Dark Reckoning by James Axler

Mildred shifted her grip on the crossbow. “Down here?”

He shrugged. “That’s what it looks like.”

“Could be,” Ryan muttered, dropping the torch and grinding out the flames. “We crawl from here. Mebbe this is the way to the surface.”

“Ash storm okay by me,” Jak said stoutly. “Least could run if need.”

Extinguishing the second torch, the companions went on the floor and crept toward the strange illumination until the light filled the tunnel brightly. Knowing they were in plain sight, they waited for an attack, or any response, but only silence greeted their presence.

Slowly, Ryan stood and walked into the light until he could see the front end of some sort of machine. It was a truck with a broken grille. Its left headlight was smashed, but the right blazed. Large rocks were strewed across the floor, slabs of stone stacked behind the wag as if it had been caught in an avalanche.

His palm tight on the handle of his knife, Ryan edged past the chunks of limestone. Glancing into the cab, he saw two corpses dressed in blue uniforms slumped against the dashboard. Their heads were split open, slivers of windshield protruding from their slack faces.

Sheathing the blade, Ryan whistled twice, and the rest of the companions rushed forward to join him at the wreck.

“Dark night,” J.B. whispered, taking in the scene. “How did this get all the way down here?”

“Quake?” Jak asked, running a hand over the machine as if unsure it was actually there. The metal was cold under his touch. “Been here while.”

“Can’t have been here for very long. The headlight is still working,” Mildred offered. “No, that’s wrong. The nuke battery would power the bulb until it burned out. Might have been here for weeks, months.”

Reaching in through the broken window, Ryan pulled a sandwich off the top of the dashboard. He squeezed the bread, and it crunched slightly. “Only been a couple of weeks,” he said, sniffing the food. Smelled like peanut butter. Definitely predark supplies. He took a bite, chewed and swallowed. “Days,” he corrected, breaking the sandwich into pieces and passing the morsels around. Everybody wolfed his or her portion and started to loot the vehicle.

Pulling open the door to the truck, Ryan grabbed the body of the blue shirt as it fell out sideways. The corpse had a blaster in its belt, and an AK-47 rested on the floor. Ryan tossed the handcannon and gun belt to J.B. and appropriated the Kalashnikov. Briefly, the one-eyed man checked the weapon, dropping the clip to make sure it contained ammo.

“Fireblast,” he cursed, holding the magazine in the light. “The clip is bent. No way this’ll feed properly.”

“Mine’s okay,” J.B. said, jacking the slide. “Got a full load of .45 rounds.”

At the other door, Doc struggled with the handle. Impatiently, he used the silver head of his swordstick to break the window and grab a second longblaster from the hands of the other sec man. He tossed the weapon to Jak and yanked a shoulder bag free of the corpse’s stiff arms.

“Fucking A,” Jak said, sounding pleased. “Let runts come now!”

Yanking open the canvas bag, Doc grinned in delight, “And here is even better news,” he said, lifting a handful of loaded clips into view. “Spare ammo by the pound, and lots of grens!”

“Yo,” Ryan called, holding out an open hand.

Doc tossed the man a clip, and Ryan slapped it into the breech of the rapidfire, working the bolt to eject a live round, then dropping the clip to insert the bullet, “This one works,” he said, satisfied. “Give me two more. There are a lot of runts.”

“For a while,” Doc agreed ominously, walking around the wag. He gave Ryan two more and passed several to Jak. Judiciously, the old man then handed an explosive charge to everybody. The last six he kept in the bag and slung it over a shoulder.

“What kind are they?” Mildred asked, studying the military sphere. The ball was colored green with a black stripe. She didn’t know that code.

Holding the gren in the headlight, J.B. checked the colorations. “Steel shrapnel,” he announced. “High explosive, antipersonnel.”