“Now the iron,” the voice behind the blaster insisted, and there came the telltale sound of a slide being racked to drive home the necessity of obedience.
Reluctantly, the companions shed their weapons, placing the arsenal of blasters into an old U.S. Army footlocker, the munitions bag barely fitting within the tight confines. The lack of weight around his waist disturbed Ryan, and he really hated to give up the weapons, but there was no other way. The companions had been caught without blasters many times before, and it always cost a world of pain to get them back. At least they still had some blades.
“Ammo, too,” the guard ordered, and they complied. What good was one without the other?
Now the door swung open, and three men entered, short rapidfires held in their hands, the blasters perfect for combat inside the cramped confines of a wag. One of the men held himself oddly stiff, his broad shoulders tense from some hidden ailment.
“That everything?” the guard demanded, looking them over carefully. “What’s in the bag?”
Mildred opened the canvas satchel to display the collection of bottles and surgical instruments.
“You a healer?” he asked suspiciously.
She nodded, then added, “I bet that old busted leg hurts like a bitch in this kind of weather.”
The stiff guard reacted in surprise to that, then let his face ease into a grim smile.
“Okay, you’re a fucking healer.” He chuckled, then motioned with the rapidfire toward the open doorway. However, his index finger was no longer resting on the trigger. “This way. The chief wants to see you in the galley.”
The sound of the rain grew less noticeable as they walked along a narrow corridor, a perfect killing zone for defenders in the vehicle to ace invaders trying to reach the rear quarters. Soon the rumble of powerful engines could be heard, as well as the high pitched whine of an electric generator. But another set of doors closed off that section, and the engine room was left behind. Crew quarters came next, the bunks disheveled and personal items about, a lot of preDark girlie posters on the walls, some of them pure hardcore. Mildred tried not to blush, while Jak and Dean noticed the explicit pictures with frank approval.
A swinging set of louvered doors was chained open and the next room was warm, the air fragrant with the smell of a meat stew and black coffee. A long table was bolted to the floor, a bench on each side attached to the sturdy legs. Just like a submarine galley, Ryan noted privately, thinking of a stint with Admiral Poseidon. Everything firmly in place so that it wouldn’t slide about in combat and get in the way of repairs, or an escape.
“Eat up,” a slim woman announced, turning from a small electric stove built into the dividing wall, the burners glowing red as molten lava. “I made plenty, so there’s plenty for everybody.”
Expertly, she placed scarred red plastic bowls and utensils on the tables and then thumped a heavy metal pot full of bubbling stew in the middle of the table. There were chunks of meat mixed with veggies, and the smell was a pain in the belly of the hungry companions. Their last meal had been breakfast in the museum about twelve hours earlier.
“Coffee next!” the cook announced, turning back to the stove. A parkerized revolver rode in a holster at the small of her back where it would be safe from bumping into a hot stove.
As the companions took seats at the table, the skinny guard with a mustache frowned in disapproval.
“Hey, Matilda, the chief didn’t say they got a meal,” he stated.
“No, she didn’t,” a new man said as he entered the galley, a large revolver riding snug in a shoulder holster under his left arm. “But I do. So shut up, Anders, and stay out of the way.”
The gray haired man was huge, not fat, just large, with a barrel chest and wide arms. The tendons on his hands were as pronounced as coiled cables under a tarpaulin, and his irregular nose had clearly been broken in countless fights.