“Two groups,” Jak stated, pointing toward particular buildings. “One there, other there.”
“Hotel and the sports arena. Any difference in the depths?” Ryan asked. “The muties carrying the supplies should leave a deeper print.”
“None, Mebbe share all.”
“Or thrown it away,” Mildred suggested. A plait of her hair was blown into her mouth, and she spit it out. “We better move fast, or we’ll be feasting on horse steak for the next week.”
“Okay, we split into teams. Krysty, Jak and I will check the arena. You folks hit the hotel.”
“Good or bad,” Ryan continued, “we rendezvous at the insurance company here in thirty minutes. If the other team hasn’t arrived, go find them.”
“Thirty and counting,” J.B. said, looking at his wrist chron. “Check.”
Without further comment, Ryan and the others headed toward the arena.
Unfolding the wire stock of his Uzi, J.B. took the point for his group and started toward the hotel. The main building was a mirrored-glass cylinder, and it was impossible to see if there were any lights or movements in the upper stories. On street level, two low wings stood on either side.
“Swimming pool and restaurant,” Mildred said, stepping over a bent driveshaft that was brown with rust, “if this hotel follows the usual style.”
“No tracks,” Dean said, looking at the street, “that I can see.”
“Nor I,” Doc added, sliding the selector on his blaster from the .63-caliber smooth bore, to the .44-caliber revolver. Against the resilient greenies, the buckshot charge would do scant damage. But the solid-lead mini-balls would, and could, remove heads with the precision of a cannon.
The windows lining the east wing were gone, windblown sand filling the pool nearly to the top. Swinging around the hotel, they found the restaurant to be in a similar condition—broken and deserted. A lizard darted from the shadows and disappeared into the soft sand as if it were water. Not a trace remained of its passage.
“We go in,” J.B. said, straightening his fedora and pulling on his fingerless gloves tighter. “Remember, go for head shots, just like stickies.” Nobody replied, but they raised the sights of their blasters higher.
Under a crumbling overhang, a rusted sign squeaked as it swung back and forth from the gentle wind. Mildred stopped it with her hand, then laid it down flat. Now that they could hear, there was only the soft moan of the desert wind, and the patter of sand hitting glass.
Proceeding in silence, they found the lobby of the hotel dark and smelling of mildew. The front counter sagged in the middle, and a shoe-shine stand was alive with busy termites. The floor was bare concrete, pronged strips at the bottom of the walls showing the floor had once been carpeted.
“Damn, we could track them easy on carpeting,” J.B. said, lighting a candle. The tiny flame illuminated only a few yards, but it was better than nothing.
“There’s an interesting fact I learned on my junkets,” the physician said, holding her own candle high to inspect the ceiling. The tiles were in place, with no indications of bullet holes or accumulated residue from other candles or torches. “In my day, nobody wanted to stay on the thirteenth floor of a skyscraper. Supposed to be bad luck. So the hotel people used the thirteenth floor for themselves as offices and storage. Often, the elevators don’t even list it as existing, but we could get there by taking the service stairs. Service elevator, too. But without power, those are dead.”
“Twenty stories,” J.B. mused, looking behind the counter. Piles of key cards lay on the floor, along with a smashed register. “Thirteen would be a good spot for an ambush. Whether invaders started searching at the bottom, or at the top, once they were higher than thirteen, the greenies could come boiling out and trap their prey.”
“So we start there,” Doc said grimly. “Lead on, my friend.”
Going past a line of pay phones and washrooms, J.B. pushed opened a swing door with the barrel of his Uzi. Stacks of chairs lined their left, wooden easels and plastic signboards to the right.
“No cobwebs,” Dean said, scuffing the floor.
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