Krysty opened an emerald-bright eye. “Do this mean what I think it do?”
He laughed. “Yeah. It do.”
THERE WAS NO FOOD in the redoubt.
At least there was nothing in the sections to which they had access. They could get into the kitchens that had prepared meals for the entire command of the fortress, probably two or three thousand strong at its height, but the kitchens were a melancholy fugue in dull, echoing chrome.
Row upon row of stoves, storage closets and garbage disposals stood silent and unused. Most were in amazingly good condition, with very little evidence of decay, looking as though they could be made operational again at a few minutes’ notice if the call came.
“The call never came,” J.B. said.
The main commissary section of the redoubt had also been stripped totally bare, emptiness wall to wall with scratches on the concrete where equipment had been moved.
“Soon as we get out of here we’d best get some hunting done. Or fishing.” Ryan patted the walnut stock of the Steyr SSG-70 affectionately.
“Long as we don’t walk out into some raging rad hot spot,” Jak said.
“Think this is Tennessee?” Jak asked.
“No way of knowing.” Ryan looked at the Armorer. “Any thoughts, J.B., on where we might be?”
The glasses glinted as he shook his head. “Jump code said Tennessee. Didn’t say where. We’ve been around the state with Trader and the war wags.”
Ryan grinned. “Good times and bad times, huh? There’s some places around here where Trader’s name’s as fragrant as a straight-edge razor.”
“Be good to see old Muddy again. Been awhile.”
“I visited Memphis once,” Mildred said. “Wanted to see Graceland.”
“What’s that?” Jak asked.
“Place where Elvis lived. And if you ask me who Elvis is, young Jak, then I shall be happy to kick you into the middle of next month.”
“Some kinda singer?” the teenager asked innocently.
Mildred shook her fist at him. “Some kinda singer? Yeah, he was some kinda singer.”
THEY HAD CHECKED OUT everywhere except the mysterious section labeled ART.
According to the master plan of the redoubt, this lay roughly between where they’d slept and the main entrance.
They were still coming up with fresh guesses as to the meaning of the letters.
Doc, not surprisingly, had gone way out on a limb with some of his more bizarre theories.
“A shrine dedicated to the goddess Artemis? Or some reference to a cult who tried to follow the spirit of King Arthur? Or, as we all obviously know, there was a son of Xerxes the First of Persia, whose name was Artaxerxes.”
“I reckon it’s short for Artillery,” J.B. said. “Now, that would be something.”
Ryan whistled softly between his teeth. “A whole segment of a redoubt dedicated just to artillery. Now, that would be something that most barons would give their right arms for. Never thought of that.”
Krysty smiled at Mildred. “Want to leave the boys to play with their toys, honey?”
“Sure could do that, sweet thing. You and me can go down to the club and get in some serious dancing.”
“I would not be averse to cutting a rug with a hot patootie myself,” Doc said, twirling the ends of an imaginary mustache. “Big guns are not my idea of fun.”
Ryan shrugged. “Fine, fine. Have your little jokes, friends. If it really is artillery, then we could mebbe make us some triple-serious jack out of it.”
“Then let’s go,” Krysty said.
THE SEC DOOR HAD BEEN LEFT shut on a manual override, like the entrance to the gateway units, a plain green lever that was lifted up to raise the door.
They found themselves in an open area, with three rooms opening off it.
“Entrance is along there,” J.B. said, indicating the right-hand entrance.
“So the ART place must be through those two.” Ryan had the SIG-Sauer unholstered.
There was a warning notice just inside the first doorway, explaining just what ART meant.
It wasn’t artillery.
In fact it wasn’t any of their guesses.
This section is closed to all personnel below B6 grading, and a special written pass is required at all times. No smoking and no food to be permitted in this section. Everything contained within this section is the property of the Tennessee Museum of Modern American Art and is not to be damaged, altered, moved or removed without proper cognitive authority.