Читать книгу Ritual Chill - James Axler - Страница 11

“We can’t stop now—look around you. There’s no shelter, the cold is starting to bite into me just like it is you, and we need to find food and shelter before the next storm blows up.”

“So that’s a no, then,” Mildred said quietly.

Ryan failed to respond. “I can’t see why we can’t just rig something to carry Doc. It won’t be the first time. There’s no immediate danger.”

“I’m not saying we can’t do that, just that we need to stop awhile. I need to examine him properly, see if his wounds are infected, or if this is something in his blood. I can’t give him another shot until I know what’s going on with him. It won’t take that long, Ryan.”

She looked back to where Krysty was helping the old man along. His gait was stiffer than before and he was trembling. There was little doubt that it would only be a matter of half an hour—perhaps not even that—before they had to carry him. But if she waited until that was forced on them, it could make all the difference between treating his fever successfully or leaving him too far down the road to the farm.

Ryan kept walking, narrowing his eye to take in the horizon. At the edge there were a few objects that may be croppings or may be the first signs of a settlement. Maybe another hour’s march if they could force the pace. But Ryan felt the ice seep into his marrow, was still tired from lack of sleep and exertion; the only thing keeping him going was sheer will. He was scared. If he stopped, would he be able to start again?

Then he looked back for the first time. Resolutely he had kept his eyes ahead while they marched, not wanting to turn back to check Doc when Mildred caught up to him. He knew that if he did, he would probably agree with her assessment. That was something he didn’t want to do. He wanted to press on, for his own sake, but knew that his sense of duty to those he led would make him stop.

As it did when he saw the condition that Doc was now in. The old man had never looked so frail. Ryan didn’t even want to consider what the fever was doing to his already fractured mind.

Wearily, and with a sense of resignation that he could not hide, he slowed and held up his hand. “Okay, okay, we stop and check Doc. But you’d better make it quick for his sake as much as ours. There isn’t much shelter out here, and we can’t make much.”

“I don’t need long, believe me,” Mildred said, hurrying back to where Krysty had gently lowered Doc onto the cold rock floor of the plain. He was unresponsive, lost in his own world.

Needing no direction, Jak and J.B. joined Ryan in using what they could spare of their own outer clothing to form an improvised barrier against the winds that blew around the prone figure. They had traveled light and there was nothing across this arid expanse of rock and ice to use as a windbreak. Shedding an outer layer meant exposure to the elements themselves, but it was playing percentages. If Mildred could be as quick as she had said, then they may just avoid exposure.

Working quickly, Mildred was on her knees. Krysty pulled away Doc’s fur coat, the frock coat beneath and the tattered remnants of his shirt, the bloodied edges of which had already been trimmed to allow Mildred access to his wounds in the cave. The Titian-haired woman also maneuvered her body so that it formed an extra barrier between the prone Doc and the direction of the winds.

Mildred knew that she could count in seconds, rather than minutes, the time she would have to make her examination before Doc’s exposed flesh wound succumbed to the elements and before those who had sacrificed their own warmth to provide cover would begin, equally, to succumb.

The area uncovered was around his ribs. The wounds on the arm could be dealt with swiftly and would not need him to be so protected. But the torso was another matter. Krysty had contrived to expose as little of the old man as possible, and Mildred had just enough area in which to work. She removed the dressings she had placed earlier and could see that the wounds showed no signs of infection. The flesh was healthy, if still raw.

Fumbling with the cold, she redressed the wound and Krysty dextrously reclothed Doc while Mildred looked up at the men standing over them.

“You can get covered again, guys. There’s enough slack to just roll up his sleeve.”

While J.B., Ryan and Jak gratefully replaced their heavy coats and hugged themselves into the materials to try to suck warmth from them, Mildred jacked up the layers of sleeve on Doc’s arm, thanking whatever deity she thought may still exist that the old man’s wounds had been on the forearm. It saved a whole lot of hassle. Having to strip him to examine the upper arm would have taken precious time and probably finish him off by itself.

Removing the dressings and checking the wounds, she could see that these, too, were clean.

Replacing the dressing, her mind raced. No infection visible, so it had to be something that acted quickly in the bloodstream. Why hadn’t that antibiotic shot worked? No one else who had needed a shot was feverish…but then, their wounds had been the lesser. It had to be that just one of the hypos was a dud. She’d have to try another and hope that it worked.

“I’m going to give him another shot and hope it works. Meantime, we’re going to have to help him until we can find some shelter, because he won’t be strong enough to stand alone until we can get some rest.”

“No problem. We’ll take it in turns. I’ll take first—”

“No.” Mildred cut him off. “You don’t look so hot yourself. Let me or John do it.”

Ryan looked her in the eye. He could see that she had been studying him as they had marched and knew that he had his own battle with fatigue. He nodded briefly. “Okay.”

Pulling Doc to his feet, Mildred and J.B. supported him between them. Jak took the rear defensive position in line and Krysty dropped in behind Ryan.

“Fifteen minutes, then we swap,” Ryan said, checking his wrist chron. “That way we try to stay fresh.”

“Yeah, sounds good to me,” Mildred muttered, feeling Doc’s weight sag in time with each step.

They would be slower now, but as Ryan fixed his gaze on the shapes littering the horizon, he felt that they could still make the settlement within a couple of hours. Assuming that those shapes were buildings. Assuming they could withstand the bone-chilling cold. Assuming that no storms blew up from nowhere.

Best not to think. Best to just concentrate on putting one foot in front of another, on ignoring the stench of sulfur searing their lungs with every breath, the jarring of foot on rock that made the ankles turn to jelly with every step.

There was little they could do until they reached shelter. And if the distant shapes didn’t represent that shelter, then they would just have to hope….

THE PHANTOMS now lift me up like angels, e’en though they may be devils of the foulest kind. They support me so that I am as light as air.

They take me toward the horizon, as though in search of something. But does not the horizon retreat in proportion to the distance you travel? Better to travel hopefully than to arrive… Why does that come to mind, where have I heard it before?

I can see them all now, as though I am on a procession. A parade, like those on Independence Day, when the children played in the fields and bobbed for apples while we drank beer and brandy, and talked of the wonders of the age. Then to return to our frame houses where, by the light of the oil lamp, Emily would lay our children down to rest before coming to me, disrobing and joining me in the conjugal bed. I miss the smell of her hair, the touch of her skin. Perhaps, when I have shed this madness and I once more can take my place in the world, I will feel, smell and taste her once again.

But there is another… She comes toward me now. Golden hair flowing like the corn in summer over her shoulders. Long, lean limbs that stretch to infinity and beyond. Eyes wide open and innocent, trusting of me and asking only that I trust her in return. Of course I do, my love. You and Emily are equal in my heart. You always will be. You showed me that there could be a path to goodness in this bedlam of the soul.

She holds out her hand. There is a reason why I have returned to this place of other dreams, other times. I have purpose.

Tell me, Lori, tell me…

She holds out her hand. I want to take it, but I am constrained by those who would wish to be my protectors.

“It’s okay, Doc. You can do it. You can do anything here.”

She is right. I am the I who controls my own dreams. I disentangle my arms from those who support me and step out of myself to walk toward her. I reach out and take her hand, pulling her to me. We embrace and once more I feel the warmth of another being close to me.

“You have to listen, Doc. I can’t be here long, but I have something to tell you.”

“No, you must stay. You cannot leave me again, not after so long.”

She steps back, smiles. Those eyes light with joy, pull me into her very being.

“I wish I could stay, or take you with me. I can’t. Got to tell you this. You must know. You have been chosen. You have followed the others for too long. They lead you in circles that take you nowhere. If you are ever to escape this place, then you must assert your right to lead. The chance will come to you soon. You must take it. Seize the day and you will be free once more. Stay silent and you will be trapped forever.”

I consider her words. But while I do she begins to slip away from me. I want to call out to her, but I know she must go, and there is nothing I can do to prevent her taking her leave. Sadly I watch her recede into the distance, just as I feel myself drawn back to the arms of those angels who support me, stop me falling to the ground once more.

Sweet, sweet Lori. So wise. So true.

I must wait, bide my time, take my chance…

“DON’T STOP NOW, Ryan. We’re so close that I can manage a little longer,” Krysty said as the one-eyed man dropped back to take his turn at assisting Doc. He smiled gratefully. Truth to tell, he was about ready to drop just carrying himself. If Krysty and Jak could take the burden just a little longer, he was in no condition to complain.

Turning back, he could see what had once been indistinct shapes had now resolved themselves into identifiable blocks of huts and shacks, log cabins and metal-sheeted shelters from the weather.

Yet it was too quiet. The hairs at the base of his neck prickled.

“Something’s not right. Triple red, people,” he said softly, bringing a blaster to hand for the first time since leaving the cave.

“There should be more signs of life when weather’s this stable. Where the hell are all the people?”