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hardly hobble.
He looked up at his two colleagues. "Man weeps over spilled milk gets blinded by
the tears," he said.
"Empty words," Ryan snapped. "No time for it. We can't hold them off for long,
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even if you have all the bullets for the Armalite. Unless they're triple stupe, they'll
hear the noise and know we're down to one blaster."
"Give them a shock for a while, with the scatter-gun, if they break in," the
Armorer suggested.
"Still means too many."
"Easy." Trader spoke quietly, not looking at either of them. "Easy."
"How's that? Make it quick. We don't have a lot of time before we need to slow
them down."
"Sure, Ryan. Anything you say." Trader paused. "You and J.B. grease it. Take the
scattergun and your SIG-Sauer with some emergency rounds. I stay here with the
Armalite and the rest of the ammo. Give you my word I'll slow them some. Give
you good time to break clear away."
"Fireblast!" Ryan closed his eye, utterly disgusted at the situation.
"No," J.B. said. "Don't know what Ryan thinks, but I'm telling you that's my
answer."
"Only way, brothers." Trader pulled himself upright, limping heavily toward the
doorway. "No time to argue."
Ryan spit in the oily dirt on the floor. "Tempting, Trader. But I didn't travel
halfway across Deathlands to meet up with you again, just so I could leave you
behind while I turn and run."
"Always had a soft, weak streak, Ryan." Trader laughed. "And you, too, J.B. Soft.
Little-girly soft, both of you."
"Shut up and start using that Armalite," Ryan growled. "And make them count."
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ABE EVENTUALLY SUCCEEDED in hitching three of the team into the traces,
but the fourth mare steadfastly refused to cooperate with him, prancing and
rearing away, snatching the reins from his hands.
"I swear to God that I'll put a bastard bullet through your skull if you don't stand
still." He waved the gleaming blaster at the horse. "And I'll drive the death rig
with just the other three. Or hitch up one of the pack animals. You fucking hear
me?"
He was so angry that he inadvertently fired the Colt Python, the Magnum round
kicking up a furrow of mud and water in front of the recalcitrant horse, which
promptly stopped being stubborn and stood, trembling, while Abe finally backed
it into the traces.
By the time they were ready to go, the sun was well up, and Abe had the sinking
feeling in his guts that his clumsy attempt at a rescue mission might be too late.
ONE OF THE DOGS, a lean and ferocious brindled mastiff, had been so blood-
crazed that it had kicked and struggled to reach Ryan's hand on the hilt of the
panga, even though that action drove the eighteen-inch steel blade deeper and
deeper into its chest and lungs.
The animal had eventually died in a welter of choked blood that fountained over
Ryan's fingers. It joined six of its brothers and sisters, which the one-eyed man
had chilled as they came at him, howling and tearing, through the gap in the
doorway.
At least five of the men in the gang lay sprawled and still in the opalescent light of
early morning. The survivors had spread out across the hill, working their way
closer to the tower, moving more slowly and cautiously after Trader had made
good use of the last rounds of 9 mm ammunition.
Moving more slowly, but still moving.
The attackers were also short of ammunition, only firing occasionally, their bullets
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chipping stone splinters from the thick walls.
"Getting to be close," Ryan said. "Best wait now and stop shooting. That way we
can at least be sure that every round buys us a corpse when they come in at us."
J.B. suddenly scrambled down to join them. "Time's come now. They're gathering
for the big charge, about a hundred and fifty yards down the hill. Behind a tall
hedge'll give them cover. This is it."
Trader sniffed. "I knew that little& What's his name? Would be too late."
"Abe," Ryan said. "His name's Abe."
Chapter Twelve
"Once you've lived with love, then you cannot truly ever live again without it."
Doc was pleased with the aphorism.
He was snug inside the sleeping bag, lying on his back, knees drawn up slightly
into something like the fetal position. He'd had a vivid dream that faded even as
he slithered back toward waking. He'd been on a railway train with Emily and the
children, making a transfer to another platform for another destination. But he'd
left a carryall and gone back to retrieve it. By the time he'd chased across the
rambling station after his family, it was already aboard the next train.
It had been grotesquely full, with people hanging out of doors, squeezed through
open windows. It was out of the question for Doc to board the packed coaches
nearest him. There was a whistle and the train began to move off, shuddering with
the load. He heard Emily calling out to him, though he couldn't see her face in the
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