“Wolfram’s room,” Mildred said, pushing open a side door, shaking her head in disgust at the 3-D pornographic posters that covered the walls. There were heavy floral draperies over the shuttered windows and soft scatter cushions in pallid shades of silk and satin. By the bed lay a plaited whip, with matted thongs. A ceramic Buddha held several sticks of highly scented incense that still smoldered. “More like a whore’s boudoir,” she commented before moving down the corridor.
“The Magus.” Krysty paused in an open doorway to a totally bare room, painted in various shades of gray, panels of steel drilled to the walls. It contained a single iron-framed bed, covered by one white blanket. A black chest of drawers seemed to hold all of the Magus’s possessions. The only ornamentation was a length of coiled chrome chain, dangling from a corner of the ceiling.
Krysty shuddered at the bleak chill.
“Where are?”
“There.” Mildred had gone ahead into the open space that had been used as a dining room. On a side table were all of their weapons.
Krysty snatched up her own Smith amp; Wesson double-action 640, checking automatically that it was fully charged. Mildred kissed her Czech ZKR 551 target pistol, weighing it in her hand, knowing immediately from the balance that it held all six of the big Smith amp; Wesson .38 rounds.
“Now let’s do some business,” she said.
Had they looked around, they would have glimpsed a tall, elongated silhouette of a man standing stock-still, behind them, in the entrance to the building. He was less than a dozen paces from them, his goatlike head to one side, a bitter half smile on his twisted mouth.
The Magus turned to Wolfram, who was about to push past him, checking him with a hand on the arm.
“No,” he whispered. “The race is lost. They have their blasters and the others are coming.”
“We can get men”
“No, Gert. A wise man knows when to fold his hand and quietly leave. The rats have deserted the ship, and we are sinking. I feel company coming through the woods toward us. They will not be merciful.” He touched Wolfram lightly on the cheek with a steel-tipped index finger. “Farewell.”
Next moment the hall was empty, and Gert Wolfram was standing alone.
THE FRIENDS MET UP in the shadowy hallway of the main building.
“No time for talk,” Ryan said. “Reckon stickies’ll be on their way from every damned direction. Sec men have done a runner. Get your blasters and we’ll head out.”
“Seen Wolfram or Magus?” Jak asked, strapping on his satin-finish Colt Python, the blaster banging against his skinny thigh.
Krysty nodded. “They were both after us, but they’ve vanished.”
“Keep a watch out for them,” J.B. warned, snatching the moment to give Mildred a quick hug and kiss. “Still time for them to do some back-shooting.”
Doc flourished his rapier, half drawing it from the ebony sheath. “Sooner we get away from this jungle hellhole, the happier I shall be.”
J.B. looked at Ryan. “We can stand and fight the muties when they get here. And I reckon that won’t be long.”
“Can’t we hide in the forest?” Krysty asked.
Ryan sniffed, looking around the deserted compound. “Guess not, lover. Wolfram said they had a shit-lot of stickies. Could be a hundred or more. They come in from out there with the way they got of scenting norms” His eye was caught by the first dawn light on the canopy of the bobbing balloon. “No,” he said. “There’s our way.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The only pause came as they reached the rear gates of the fortress, which swung open on their broken hinges. A sec man was lying by them, hideously burned, resembling a charred log with jagged branches. One bloody eye blinked open from the blackened skin of his face, and his tongueless mouth opened and closed.
Ryan barely broke stride, unsheathing the panga in a whisper of steel and kneeling to slit the dying man’s throat, dodging the flood of arterial blood.
“Getting soft in old age, Ryan,” Jak mocked.
“Nothing’s forever,” he replied, heading through the fringe of the trees, along the beaten track to the balloon.