“Krysty, take the Colt. You and Doc stand guard here behind the comp console,” Ryan directed, slinging the Russian rapidfire over a shoulder. “Shoot anybody with us that’s carrying a blaster. Jak, Dean and Mildred, take grens and stand guard in the hallway. Kill anything that gets past Krysty and Doc.”
“May Gaia protect you,” Krysty said.
Nodding his thanks, Ryan turned toward the chamber door. After he and J.B. stepped inside, the one-eyed man closed the door and waited. As always, the mechanism paused for a few moments, as if waiting for a destination code to kick in. Then the machine began to activate a random jump.
Slowly, a swirling mist began to cloud the chamber, twinkling lights like tiny stars shooting through the metal disks of the floor. Then the thickening mists masked the men, and it seemed as if they dropped through the solid floor into infinity.
Wild visions filled their minds, and Ryan grimly knew it was the start of a jumpmare. Sometimes the illusions were pleasant, fantasies of blue skies, green pastures and sex. But more often they were horrid visions of doom and pain. This time it was an endless kaleidoscope of disjointed scenes Ryan standing above the body of his brother Harvey, a black horse galloping into the horizon silhouetted by a swollen red sun, Krysty glancing over her shoulder and smiling just as a bullet plowed through her skull, removing most of her features. Ryan’s hands were covered with blood, burning blood whose fumes rose to fill the skies as sirens howled and jetfighters soared away launching salvo after salvo of missiles that streaked off into space, the contrails twisting and darkening into loaves of fresh bread. The smell filled his mind, his stomach lurched with pain, and then the merciful veil of unconsciousness claimed him.
GASPING FOR BREATH, Ryan shook uncontrollably, bitter bile rising into his mouth. He forced it back down, only to have it rise once more in rebellion. Nearby, J.B. was sprawled on the cold plastic, twitching and shaking.
Precious minutes ticked away before the men were able to force themselves erect and take stock of their surroundings. The walls of the chamber were solid yellow, almost a gold in color, with tiny flakes of bluish material.
“Newredoubt,” J.B. croaked, wiping the sweat off his face. “Never been here before.”
With fumbling fingers, Ryan hit his wrist chron, and the second hand began to sweep. “Come on,” he muttered, using the AK-47 as a crutch to help get to his boots. “Only gottwenty minutes remaining.”
Weakly, the men opened the door and stumbled into a control room that was a near duplicate of the one they had just departed. The control room was clean, the comps humming softly, the screens scrolling with coded commands. Outside the control room, the corridor was streaked with fire stains, doors buckled in and the jambs partially melted.
“Clean,” J.B. reported, checking the rad counter on his lapel.
Shifting the grip on his longblaster, Ryan grunted, saving his breath. Advancing to the next level, the stairs began to get cleaner and soon they smelled green growing plants.
“Hydroponic garden?” J.B. asked, his hands easy on the Kalashnikov submachine gun. The weapon had an eight-pound trigger as a safety precaution against firing if dropped or jostled. The Armorer had adjusted that, and now the blaster worked on a hair trigger.
Two pounds of pressure, and it would spit subsonic lead at 600 rounds per minute.
Tense, Ryan tested the air again, but there was no trace of the hypnotic perfume of that deadly flower from Georgia. Lots of plants were mutated, some of them even better than in predark days. But not that thing he and Krysty had found inside that deadly sports arena.
Bypassing all other levels, the men headed straight for the armory. Most of the redoubts were exactly the same, and the companions could find their way through the redoubts with their eyes closed, a feat that had saved their lives several times. Only a scant few were oddballs, with unique designs or layouts. Thankfully, this wasn’t one of them.
Passing a skeleton on the stairs, they entered the garage and stopped. There were no tools on the walls, no wags in the parking spaces, even the fuel drums were missing. Those were often empty, but almost always still in the redoubt.
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