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it, but nothing happened.
"Could be missile silos around here," Ryan whispered.
"Cross?" Jak asked.
"Wait a while longer. Don't like the feel of all this."
The buildings all showed signs of serious damage, either from the big nuking
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or from earth-shakes, or from the extremes of weather and rad storms that
still raged around Deathlands. The windows were gone, as well as parts of some
walls and several sections of the roofs.
While they watched there was a rippling in the thick grass beyond the river
and a long, copper-colored snake emerged, holding a paralyzed bundle of fur in
its gaping jaws. It slid silently into the dark water, head high, swimming
downstream in long undulating coils of power. Ryan's guess put the reptile at
twenty-five to thirty feet.
"Big bastard," Jak hissed.
"Swallow you in one." Ryan grinned.
A noisy, chattering flock of bright-plumaged birds was perched on the corner
of
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the roof of the nearest building. At a distance they looked to Ryan like
parrots or macaws, but their presence told him that there were, probably, no
hidden blasters covering them from the shadows.
He turned and beckoned the others forward, motioning Doc to keep low.
"Why? Is this some sort of sport, Mr. Cawdor? Or are we under threat from
hostile Indians? I speak something of the tongue of the Mescalero Apaches, you
know. I spent time among them only& only the other& once."
"Krysty. You and me go across the river. Get to the buildings and have a quick
recce. We'll call the rest of you over when it's safe. Keep us covered.
Questions?
No? Let's do it."
J. B. Dix unslung his Heckler & Koch rifle and steadied it in a notch of the
bougainvillea. He switched on the laser-optic sight and scanned the silent
buildings across the water. Jak drew his Magnum and waited alongside the
Armorer. Doc had lost interest again in what was happening, and he sat down
with cracking knees. He picked a tiny orange flower and inhaled the scent with
his eyes squeezed shut.
Ryan led the way.
There was no way of knowing how deep the river was from its murky surface, nor
what kind of vicious life it might contain. Ryan could still conjure up the
sight of a man called Bob Duvall, who'd been a relief driver on War Wag Three.
He'd bathed in a similar river up near the Darks despite Trader's warnings
about caution.
A shoal of tiny fishes had taken him. The creatures were no more than three
inches in length, but two and a half inches of that was teeth. They'd stripped
old
Bob to the bone before he could make the bank and safety. Ryan could still
recall the sight: the whiteness of washed bone and the dangling strips of
mauled sinew;
the fish still biting at torn slabs of flesh, while the river filled with
blood.
The screams hadn't lasted more than fifteen seconds.
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"Could try to wade it," Krysty suggested.
"You never knew Bob Duvall, lover," Ryan replied. "We'll go upstream and find
a safe place to get us across."
They eventually came to the tumbled remains of a stone bridge, with decorative
little arches, some fallen, some still standing. It wasn't difficult to jump
over the gaps, though Krysty stumbled as a piece of loose rock rolled from
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under her boot heel.
They followed a track winding near the edge of the forest. Between the grass
and the nearest of the buildings they passed something that looked like a
gigantic anthill. If the area held ants at least nine inches in length&
Ryan didn't let his mind dwell too long on that.
Krysty waved an all clear to the hiding trio across the river, receiving a
clenched-
fist signal in return from J.B.
"Want to go inside?" she asked Ryan.
He shook his head. "Nope. Wait for the others. Scouting ruins like this
without taking all the care can bring a load of bloody grief."
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