“Can you do anything for her?” Ryan asked, his mind returning to the problem at hand.
“I think so,” Mildred replied, reaching for her med kit. She paused with a hand in midair. Damn, she had forgotten about tossing away the precious med kit in their desperate race to reach the redoubt. Every pound gone meant more speed, and the companions had barely gotten inside alive. Her med kit was miles away, probably reduced to ashes. She slumped in disappointment, too tired to feel angry at the loss, or hatred of the blue shirts, and forced herself to think about other things. There would be time for revenge later.
Krysty started to cough, and Mildred lifted the woman’s neck to clear her throat. The redhead instantly breathed easier, and Mildred looked for something to use as a pillow. An old-fashioned frock coat was draped over the feeder pipe. Perfect.
Mildred appropriated the garment, folding it into a wad and sliding under the sleeping woman’s neck.
“Anybody got a canteen?” Mildred asked hopefully, looking around.
Still working on his glasses, J.B. pushed the container closer with the heel of his boot. “Here you go.”
Unscrewing the cap, Mildred poured a few warm drops into the palm of her hand and wiped Krysty’s face. It wasn’t much, but that was all the physician could do at the moment. The water seemed to help, and Krysty’s eyes fluttered open.
“Where” she whispered, trying to rise. “Gaia the redoubt Tennessee”
Mildred pushed her back down. “Lay still,” she ordered. “Wait to get your strength. We’re okay for the moment.”
“Mebbe,” Ryan growled, rummaging through his clothing for bullets. He found nothing, then checked the magazine of his pistol. Six rounds, that was it. Not good.
Muttering to himself, a pale teenager with hair the color of snow lifted himself off the floor with both arms as if doing a push-up, and blinked ruby red eyes.
“Not dead,” Jak Lauren stated, sounding slightly shocked. The teenager was dressed in camou-colored fatigues. A big bore Colt Python was holstered at his hip.
“S-speak f-for yourself,” a silver-haired man mumbled. One of his boots had come off, exposing a sock with a hole in the toe. The frilly white shirt and breeches shouted that the man could have come from another time, and the huge Civil War-era blaster holstered at his hip seemed to confirm it. He clenched an ebony cane in one fist, the silver lion’s head loose enough to expose a few inches of the stainless-steel sword hidden inside the hollow sheath.
Grunting with the effort, Dr. Theophilus Tanner flipped onto his back, leaving the damp shadow of his body on the floor. He levered himself into a sitting position using the stick, then stared at the weapon for a moment as if unaware of what it was. Then, forcing open his grip, Doc dropped the weapon with a clatter. The imprint of the handle was clear on his palm as if it had been burned into the flesh.
“So we actually did make it down here,” Doc rumbled in a stentorian bass. He glanced at the high curved ceiling and glass walls. “I was not sure if this had all been a dream, or a real event.”
“Real enough. Just not sure how we got here,” Ryan replied. “Everything after entering the front door is fuzzy.”
Extracting a silk handkerchief with a blue swallow’s-eye design from a pocket, Doc wiped his face, then used both hands to wring out the cloth. Water dribbled onto the floor. “I fully understand, my dear Ryan. Is everybody else undamaged?”
“I’m okay,” Dean Cawdor said, leaning against the thumping water pipe, his body moving with each pulsation. A semiautomatic Browning Hi-Power pistol rested in a cracked leather holster on his right hip, and a huge Bowie knife jutted from a black nylon sheath on the other side, as if the enormous blade was balancing the weight of the adult-sized blaster.
Jerking a thumb, J.B. added, “Krysty is still out.”
Doc frowned, then nodded. “Ah yes. Her hair, of course.”
With the others awake and moving, Ryan took the opportunity to survey the underground reactor room. They were in the main access corridor that ran straight down the middle of the wide room. Stairs leading to the higher levels were at the far end, and some kind of processing water pump stood amid the companions. Long windows of unbreakable glass formed the walls on either side, letting them see the huge machinery beyond. But there were no doors to allow access. Perhaps this was a restricted zone, and the elevator intended for use by the nuke techs only.