James Axler – Bitter Fruit

“So I see,” the older man responded. “Shall I lead the way?”

“No. Just making sure you were in step is all.”

By some counts, Dr. Theophilus Algernon Tanner was nearly two and a half centuries old. He was tall and skinny, built like a leaned-out stork. He was the first success logged by Operation Chronos in the predark days.

Operation Chronos had been part of the Totality Concept, which was developed to explore arcane and esoteric means of future warfare. The focus of Operation Chronos had been time trawling, moving things and individuals through the time stream. Doc was the only human to ever make the trip in one piece, though what it did to his sanity was questionable. He’d been ripped from his family, whom he’d adored, and left stranded in a world he had no way of understanding.

Doc had been welcome to Operation Chronos department heads for only a short time. As a success, he was meant to be cherished. All Doc had wanted to do was get back home. He’d been adamant about the return trip, then forceful. After that hadn’t worked, he’d become openly rebellious and downright dangerous. In the end, the department heads had taken a vote, then kicked Doc a hundred years into the future. He’d landed smack in the middle of Deathlands and eventually met Ryan and the companions.

In the uncertain light of the torches, he looked like some kind of phantom from an old Dickens story Krysty could remember her mother reading to her. Tall and spindly, crowned by a mane of silvery hair that framed his gnarled face, Doc wore Victorian dress with ease. His black frock coat had acquired a greenish hue and luster from age and wear. His knee breeches showed evidences of serviceable stitching, as well as some from a less skilled hand. His knee boots were cracked leather. The Le Mat blaster in his right hand was cocked and steady.

Certain that Doc was fully with her, Krysty pushed the panel beside the door with her thumb while maintaining her hold on the torch. The circuitry hummed when the contacts were made, and the door recessed into the wall.

With her blaster at waist level, Krysty thrust the torch inside the room and followed it. She hadn’t expected the door to be powered.

“Mask, Doc,” Krysty said, shoving her blaster through the front of her belt. She tugged at the cloth around her neck that she’d raided from one of the med kits they’d turned up during the initial forays on the complex, pulling it up so that it covered her nose and mouth. Breathing was a little harder, but it was worth the extra effort to keep the dust out.

Doc pulled his up, too, looking for all the world like one of the masked desperadoes in the bits of predark vids the woman had seen. Another time Krysty might have pointed out the humor.

When she’d first entered the complex, Krysty had figured the former military installation was going to be a bust. Maybe a few things would be worth salvaging, but nothing that would change their lives. The first few levels had been a washout. On the surface, there was nothing but death. None of the power had worked, though the rumors had hinted at nuclear-powered levels somewhere below ground.

But now she and Doc had reached an area where a powered door still worked. It was a situation that lent itself to caution.

“I am afraid I am going to have to light up another torch,” Doc said. The one he held had dimmed to something less than the size of his fist, casting little light.

Krysty nodded. “Go ahead. Won’t make matters that much worse.” And it was better to have two torches going, in case one went out or had to be jettisoned to free a hand for a weapon. Her throat tightened in anticipation of the acrid smoke that would be generated as the oily dew burned off the folds of cloth when it was first ignited.

“Mayhap lighting it in the hallway would be helpful,” Doc suggested.

“Fine.” Krysty scanned the interior of the office, taking in the skeleton behind the large metal desk. “Just don’t get out of earshot, okay?”