Prophecy (24 page)

They were armed with their blasters and the SMGs that they had taken from the redoubt. That gave them the advantage, despite the clumsiness engendered by the chem suits and the fact that their opponents were mounted. And yet it rankled with them to have to fight the men they had traveled with, and for whom they had respect despite this attack. The tribesmen were not coldhearts who needed to be wiped out. They were noble warriors whose only crime was to be faithful to their tribe, and the ways with which they had been raised.

It was doubtful that such feelings were reciprocated. The tribesmen charged with a recklessness born of the white-hot anger of betrayal. Their only aim was revenge. It was unlikely that the significance of the rocks in front of which they had sighted their prey had struck home. Which was scant consolation as they closed with a rapidity that seemed to thrust the flaring nostrils of
their mounts on the faces of their opponents before even an opening volley could be fired.

The few shots that were fired rang out over the heads of the warriors, who ducked low from their mounts as the horses passed, swooping blows from ax and knife coming close to scoring their opponents. To duck and weave from the attack meant losing balance, falling to the ground and rolling to avoid the hooves of the wheeling horses, trying to steady and straighten blasters to get shots on target.

It was of little use. The blasters were bad for close-quarters combat of the sort that the warriors preferred, and for which they used their horses well. Now the advantage went their way, the height and strength of the horses putting them in control. Their greater numbers enabled them to distract the attention of their opponents, leaving them unsure of the where the next blow would fall.

Slowed by the chem suit, and all too aware of time running out before the mines went off with his people directly in the firing line, Ryan tried to see through the fog of dust kicked up by hooves and the moving walls of horse flesh, hoping that he would find some opening to effect a shift in the balance of power.

Failing that, he needed some kind of a miracle. If ever there was a time for him to believe in the Grandfather more than these tribesmen, it was now.

Maybe it was the spirits playing one last ghost trick on the tribesmen. Or favoring the friends in their desire to keep the land safe. Or perhaps it was nothing more
than the erratic weather patterns that swept across the plains, always unpredictable but made worse by the nukecaust. Whichever of these—if either—the change in wind direction that had cleared the nerve gas leak enough for the tribesmen to see their enemy now shifted the balance of power once more.

To nature, rather than to either side of humanity.

In the confusion of the previous few minutes, none had noticed that the temperature had dropped as the wind that swept away the residue of gas had started to build, to grow stronger and more insistent. None had noticed that it had grown darker as it had cooled, with clouds sweeping in on the fresh breezes. In the chem suits, it was hot no matter what; the warriors had more important things on their mind than the heat of the sun.

It was only with the first heavy drop of rain that it became obvious.

They had been caught up in storms since the time they had left the ville of Brisbane and wandered onto the plains. Dust, rain, snow…all of these had befallen them. But they had all been figments of imagination spurred by the gas. Only once had there been a real storm. The flash flood that followed in its wake was something that Ryan would not forget in a long time.

Neither would he forget the feel of real rain, as opposed to the unreal sensations of the other storms.

Now, with a chem suit to protect him from the nerve gas, he knew that what he was seeing could be nothing other than the real thing; and although the rain was not hitting his skin, the feel of the heavy droplets on the thin
material of the suit was something that couldn't be faked by his mind.

He knew that he had to marshal his people and get them to high ground. Fast. The rain had already increased in intensity so that the drops were falling like a sheet of water. The ground beneath their feet was becoming treacherous, making them slide, making it difficult to keep balance. The horses fared little better. It may make the warriors less of a danger, but it meant that their careering mounts became unpredictable and a danger all of their own.

Dust, mud and water smeared the clear plastic eyepiece on the suit, leaving Ryan unsure of where the others were in relation to him, and where he was in relation to any high ground. He yelled incoherently, hoping that they would follow the sound of his voice as he moved toward the only high spot—the outcrop in which the redoubt entrance was recessed.

As he scrambled onto the rocks, and clear of the ground beneath, Ryan realized his predicament. The ground beneath was a bubbling stream of mud, in which the others were sliding and slipping as they sought to join him. He saw Doc go down, skittering as he tried to regain his footing, falling face-first so that the mud covered him from head to foot before reaching out for the relative safety of the rocks.

Relative because it kept them out of the foaming mud sea that was dismounting the warriors as their horses bucked and reared, but yet kept them trapped on what amounted to nothing more than a time bomb.

Mildred yelled something at him, but her voice was drowned by the weight of water and the sound of the rain as it ricocheted off the rocks and pounded on the headpiece of the chem suit, beating a tattoo that made all else inaudible. She was pointing down below them, gesturing toward where the nerve gas tanks were situated.

He didn't need her words to understand what she meant. It was all too obvious to him.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Jak leap from the rock and into the swirling waters. Several of the riders had been dismounted. Their steeds thrashed around, panicking and unsure of what to do. Jak grabbed one, hauled himself onto it, then beckoned to his fellows on the rock.

The warriors who were still mounted had forgotten about their erstwhile enemies, lending assistance to the men who struggled in the storm.

This was the only chance they would get. Ryan urged his people to follow Jak, gesturing as words wouldn't be heard. He leaped off the rock and into the water, executing a shallow dive. He felt himself skim the floor of the plain, yet he was able to come up and struggle to his feet. There was a riderless horse within a few yards. He grabbed at it, getting hold on the second attempt. Lungs and muscles burning with the effort, he hauled himself onto the steed, looking around.

Krysty was behind Jak, who collected her from where she landed. Doc hit the water near Ryan, and without another glance for J.B. and Mildred, he headed for the old man. Doc was impeded by the water, but still
managed to struggle onto the horse. As Ryan wheeled it around, he could see that J.B. and Mildred had tamed a steed between them, and were also circling.

A moment of near panic seized Ryan as he realized he had lost all bearing. The rushing water and the sheets of rain made each direction look the same. The last thing he wanted was to guide his mount to an area that was mined.

J.B. threw out an arm, indicating a direction. Through the mists of rain, Ryan could see a distant plateau that he knew lay due east. Breathing a sigh of relief that he had gained a bearing, and thankful for the steady eye of the Armorer, Ryan spurred his mount so that it headed in the right direction.

It was agonizingly slow as the horses thrashed their way through the churning waters, fighting against the tide, the rain blowing into their faces. Ryan hoped that they had buried the mines deep enough for them to stay in position in the sludge that sucked beneath the waters.

Fireblast, he thought. It was too late to worry now. They had to get away. Would the warriors try to stop them? In the lashing rain and wind, he had lost sight of them. The only thing he could be sure of was they weren't directly ahead. Right now, that was all that mattered.

Even in the pounding of the storm, the staggered explosions of the mines, fractionally apart because of timers rendered erratic by age, still sounded deafening. The water rippled and pulsed around them, threatening to throw them, and the churning mud was pitted by stones and clods of earth thrown up by the blast. They
were far enough distant not to be under threat from the large chunks of rock thrown off by the explosion, but not far enough that the smaller detritus couldn't inflict some pain.

Pain they could all ignore in their relief that they were far enough clear. Pain that did not matter. They were still alive.

Had the mines done their job? If calculations were correct, then yes. But there was no way in hell that they were going to check. All they wanted to do right now was keep on going until the storm subsided, and they could ride easy.

 

S
OME TIME PASSED
before they began to slow. The rains had ceased and the skies were once more a deep blue, tinged with ochre streaks. The heat beat down on them, and it was sweltering inside the chem suits. The silence, with no rain pounding down, was almost deafening. Only now, with the faint ringing in their ears, did they realize how loud the mines had been.

“Figure it's safe to take these damn suits off?” Mildred questioned. “I feel like a Thanksgiving turkey, trussed up like this.”

“Whatever the hell that means, I'll go along with it,” Krysty added.

Ryan looked at the clear skies, felt the direction of what little breeze there was as it plucked at his chem suit. “What do you say, J.B.?”

“Reckon that any gas left will have been blown or washed away by the storm,” the Armorer mused. “Any
weird shit starts to happen, then this time we'll know what it is, anyway.” He shrugged.

“Good enough.” Jak sighed, removing the headpiece of the chem suit. “Feels better,” he said, taking a deep breath.

“Where do we head from here?” Mildred asked.

“We could, perhaps, head back toward the ville of Brisbane. We fared well there,” Doc suggested.

J.B. chuckled. “Guess I could try to figure where it is from here, but it could be one long trek.”

“'Sides which, how do we explain to Hearne how we came to lose all his jack and come back like this?” Ryan chuckled. “Might be worth running down those bastard coldhearts who got us here. And there's the tribes. They've kept themselves apart for their own reasons. Who are we to stir up shit for them?”

They traveled on for a short while, then Krysty voiced the thought that had, in some degree, passed through all their minds.

“I wonder what the three tribes will do now that they realize that there's no answer at the end of the rainbow? That it was all about white-eye chem shit. And now that they're free of hallucination, what will they think when they realize that the prophecy was based on a lie and that there is no promised land for them?”

“I think,” Doc replied at length, “that they will not see it as a failure. All legend is mutable, after all. A history that predates the records we have left, certainly shows that they will adapt so that defeat comes to resemble victory. They have, after all, fought a noble bat
tle in which they sought to follow the word of their Grandfather, the great spirit Wakan Tanka.”

J.B. thought about that. “But doesn't that make him a liar and a cheat?”

“You talk like it real,” Jak scoffed.

Doc, remembering his conversation with the Armorer back at the redoubt, stifled a small smile. “There used to be a saying, John Barrymore, that God works in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform. I would assume that could be said of any God. Perhaps he has been testing them by asking something that will test them, stretch them to the limit. By showing blind faith and following, even if there is no gold at the end of the rainbow, then they have proved they are worthy of their God.” He sniffed. “It would not be the first time this has happened. It will not be the last.”

“So just by surviving they've proved themselves,” Ryan pondered. “Harsh bastard.”

“Gods have a tendency to be such,” Doc mused, “yet without them we are lost. Generally speaking. By surviving, you win. At least until the next test of faith. And after that, you simply work with what you have.”

They rode on in silence for a while longer, each lost in his or her own thoughts.

“Why not?” Mildred said eventually, as if to herself. “It's all any of us can do.”