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a cascade of stones and dust and lay still near the bottom.
Ryan could make out a splash of red, spreading below the chin.
The shooting provoked yells of anger and a flurry of shots in reply. Hastily
aimed, none of them came anywhere close.
"Now, Hun!" Ryan shouted, picking the pause while their attackers would be
reloading their primitive weapons.
Despite the danger, he was immediately conscious of the stink of the old man's
home, strong enough to
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Deathlands - Time Nomads make him gag. Sweat and urine were the less
unpleasant ingredients of the smell.
But he was pleased to see that Lox, Ray and Ben had obeyed their training,
each taking a side window to cover against a sneak attack.
Ryan nearly tripped over Walt's blunderbuss lying propped against a chair that
looked to be built from rusting iron and knotted twine.
"Hun, take the front."
"Yeah."
"Keep watch. I'll support anyone under threat. All okay?"
There was a chorus of acknowledgment.
Ben hissed, "Got a bullet clean through my shirt sleeve. Never touched me."
"Think they'll have heard the shooting from the wags?" Hun asked.
Ryan considered the question and took the wind and the contours of the land
into account.
"Can't tell. We're way off, and there's ground between us. Wind's against it,
as well. If there's a scout in this quadrant then they might have heard
something. Can't bet jack on it."
"So, we wait?"
"Yeah. We wait. We got the high ground and a good defensive fire point. If
they want us, let them come after us."
Two hours and forty-five minutes had been the Trader's orders to Ryan. That
meant a search party would start after them if they weren't back within the
three-hour limit. And they could walk straight into the ambush.
The one-eyed man looked at his wrist-chron. So far they'd been away from camp
for about ninety minutes. No need to hurry events along. Not yet. He'd ordered
the others to hold fire unless they actually got a clear chill shot. None of
them had blasters that would do the business at much over thirty yards, and
there was no point in wasting ammo.
"More of them coming," Ben called. His position overlooked the top of the
opposite slope, where there were prenuke mining ruins.
"How many?" Ryan picked his way through the junk to squint through the
tattered cloth that covered the window. "Eight, ten."
"Fireblast!"
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Deathlands - Time Nomads
The game was changing. Their position was strong enough to hold easily against
the half dozen muties they calculated were out there. But if the number was
doubled or tripled, then the lack of any long guns might prove terminal.
He could see one of them, crawling on hands and knees, the top of his head
occasionally peeking out over a weathered slat fence. It was a temptation to
try to put a bullet through the skull, but Ryan possessed only twenty spare
rounds in his jacket, and the odds against a hit were too great.
"What do we do, Ryan?" Hun asked.
The idea of sitting patiently and waiting for the Trader to send a rescue
force didn't appeal to Ryan
Cawdor, but if they left the shack and made their way down the steep and
precarious hillside, they'd be totally exposed to the cross fire from the
scabbies gathering around them.
"I got a plan," Ryan said.
"Got any more ammo?"
"No. Ben? You got any bullets?"
"One round left, and I'm saving that for myself if they come at us!"
Ryan turned and pointed to Hun, who opened her mouth and screamed. "No! Oh,
no! I got no bullets left for my blaster!"
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The muties had opened up from all sides in a fusillade of shots, the defenders
firing off about half the ammo they had left. Then they deliberately dry-fired
their blasters, so that the muties' acute hearing would catch the metallic [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]