Dropping their useless blasters, the guards savagely fell upon the thing, wildly hacking at the body until it was in several pieces. Then they stomped the remains under their combat boots, anger and fear fueling their rage. Minutes passed with only the sounds of their labored breathing and the snap of bones faintly discernible over the moaning storm.
THE PLEXIGLAS WINDOWS of the large brick building rattled from the force of the wind. The main door was bolted shut, and heavy blankets hung from the lentil, cutting the wind whenever somebody entered or departed. That helped, but it didn’t completely stop the pervasive black grit from sweeping across the armory every time the door was used.
Sitting in the fireplace was an electric heater, the bright red coils steadily sending out waves of soothing warmth. Numerous gun racks dotted the wall. One held revolvers and boxes of ammo, another contained pump-action shotguns, while the rest were filled with AK-47 assault rifles, the metal shiny with fresh oil, the wooden stocks gleaming with polish. Stacks of loaded clips filled shelves, along with neat piles of ammo boxes. Crates of grenades were piled on the floor next to trunks of MRE packs. Originally, this building had been the armory for the Complex, but was now in the process of becoming the throne room for the new baron of Shiloh ville. William Sheffield always kept his weapons close, and his enemies dead, as the old saying went.
An air conditioner was nestled in the wall, its front masked with a heavy blanket and a lot of gray tape. Something rattled nonstop inside the machine, the noise fluctuating with every gust. On a small table, off in a corner by itself, a shortwave radio was hardwired to a nuke battery from a military vehicle. The speakers hissed with the usual background of static from the isotopes in the atmosphere. A coffeemaker bubbled softly on a sideboard, serving trays heavily laden with loaves of canned bread, slices of canned meat, and gray military cheese. A bottle of shine stood near some glasses and a box of cigars.
A dozen sec men armed with AK-47s lounged before the fireplace, sipping coffee from ceramic mugs, smoking cigs and cleaning their blasters.
Sitting prominently in the middle of the enormous room was an ornate chair holding a big man who was reading computer printouts. A willowy blonde stood nearby, watching over his shoulder and making low comments and suggestions.
The man was tall and heavily muscled, his neck and hands corded with hard tendons. He was wearing a crisp blue shirt and matching pants, the boots glossy with polish. A huge .50-caliber Desert Eagle pistol rested in a hip holster, with a sleek 9 mm Heckler amp; Koch pistol riding in a shoulder rig. A white scarf was tied about his thick neck, more to keep out the draft than for any sartorial effect. His thick black hair was cut short, and a pattern of tiny round scars marked the left side of his face. It looked as if he had taken a shotgun blast directly into the face and had somehow survived. The truth was much more painful than that.
“Fucking weather,” Baron Sheffield cursed, listening to the storm rage outside. Laying aside the report, he sipped at a mug of coffee, making a bitter face.
“Bah!” he said, throwing the cup onto the floor. “The blasted ash is into everything! The food, blastersIm surprised it isn’t inside the fucking ammo!”
Thumbing live rounds into an empty clip, a sergeant asked, “How long can we expect the weather to be like this, my lord?”
“Another week, possibly more,” Sheffield replied dourly, leaning forward in his chair. “Silas was an ass. Using the Kite to blast the whole countryside has only destroyed our food supply.” The baron pulled a Tekna knife from his belt and imagined what he would have done to the old fool before allowing him to finally die. He was the fool for waiting so long before torturing the whitecoat. Silas would have told him everything! Eventually.
“Mebbe when the rains come” a corporal started.
“The acid rain?” Sheffield stressed the word. “That’ll only make things worse, not better, fool. How can farmers grow crops in ash with acid. Hell, there aren’t any fields in this valley anyway.”