Red Holocaust

* * *

'What is that, Uchitel?'

Evening was dragging its murky cloak across the wasteland, the yellow clouds turning a sullen maroon. It had snowed a little during the late part of the afternoon, dusting the trail ahead. The dam was still visible behind them. This time it was Barkhat, with the smooth, velvet voice, who spoke; as he did so, the puckered scar at the corner of his mouth twitched and danced.

'Where?'

'Yonder. Like a large ball.'

Uchitel strained his eyes into the gloom. He saw several squat buildings and a large saucer-shaped object, which was cracked along one side and mounted on a tripod. It was difficult to judge its size, but it looked to be about a hundred feet in height. There was also a huge ball, half as high again, that seemed to be made from a complicated pattern of interwoven triangles. Uchitel had never seen anything like it, but it nagged at his memory. There had been something like it in one of the old history books in Yakutsk.

'I think it was a defense against firefights.'

'What?'

Uchitel nodded, the facts trickling back into his mind. 'It was called radar, Barkhat. It was a way of seeing great distances and watching for enemies. There were many such installations along the coasts. I have read that such buildings stood where the Sakhalin and Kamchatka lands were. But they were...' he hesitated, seeking the expression that he'd read 'Da, they were 'primary objectives' for the nukes. This one must have been missed.'

'Should we go look, Uchitel? Might there not be much gold?'

'Imbecile! Would there be gold after a hundred years? They were not places of wealth. No. Let us ride on by.'

'Perhaps we could camp there if the buildings are safe.'

Uchitel considered it. 'Perhaps, brother. Perhaps we can.'

'And watch for enemies,' added Urach, who'd come in time to hear the latter part of the conversation.

'Our enemies are all ahead of us. We need no radar to tell us that.'

'None behind?' asked Urach.

'Nyet,' replied Uchitel, forcefully. 'If there were, then they stayed back in Russia. They will never be a threat to the Narodniki.'

* * *

One hundred and fifty miles behind the Narodniki, Major Gregori Zimyanin was leading his group of one hundred mounted militia. They were at the foothills of the Alaskan Range, spread well out, the horses picking their way carefully through the torturous mountain terrain.

Aliev, the Tracker, was a little ahead of them, waving them forward. Zimyanin had deliberately held up the crossing of the Bering Strait, hesitant at the enonnousness of what he was doing, and uncertain whether the party would approve.

But now that he was closing in on his prey, some three or four days behind, it was time to press forward at all speed. As his horse crested a rise, the officer's heart filled with pride.

This might be just the beginning.

Chapter Thirteen

The crucifix was blackened and seared by the fires from the heavens. Icicles hung in the crevices around the twisted, tortured form nailed to the metal cross. The fingers were gone, so were the tips of the thorned crown, melted away a century back. The flesh of the crucified Christ was satin black, like the wing of a crow, polished by the ceaseless wind to a velvet consistency.

It stood bolted firmly to the tottering remnants of what had once been the side of a small brick church almost under the haunting shadow of a mountain. Its twenty-thousand-foot summit was permanently obscured by snow spume and chem clouds.

Around the crucifix, kneeling on the sharp stones, were about twenty people, most of them women. They wore dark clothes wrapped around them in layers, giving them a funereal appearance. Their leader, a tall skeletal figure with wild eyes and long black hair, was standing in front of them, facing the crucifix.

'Blessed are the nukes,' he called.

His congregation responded, 'And blessed shall be the fallout.'

'Blessed is the punishment of the Dark Lord.'

'And blessed are the nails of his hands and his feet.'

'Blessed are the long chill and the many rads.'

'Blessed be both the short heat and the long cold,' came the response.

'We wait thy coming. Lord.'

'Aye, we await thy black visage.'

'Then shall we be released from bondage and into eternal life among those in the bunkers below.'

The man turned then to gaze out at them. 'In this place, tainted by the blood of many, shall we stay until He cometh to lead us to salvation. Amen, amen, amen.'

'Amen,' pattered the others, rising one by one.

At that moment they heard the distant sound of engines, throbbing and whining off to the south.

* * *

Anchorage was gone.

They stopped the three buggies and got out on a bluff overlooking the sullen expanse of gray-green ocean. J.B. and Ryan checked their maps, glancing at the compass for bearings. There wasn't any doubt.

What had once been a sizable city had totally disappeared.

'Nukes,' said J.B. tersely, his sallow face showing no emotion.

'Yeah,' agreed Ryan Cawdor. 'Nukes. Must have wasted all round here, hot-spotted it, triggering quakes, or mebbe volcanoes. That's a big crater out there.' He pointed to the east, where a smudge of smoke showed against the pale sky.

'Crater,' said Doc Tanner. 'Why should that ring a distant bell? I fear me I do not remember.'

'Quakes dropped the cliffs in the sea. Up came the sea, and there Anchorage went.'

The wind was so strong that it was blowing a waterfall that flowed over the cliffs back into a rainbow arch over their heads, drenching them. It wasn't a place to hang around, with some particularly vicious gulls gathering and swooping.

'You could throw out those fuckin' maps,' said Okie. 'The whole fuckin' place is changed.'

'Mebbe not away from the coast. There's another big town shown, Fairbanks. We'll make for that.'

After only six or seven miles of uneven driving, Ryan slowed, waiting for the others to come alongside. Not bothering with the radio, he stuck his head through a side ob slit and shouted, 'Somethin' ahead. See 'em?'

In a shallow valley almost on the flanks of the high mountain was a huddle of buildings. Some of them looked desolate and ruined. Among the buildings stood a small group of about a dozen people, shrouded in dark clothing.

'They seen us,' shouted Hennings, his black face almost invisible within the wrappings of clothing he wore against the bitter cold.

'Fingers on triggers,' warned J.B. 'Remember the Keeper. Let's go.'

Oddly, none of the waiting group moved as the buggies came grinding closer, kicking up a spray of snow and ice behind them. In each buggy someone in the top bubble was manning the light machine gun, covering the strangers. At a signal from Ryan, the vehicles stopped about thirty paces from the watchers.

An extremely tall man, his face exposed to the elements, strode toward them, his hand raised in the universal sign of peace.

Ryan noticed the dark crucifix on the wall behind the man, recognizing it as a symbol of the old religion.