Dark Reckoning by James Axler

“Shit!” If they used them in the tight confines of the tunnel, the ricochets could tear them into pieces.

Dragging the body from behind the wheel, Ryan checked the floor and the glovebox. Nothing useful there, except for a metal ring of keys, which he pocketed. Those might come in handy later. Pushing the seat forward, the one-eyed warrior checked the storage compartment behind the seat. He found some gnawed chicken bones, empty brass, a length of rope, a crowbar, a bullwhip, a thermos, some heavy towing chain, a coil of fuse too coated with blood to ever be useful, a blanket and some loose envelopes of shiny plastic.

“MRE packs,” Ryan said, tossing them out behind as he dug for more. The packs were loose, scattered amid the tools and junk as if completely unimportant. Sheffield had to be rolling in predark supplies. Ryan cut his hands unearthing the Mylar envelopes, but he didn’t care. There was enough food for days.

The companions grabbed the packs off the floor and filled their pockets. Everybody wanted to dig into the food here and now, but this was neither the time nor the place. Jamming an envelope into her carpetbag, Mildred noticed a tiny speck of light on her shoe. It wasn’t same shade of blue as the halogen headlights, and she held out a hand to catch the dot on her palm, tracking it back to the pile of rocks. Another buried truck? She hesitantly placed an eye to the opening and gasped.

“Sweet Jesus,” she whispered in astonishment Just then, a noise came from down the tunnel, and Ryan hurriedly killed the headlight. Darkness swallowed them whole. Instantly, the noise stopped. “Runts here,” Jak whispered. Tugging his hat on tight, J.B. drew his Colt .45 pistol and snicked off the safety. “Any idea how many?”

“All,” the teenager answered grimly. “Let them come,” Doc rumbled, pulling the pin from a gren and dropping it into a pocket. Sticky tape held the spoon in place, and he broke a thumbnail digging the end free and unwrapping the charge so it was ready for use. With a good enough bounce, he could get the charge past the runts and it would blow behind them, the shrapnel tearing them to pieces. For a brief instant, Doc was back in his own time standing before his students explaining this to them as they recoiled in horror, then reality returned and the scholar prepared for bloody warfare.

“Hold the grens,” the Armorer said suddenly, bolstering his piece. “I may have something better. Give me a second.”

Moving fast, J.B. went to the cab and found the thermos. Unscrewing the top to make sure it was empty, he used a knife to break the vacuum seal and freed the glass container inside. Gingerly lifting out the tube, he carried it to the front of the wag and tried to lift the crumpled hood. It was stuck, so Doc and Jak helped get it loose. Knowing what the man was doing, Ryan moved behind the steering wheel and put his hand on the ignition switch. Locking the hood into place, J.B. gave Jak the tube and fumbled with the engine until finding the flexible hose that led to the carburetor. He sliced it off with a knife, took the hose and stuffed the end into the glass container.

“Go!” he ordered.

Making sure the wag was in neutral, Ryan cranked the engine, the headlight dimming as the starter struggled to turn the dead engine. The fuel pump wheezed loudly, telling of a break in the diaphragm, but gas squirted out the end of the hose and dribbled into the tube.

“Full!” J.B. said after a minute.

Ryan released the ignition switch and the lights came to life with full force.

Mildred handed J.B. rags she had cut from a sec man’s shirt. The Armorer stuffed a piece of cloth into the glass tube and tilted it for a few seconds to moisten the fuse. Then he tied the wet rag around the neck of the bottle and screwed the plastic cap back on tight.

“Not much, but it’ll catch them unawares,” he said, handing it to Mildred.