James Axler – Cold Asylum

His guess was that this particular military complex had been used mainly for medical purposes, perhaps as some sort of secret hospital.

It crossed his mind to wonder whether there might still be some stores of predark pharmaceutical drugs. Vacuum-sealed and often still usable, they were one of the most sought-after commodities in all Deathlands. When he’d ridden with the Trader they’d almost always had stocks of drugs on board the war wags.

The rectangular digital clock on the opposite wall of the control room was showing 0805. Ryan checked his wrist chron and corrected it. The only person who would be able to find out where they were with any accuracy would be J. B. Dix, who always carried a miniature sextant in one of the capacious pockets of his coat.

From the apparent time change, Ryan could only guess that he was probably somewhere in what had once been called the Central Time Zone. But that could mean anywhere from the Canadian Arctic clear down to the Gulf of Mexico.

Thinking of J.B. made Ryan realize once more the isolation of his position.

There might well be clues if he moved out from the mat-trans unit into the remainder of the complex, clues that would tell him precisely where he was.

But there was no possible way of finding out where Krysty and Dean and the others had gone.

Alive or dead?

Now that he’d made the fresh jump, Ryan hadn’t really done that much to improve his position. He could either try a third jump or he could cut his losses and go out to explore the redoubt.

On balance, that seemed the only viable option.

So he took it.

THERE WAS NO TRACE of any human activity within the whole of the mat-trans section, no sign that anyone had been there since the first fatal weeks of 2001.

Ryan reached the control lever for the sec doors. Finding it in the down, “closed” mode. He had the Steyr slung over his shoulder, the SIG-Sauer in his hand. Cautiously he eased the green lever upward, stopping the doors when they’d moved only a couple of inches toward the ceiling.

He flattened himself and peered through the gap, sniffing the faint draft that seeped in from the corridor beyond. There was no sign of freshness that might indicate the redoubt had been broken into. At least the immediate area seemed to be secure, though Ryan could detect an odd, vaguely chemical scent, which he figured could have something to do with the building having once been used as a hospital.

He pushed the lever again, lifting the doors another eight or nine inches, alert to drop them if he caught any hint of danger. But the passage beyond was silent and seemed to be completely deserted.

Finally the gap was wide enough for him to slide through, checking both ways. As was often the case, the mat-trans unit was placed at the farthest extremity of the redoubt, with a blank wall beyond it. To the right he looked along a fairly narrow passage, slightly curving, with the usual overhead strip lighting and the occasional ruby gleam of sec cameras.

Confident he was in no immediate danger, Ryan stood and closed the locking lever on the outside, watching as the dark green vanadium-steel doors slid smoothly down. The last thing he saw was the clock on the wall, showing 0819.

THE DIGITAL CHRON clicked over to 0820. The arma-glass door of the jump chamber trembled as though an invisible hand had been laid on it, then began to close slowly and silently.

Outside, high in one of the corners above the rows of unmanned comp consoles, a crimson warning light flashed while a voice crackled through the speakers, inaudible beyond the double sec doors.

“Matter transfer in progress. Any personnel with a sec rating below B19 must leave immediately, repeat immediately. Matter transfer in progress.”

The metal disks in the top and bottom of the chamber were beginning to glow, and a faint mist was beginning to appear like ectoplasm emanating from a successful medium. The cherry-red color of the walls seemed to be fading.

“Matter transfer completing. Matter transfer completing. Do not open chamber door.”