“How about you, Doc?” J.B. asked, sliding on an old pair of fingerless gloves. He had taken them off to do the lathing and machine work, but they were going into the unknown and he wanted to be ready for a fight. Anything could be beyond that door, any damn thing at all.
Pausing in his carving, Doc raised an eyebrow. “Swords and handguns were the chosen weapons of my day. Arrows were considered weapons of the red Indians of the plains.”
“Mighty deadly in their hands,” Ryan said, remembering a terrible day in the western plains when the companions almost hadn’t survived. “Trader used to say that some triple-stupe bastard with a blaster would always get aced easy by a smart man armed with just a club.”
” The Art of War , by Sun Tzu.” Doc chuckled in amusement, putting another finished arrow aside. “Although a slightly garbled translation.”
Ryan shrugged. “Just common sense.”
“Well, I took an archery class in high school,” Mildred said hesitantly. “But that was a long time ago.”
“Good enough,” Ryan said, sliding the heavy weapon across the table. “You two are the archers, then.”
Lifting the slab of wood and steel, Mildred inspected the crude weapon. The stock was cut from a desk, the cross member attached with heavy bolts stolen from some piece of machinery. The trigger was a simple lever underneath that was to be pressed upward against the stock to release the catch. Grabbing the string, she pulled it backward until it locked on the catch with a solid click. Sliding an arrow between the notches, she shook the crossbow until the shaft fell out. Then Mildred did it all over again, until she could draw and load with a minimum of fuss. Nobody asked what she was doing.
“Should we have dinner, then hit the tunnel?” Dean asked hopefully.
“Tunnel first,” his father decided. The soup was keeping them alive, but as their hunger lessened so did its flavor. “We don’t know what’s on the other side of that door. Could be a nice straight tunnel or a freaking maze. We need some way to make a map so we don’t get lost, and there should be some way for us to mark the branches, just in case.”
Krysty stood. “I saw some pencils and paper in the chief cook’s office. Those should do.” She crossed the room and disappeared into a small office.
“Any spray paint?” Mildred asked, slinging the crossbow over a shoulder. It was clumsy, but she could manage the weight.
Removing his hat, J.B. wiped off the sweatband with a cloth. “No paint,” he said, replacing the hat. “I found a case of aerosol cans, but they were all dried out or had burst apart.”
“Shit, worst redoubt we’ve ever been in,” Mildred growled, as Doc handed her a full quiver. The physician slung it over her other shoulder, but the draw was awkward, so she shifted positions until satisfied.
“Blackboard in kitchen,” Jak said, gesturing with his crossbow. “Chalk mebbe?”
“I checked, and it’s gone,” Krysty said, returning with the writing materials. “And the markers are completely dried out.”
“We’ll use spent brass to mark our way,” Ryan stated roughly, placing the empty Steyr on the table. “Everybody bring along a handful. Leave everything else behind. With luck, we’ll be carrying things back here and don’t want to be overloaded.”
“Dad, who stays behind?” Dean asked out of the blue.
Frowning, Ryan realized the boy was right. The cellar door bolted from inside the redoubt. While they were in the tunnel, something might somehow creep into the base. They needed a rearguard.
“Want the job?” he asked.
“No prob,” Dean stated resolutely.
“Good man,” Ryan said, patting the boy on the shoulder. “Nobody else I’d rather have guarding my back than another Cawdor.”
The young boy preened under the praise, then his usual serious expression returned. Dean was a seasoned fighter, and most barons were guarded by sec men with far less fighting experience.
“Here,” J.B. said, passing him a couple of Molotovs. “We’ll leave you these. Watch for splatter. These babies are messy. Grease and alcohol aren’t exactly a prime mix.”
“Check,” Dean replied, rummaging in a pocket. He found a butane lighter and flicked it, adjusting the flame to its highest setting. In his opinion, these were the only wonders of the predark world worth having. Bullets got used and were gone, candles melted, light bulbs burned out, but the cig lighters survived the hundred years of radiation intact, and each was good for over a thousand times. Once, he had cooked a small rabbit over just the flame of a butane lighter. It made the meat taste odd, but he lived for another day.