Cold Asylum

The shots were calm and measured.

“Not head shots,” Ryan shouted to Krysty. “Might ricochet and hit Doc. If he’s still alive in there.”

“Hang on, Doc!” Krysty yelled.

“By the Three Kennedys! Is that the Seventh Cavalry coming over the hill in the last reel?”

The guttural bellowing of hatred for the white-haired outlander had almost stopped, replaced by a thin, anxious piping. Those at the head of the crowd were aware of the attack from the rear and were trying to push out of the death trap of the steel elevator, while those caught helplessly at the back were seeking cover from the remorseless hail of lead by elbowing their way toward the front. It was bloody chaos.

Ryan leveled his blaster, picking his targets with great care. At such close range it was impossible to miss, but it was important to try to make every round a killing shot, going for the center of the spine, level with the heart and lungs. Or, if the muties had turned, to drill them neatly through the middle of the chest. Of his first eight bullets, seven were instant clean kills. The eighth was just ducking away and got hit under the left arm, the full-metal-jacket round angling up off the ribs, exiting through the side of the neck.

Krysty was equally careful.

Her Smith amp; Wesson 640 held only five rounds, so she used four, taking out four cannies, obeying the great Deathlands rule that Ryan had drummed into her, about not using your last bullet unless you had to.

Doc leaned against the scuffed wall of the cage, watching the miraculous dissolution of his enemies. Bodies tumbled and, literally, gallons of blood poured across the floor, lapping at the toes of his boots.

The muties cracked and finally turned to run, moving with exaggerated clumsiness, their arms flapping like penguins, heads wobbling on weak-muscled necks. They dropped their weapons as they lumbered from the killing ground, scattering, disappearing down the other passages.

“Reload,” Ryan instructed, watching them flee. He waved a hand at the figure of Doc Tanner, towering above the mound of twitching corpses that blocked off the entrance to the elevator. “You all right in there?”

“Never better, my dear fellow.”

From behind Ryan he heard the voice of J.B., raised in concern. “Need help?”

The Armorer would never use three words when two would do the job.

“No. Chilled some. Rest gone.” He smiled as he matched J.B. at his own game.

Doc had wiped his rapier, picking up the polished ebony sheath that converted it into a walking stick. He climbed carefully over the bodies, unable to avoid stepping on the chest of one of the two mutie women chilled, forcing a gasp of crimson froth from between her blue lips.

“Do I assume that we are all united again, Ryan? Then that is the finest news a man could have. My thanks to you and the exquisite Mistress Wroth for your well-timed rescue.” He hesitated. “Though, if I may be forgiven for nitpicking, I would appreciate it next time if you could arrange to save my life a little more quickly. It was a damnably close-run thing, friends.”

Ryan grinned, clasping him by the hand.

Life, which had seemed unbearably bleak and desolate only a couple of hours ago, was now filled with the warmth and affection of good companions.

And the love of his son.

And Krysty.

Chapter Thirteen

They all stood together, ringing the map of the redoubt that Ryan had noticed earlier.

Mildred pointed at the various sections, delineated in different colors, shaking her head. “The whole of this floor and the one above it, toward the main entrance, seem to have been one great big mortuary. If all of them were filled with bodies, a century ago, then”

“What is the difference, pray, Dr. Wyeth, between a morgue and a mortuary?”

She stared at Doc. “The one good thing about this redoubt was that it looked like you weren’t in it. But, if you really want to be educated, Dr. Tanner, then I can enlighten you, though I admit the distinction is a touch subtle.”

“I can scarcely wait to hear you exhibiting subtlety, Madam,” he countered.