the limp carcass of a horse, which
looked to be Doc's powerful black stallion. He'd been the biggest and strongest of
the string, so if the black hadn't come through, it wasn't likely any of the other
animals would have made it.
The storm had gone.
The deep purple clouds were now only a blur to the east, the occasional streaks of
lightning barely visible, the thunder silent. But its passing had been disastrous for
the six friends. It wasn't just the mounts that had gone the pack mule and
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saddlebags had carried their supplies of food and water. Paradoxically the
murderous flood of house-high water had nearly killed them, but it was gone,
leaving the air humid and the sand a dark, damp orange. Within an hour or so, all
traces of that torrential downpour would have completely vanished, and death by
thirst was again a threatening reality.
Ryan coughed and spit, tasting grit in his teeth. He eased up the patch and ran a
cautious finger around the puckered skin of the empty socket, still wincing at the
delicacy of the sensation, twenty years after he'd lost it to his psychopathic older
brother's hatred. He rubbed his hands together, cleaning them, and looked at what
damage had been done. A nail had been ripped on his left thumb, and both hands
were covered in grazes and small cuts. Most of the group had suffered in similar
ways.
Jak had a deep cut across his upper arm, and Mildred had lost a tooth. Doc had
lost a clump of hair, and blood still trickled from a gash beneath the lobe of his
left ear. Krysty had a deep bruise across her ribs that made her wince when she
tried to turn quickly. J.B. had dislocated his right thumb but had popped the joint
back himself.
It had been a close call.
Night was still some way off and the sun was hot. There was no point in sitting
around. The nearest hope of safety was probably the Ballinger spread. Jak Lauren
pushed hard in their discussion for turning back.
"Go on, fucking chilled!"
Ryan couldn't find much of an argument to use against the teenager. To go on
now, without any kind of provision or transport, was to invite a merciless death in
the wilderness. But they'd taken the best of the horses from Christina Ballinger.
To try to find enough mounts to move on again could take months could take
forever.
"We might find another ranch if we keep heading south," he suggested.
"And pigs might fly," Mildred snorted, shaking her head at him.
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"And there's this Skullface person that Christina mentioned to us," Krysty said.
"Could be we're moving into his territory."
Ryan batted a persistent fly away from his face. "Okay. Can't argue much with
that." Everyone stood and began readying themselves for the long trudge back
north.
It was Mildred, surprisingly, who raised her voice against the plan. "I know what I
said about not finding a ranch in this dead land, but I surely would like to find
another cryo-center. If we give up now it could be months before we can start [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]