Riders of the Pale Horse by T. Davis Bunn Page B

garnered only a few disinterested glances from passersby. They were simply two of an unending stream of vehicles.
    At Robards’ insistence, they paid a premium for spaces against a windowless warehouse wall forming the compound’s southern perimeter. Robards backed his truck in at an exaggerated angle, blocking out space for both vehicles.Then they had a quick cold meal and left the old man on guard duty as they set off once more in the second truck.
    The village of Carcash filled a shallow, bowl-shaped valley with tumbledown shanties, warehouses, bars, stores charging vastly inflated prices, more bars, restaurants, still more bars, and hotels that were little more than bunkhouses. The buildings that fronted the main highway made a feeble attempt at respectability, with walkways raised to escape both mud and snow. There were only two other passages large enough to be granted the names of streets, and away from the highway they were soon reduced to rutted tracks. Most buildings were reached via unnamed, unlit alleys that wandered in haphazard fashion around dusty garden patches, lines of laundry, corrals for seedy-looking horses, scampering children, and outdoor privies. Few women were visible on the streets, and none walked alone. Many of the men were falling down drunk.
    Everyone carried weapons of some sort, from antique blunderbusses with stocks sporting hammered silver plates to sniper rifles with scopes as long as Wade’s forearm. The Kalashnikov with its sickle-shaped clip was clearly the weapon of choice. Knives, some as long as short swords, sprouted from belts, from thighs, from boots, from backpacks. Bandoliers were worn like badges of honor.
    Following vague instructions Wade had brought with him, they tried to find the track that led to the nearest Ingush mountain fastness. They had to ask repeatedly for directions; the first several times their requests were answered with hostile stares and indifferent shrugs. Finally Robards halted the truck, grabbed his gun, and climbed down. The next passerby was stopped by Rogue, looming large and stone-faced directly in his path. That time, when Wade asked, the man answered. But when Wade asked if all was well with the Red Cross camp, the man pretended total ignorance. After having the directions confirmed twice more, they set off.
    â€œIt doesn’t look good,” Wade shouted above the engine.
    Robards shrugged his unconcern. “No use worrying,” he replied. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
    Their way took them along the valley’s western side. The rocky promontory clung to a steep cliff and sidled around a series of hair-raising drops. The roadway was mild in grade, designed so that it could be managed in snowy conditions. Around the curves the track was barely wide enough to keep all four tires on the surface. To one side was an unyielding rock wall. To the other was nothing but a swooping drop. Wade found it best not to look out his window at all.
    At one level passage Robards braked. He pointed back to tracks curving off the main path and scrunching along an indentation in the wall. Wade followed the pointed finger but did not understand. “What am I supposed to be seeing?”
    â€œThat hollow was made so trucks or carts coming from opposite directions can pass each other.”
    Wade imagined having to back up along that incline. “I’m glad we haven’t had to do that.”
    â€œThat’s not what I meant,” Robards answered, searching behind them. “Nobody’s used that passage in quite a while, by the looks of those tracks.”
    â€œSo?”
    Robards swung back around. “So maybe nothing. Let’s go see.”
    An hour passed before the road broadened and began a sharp descent. As the sun touched the distant western peaks, they rounded a corner and saw what once had been a large pastoral community. Now it was nothing but a blackened shell.
    Crumbling rock-walled houses were