James Axler – Cold Asylum

And blasters of every shape, size and age.

At any other time Ryan would have happily spent a full day in savoring the weapons. But now there was only a snatched moment to glance at anything that particularly caught his eye. Some had neat labels pasted beneath them in their display cases, but many more had little or no information an 1860 Henry; a unique Genhart repeating rifle with its revolving cylinder placed horizontally on its top; a trim breech-loading derringer made by David Williamson over two hundred years earlier; a Gerngross breechloader.

J.B. threw over his shoulder the information that it was simply a modification of an earlier needle gun.

J.B. had paused to shake his head at a wonderful example of a Kentucky musket that dated from way back before the Revolutionary War.

“Can’t we take some new blasters, Dad?” Dean asked, admiring a magnificent Sharps buffalo rifle.

“No. They said that our own weapons are up here. We take those and then get out.”

“My God, what are these?”

J.B. skidded to a halt and brought the lamp back to see what Mildred had been admiring.

The case contained a number of tiny little guns, smaller than a man’s palm, with a hole through their engraved butts.

“Knuckle-dusters. Single shot. Fire one bullet, anything from a .22 right up to a big .44. Accurate up to about eighteen inches.”

Krysty kept looking over her shoulder to where Michael was keeping watch. “I think they’re coming,” she said. “Not inside the ville yet, but it won’t be long.”

J.B. was so worked-up that his normal placid nature had vanished. “Skydark! The best blasters in the whole of Deathlands and I can’t even look at them.”

Now, conscious of the increasing pressure, Ryan began to walk faster, His good eye caught familiar and unfamiliar names as he passed the rows of oiled and gleaming metal Colt, Astra, Browning, Detonics, Cimarron, Steyr, Iver Johnson, Heckler amp; Koch, Hammerli, Smith amp; Wesson, Beretta. The list went on and on, a litany of all that was wonderful about the world of predark blasters.

There were revolvers, shotguns, rifles, automatics, machine pistols and even an J-MG, tripod-mounted. A couple of gren launchers made J.B. hesitate.

“No ammo,” he said, moving to the far end, raising his voice. “Here’s our blasters.”

Everyone ran to join him, Doc bringing up the rear. Ryan whistled, beckoning for Michael to leave the landing and retrieve his own centerfire .38.

The storm had eased for a couple of minutes, but now it came surging back with renewed violence. The north tower of the ville shook with the sustained rumble of thunder and a flash of lightning that seemed to hang endlessly suspended, filling the gallery with a shimmering silver-purple light.

It had been so brilliant that, when it faded, it left all of them temporarily blinded.

Doc’s deep voice broke out of the darkness behind them. “By the Three Kennedys! But this is a miracle. Come join me and look.”

Everyone was too busy gathering up their guns and buckling them on.

Ryan felt fully dressed at last with his SIG-Sauer in his right hand, the bloodstained panga sheathed once more. The Steyr was slung over his shoulder, he was ready to go.

J.B. worked the action of the Uzi, head to one side, listening critically. “Needs fieldstripping and oiling,” he muttered, placing the Smith amp; Wesson M-4000, flechette-firing scattergun across his back.

“I say, you people,” Doc called plaintively. “Do come and look here.”

Dean flourished his massive 9 mm Browning Hi-Power, the metal shining in the warm, golden glow of the two oil lamps.

Krysty and Mildred both gripped their blasters, grinning at each other.

The odds were just what they’d been a few minutes ago, and the danger was even more intense. But now they could give a good account of themselves.

They heard smashing glass from the gloom, halfway along the gallery.

“Doc?” Ryan picked up one of the lamps and started off toward the old man, when he heard a loud booming sound from somewhere below them in the tower.

“They’re here,” he said.

HARRY GUTTEAU WASN’T a man much given to disabling attacks of panic, but he had bitten his lip so hard that blood flowed over his chin, unnoticed in the teeming storm.