James Axler Deathlands 027 Ground Zero

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against the back of the seat. Though she wriggled experimentally, the beads in
her plaited hair chattering softly, nothing much happened.
She was completely trapped.
Snow was blowing in on her face. From the position she was in, it was
impossible to reach the release on the seat belt, though she tried hard.
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"Gas?" she said, wrinkling her nose, aware suddenly of cold liquid trickling
across her chest. That was when she started to yell for help.
JAK HAD BEEN HUNTING the big mutie cougar for three days and two nights.
He and his wife, Christina, had been losing stock from their New Mexico spread
since late October. Now
Christmas was only a few days off, and every dawning brought a fresh trail of
bright blood, ruby on the ermine of the snow, and the raggled remains of one
of their sheep.
He had a satin-finish Colt Python bolstered on his hip, and several of his
beloved throwing knives concealed about him. But they weren't the right weapon
for a cougar whose spoor showed he was close to twenty feet from nose to tail.
The Winchester 70A bolt-action rifle was a good reliable hunting rifle, with
its chrome molybdenum steel action and narrow serrated trigger. It had a
hooded-ramp front sight with a white diamond-leaf rear sight for quick
adjustment.
Jak was carrying it at the high port, ready for action, his white fingers
gripping the dark walnut stock with its high-comb Monte Carlo undercut cheek
piece.
The pack on his back, containing survival provisions, was weighing perilously
light.
The animal had led him up into a maze of meandering canyons, all coated in
snow, each one indistinguishable from the one before or the one to come. Jak
had a wonderful sense of direction, but the swirling blizzard was robbing him
of that and he was no longer certain which way was home.
His streaming mane of white hair was coated with crystals of powdery snow and
ice, making it stiff and heavy, tinkling faintly as he turned his head.
He squeezed between a large, rounded boulder and the sheer wall of rock that
lined the arroyo on his right. His boots rattled into a cache of old cans and
bottles, rotting away and biodegrading with an infinite slowness since the
distant years of predark.
The snow had stopped falling about an hour earlier, and the covering was
untouched and virginal.
Jak continued to pick his way after the cougar, pausing when he saw tracks
ahead marring the perfect blanket of unsullied whiteness. He glanced behind
him, feeling a momentary discomfort, then stooped to examine the trail.
They were both human and animal, combat boots and mountain lion. His own
boots. And the mutie cougar.
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Jak realized that he had been walking in a blind circle through the canyons.
He also realized with a chill of fear that the tracks of the cougar overlaid
his own boot-marks, meaning that the animal was following him.
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Jak started to swing around, finger on the trigger of the Winchester, knowing
in his heart that it was going to be far too late.
KRYSTY LAY ON THE BUNK in the dark cabin, under the two threadbare blankets.
The oil lamp had given out so long ago that she couldn't remember, and the
wood for the fire had been exhausted about three days earlier.
When Ryan hadn't come back from his trading trip to the ville across the big
river, and the snows had closed in on their little home, Krysty had begun to
ration the food that remained, gradually cutting down what she ate each day.
Her ribs had begun to protrude through the skin, and she could see the sharp
planes of her face changing in the broken square of mirror that hung above the
sink in the kitchen. The bright sentient hair was dull, clinging miserably to
her head.
There was a thumbnail of dried cheese left and a handful of oats.
Nothing else.
She was deeply aware of her own weakness, and certain now that Ryan wasn't
coming back, leaving her with two choices to lie still and starve and slip [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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