“Good luck,” Dean said from the open doorway, blaster in hand. “Good hunting!” Slowly, the massive portal swung closed, the sweep of light narrowing to a slim vertical line, and then with a muffled clang it was gone. The bolts driving home sounded unnaturally loud.
Chapter Seven
Rolling over the barren landscape, the sputtering motorcycle braked to a halt in the front of the low hill. The swell was covered with the ash-colored concrete like everything else, and only its height made it visible above the sterile plain. Driving around the hill, the blue shirt stopped again as he found a small recess, a short alley that led to an imposing door made of black metal.
“This is it,” the rider said, turning off the struggling machine and lowering the kickstand. Climbing off the bike, the sec man stepped out of the safety cage surrounding the vehicle and began to unlock the chains holding his passenger motionless against the gridwork of iron bars. Softly, the big engine began to tick as it started to cool.
Pulling the length of chain free from the man and bars, the blue shirt stepped away from the bike and drew a blaster.
“Okay, get busy,” the sec man ordered, waving the weapon.
“Yes, master,” the old slave said, rubbing his chaffed wrists and awkwardly climbing from inside the safety cage, heavy chains dangling between his scrawny ankles. Shuffling to the strange armored door, the whitehair couldn’t help but gasp. The material was a black metal unlike anything he had ever seen. It was marred by fire, but still solid and strong. What blacksmith could have possibly made this colossal door?
“What are you waiting for?” the blue shirt demanded, squatting on the smooth rocky soil.
“Yes, master,” the man repeated, rummaging around in his loincloth for the sheaf of papers the baron himself had pressed into his handsalong with a promise of freedom if he was successful. That he didn’t believe, but this was better duty than mucking out the sewers or cutting stone in the quarry. Squinting at the print, he tapped in the first line of letters and numbers. Nothing happened.
“Keep going,” the blue shirt snapped, lighting a cig and drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. “You only got this job ’cause you can read. Don’t stop till I tell you to, or you’ll taste the lash.” He patted the knotted leather coil of the bullwhip hanging at his side. “Get me?”
“Of course, sir,” the oldster whimpered, continuing to tap figures and letters into the little pad. Hopefully, he would soon find the key to the black door, the sec man would chill him then and his pain would end.
Then the realization hit him, success meant death! Redoubling his efforts, the old man started to type in the combinations faster and faster, praying and hoping the door would open soon.
THE TUNNEL STRETCHED for quite a way.
“Few droppings,” Jak noted as they proceed. “No bats.”
Keeping his torch high to avoid splatter from the grease, Ryan agreed. He had been in caves where the guano had been feet deep. Once he saw man drown in the stuff before they could throw a rope and drag the poor bastard to safety. But this tunnel was clean of bat shit, which meant there was no easy access to the outside. Then again, they were fifteen stories underground. Did bats fly that far to nest? He didn’t know.
At an intersection, the companions paused to check the side tunnels. Both ended after only a few hundred yards. Whatever the military had been building down here was going to be extensive.
“Mebbe they were making a permanent vault for the art,” Krysty asked softly.
“Makes sense,” Mildred replied. “If you can say anything the government did in those days made sense.”
“Don’t like this,” J.B. said, adjusting his glasses. “No equipment anywhere.”
Ryan agreed. “Means that folks have been down here. Crabs got no use for hammers and dynamite.”
After a while, the torches began to dim, so the companions took a rest and dropped the burning rags on the torches to the ground, then wrapped each handle with fresh strips and oil and lit them anew. When the job had been completed, they moved onward, leaving the smoldering rags behind to help mark the way home. The tunnel before them seemed to stretch forever.