Over years of traveling with the Trader they'd come across a few ruined churches, but they'd never been of any interest and obviously held nothing of real value, like food or blasters.
'Cut the engines down to idle,' he ordered, using the radio. 'These people don't look dangerous — they're mainly women, and I can't see anyone in the huts — but keep alert.'
'Welcome,' called the emaciated man. 'Welcome in the name of the Dark Lord.'
'Is that a baron?' asked Krysty. Ryan shook his head.
'If you come in peace, we will share with you what little we have. As we are all gathered here at the river by the throne of our Lord, we welcome you. Step down from your wagons.'
Ryan flicked the switch on the speaker. 'You got blasters?'
'Weapons are an abomination against our beliefs. We carry clean steel and that is all.'
Ryan looked at Krysty, who shrugged. 'I don't know, lover. We need some local knowledge. Do you think mebbe they can help?'
He nodded. 'I'm goin' out. If there's no trouble, then you come. Tell J.B. and his team to follow, then Henn and his team last of all. All right?'
'Sure.'
Ryan opened the hydraulic door, stepping out on the snow, holding his new G-12 caseless automatic rifle casually at the ready. 'My name is Ryan Cawdor,' he said. 'These are my friends.' The sweep of his arm took in the buggies and their occupants.
'My name is Apostle Ezekiel Herne, and these are the sisters and brothers of the Church of the Dark Lord Waiting. We have dwelled here in this field of blood for many years now, coming together from all over Laska.'
Ryan looked around, beckoning Krysty to follow him. The sight of the tall girl with her tumbling mane of brilliant red hair brought chattering from the women. Their talk was quelled by an angry glare from their skinny priest.
'This is Krysty Wroth,' he said. Then, as the occupants of the second buggy emerged, he continued, 'The guy in the battered hat there is J.B. Dix, and the fat man's Finnegan. The lady with hair like straw is called Lori.'
'What is straw, Brother Cawdor?' asked Herne.
'Let us pass, friend,' replied Ryan, waving to the occupants of the third buggy to come out. They followed his lead, all of them hefting blasters ostentatiously, ready for action.
'The old-timer is called Doctor Theophilus Tanner, and the lady's name is Okie.'
The black man was last out, holding his gray Heckler & Koch 54A submachine gun with its built-in silencer. As he stepped down he threw off his thermal hood, showing his face and his mass of cropped, curly hair.
The effect of Hennings's appearance was amazing. Everyone except for Herne gave a great cry of terror and exultation and fell immediately to their knees, prostrating themselves on the barren stones, moaning and shouting. Ryan and his party dropped into defensive positions, fingers tight on triggers, eyes flicking nervously. A single wrong move, and all of Herne's group would be iced.
The priest himself stood still, trembling and shaking, hands clutched together in front of him, his long bony fingers tangling like a nest of worms. His voice shook when he finally spoke.
'Lord, Lord, you have come. As it was foretold in the great books of defense and survival, you walk again among us.'
'Lead us to salvation, Dark Lord,' screamed one of the women, scrabbling forward on hands and knees toward the black man, who nervously backed away from her. But she seized him by the ankles and pressed her chapped lips to the steel toe cap of one of his polished black combat boots. Licking the gleaming leather, she writhed in ecstasy.
'Get this fuckin' gaudy slut away from me, Ryan,' said Hennings, raising his blaster as if to crack it into the woman's skull.
'Oh, Lord,' called Herne. 'It is said that a man such as you would one day come to us. All our prayers and teachin' is for that.'
'What does he mean, a man like me?' asked Henn.
The priest answered, pointing to the nuke-blackened Christ upon the tumbled wall. 'There is our tortured messiah. Never in our lives has such a man been seen.'
'I knew it, Henn,' cackled Finn.
'What, stupe?'
'One day it'd be good news havin' a black man ridin' as my shotgun. Now it's come. These sons of bitches fuckin' worship you, Henn.'
'It's true, J.B.,' said Ryan, as they ate the last of the turnip stew and meat. None of them knew what the meat was, and nobody wanted to ask.
'Henn a god, just 'cos he's black. I don't believe it, Ryan.'
Ezekiel Herne had led them to the largest hut, and had ordered two women to feed them and arrange their bedding. Ryan had made sure that the three buggies were locked and that small contact mines were placed and primed. He also made sure that the community knew it, so no one would tamper with the vehicles.
Hennings had been taken into another room and fed on his own. He'd protested strongly until Ryan pointed out that these people were ready to worship him, and if that meant free food and some guidance around the country, then being a god for a few hours wasn't such a bad thing.
After they'd eaten, the cadaverous priest came to them, sat crosslegged on the floor beside Ryan and grinned at him with the worst set of rotten teeth that Ryan had ever seen.
'You have brought such happiness to us here, my friend. You are blessed to be the brothers and sisters of the Dark Lord. Is there anything we can do for you?'
'Sure,' said J.B. 'Tell us, what happened to Anchorage? And tell us also, are there any sizable towns round here?'
Herne's brow furrowed. 'Towns are the abomination of the blessed, my friend. Ank Ridge, as we call it, was the Sodom of this barren desert. The seas rose and those monsters that dwell in the deeps came and washed away all evil. There are no towns left in all the world, friend. It is better so.'
'No other villes? No small villages?'
'Nothin', my friend. There is the snow and the ice, both good things. A wind upon the mount. Who would wish to die, my friend? Not while the Dark Lord is here.'
'What do you think Henn is goin' to do for you?' asked Okie.
'Henn, as you call him, is the chosen one, the awaited one, the one whose comin' will make all right. As the books say, the sheaves shall be harvested and bound, the chaff shall be winnowed, the blood shall give life.'
'Blood, Reverend?' asked Doc quickly. 'What blood?'
Herne stood up, knee joints cracking. 'All will be seen, friends, tomorrow at dawn, when we gather to worship him as he shall be ordained.'
'Is Henn goin' to be sleepin' in here?' asked Finn.
'No.' Herne's gentle smile sent shivers up Ryan's spine. 'The sisters wish the honor of fucking the Dark Lord. He will sleep little, as the plow sleeps not in the furrow.'
Okie sniffed and spat, then went to one of the low truckle beds and sat down. The priest watched her, then moved to the door.
'We shall see you all on the morrow. One of the sisters will bring in a bowl of punch for you to drink your fill. It will aid you at sleeping.'
He left, banging the heavy door shut behind him. Finn giggled. 'That lucky son of a bitch bastard, Henn. Gettin' all that for free.'
A great crock of drink was brought in and set on a table by one of the younger women. She was wrapped in black cloth from head to toe, and her face was veiled so that only her brown eyes shone from under the cowl. Finn tried to get her to talk, but she lowered her head and ignored him, leaving quickly.
'Can't wait to get back to her Dark Lord,' Finn said, ruefully.
They tried the punch. Ryan wrinkled his mouth at the taste. It was flavored with herbs and obviously was
