“Hate to let them go,” Nathan said, a loaded AK-47 slung over a shoulder, his pockets bulging with clips. “But as the man said, I gave my word.”
“However, sir,” Doc admonished, cheerfully gesturing at the cave with his swordstick, “observe the cornucopia of supplies they have left behind for us. Crates of MRE packs, enough to feed hundreds of people. Blasters galore, a literal ton of ammunition, a second electric generator!”
“It will all be useful in rebuilding the ville,” the baron agreed. “That’s for damn sure.”
Inside the cave, several brown shirts were going through the collection of supplies, making a quick inventory.
“And don’t forget the three busted armored personnel carriers,” Clem added, polishing a stain off the stock of his bolt-action Enfield. So far, there was no ammo in his caliber stored in the cave, but the hunter had no plans on giving up the new blaster until kin pried it from his dead hands.
Then Clem gave a wry smile. “What the hell, mebbe we could make one good APC out of the mess.”
“Possible,” Jak agreed, stropping a knife before tucking it up his sleeve. “Odd, the radio.”
“You mean the way they pretended to accidentally smash it?” Nathan frowned thoughtfully. “Guess I might have done the same in their place.”
“No,” Jak corrected, sliding the whetstone into a pocket. “Radios don’t work. Why break?”
“Why indeed,” the baron mused.
Diplomatically, J.B. shifted his cigar stub from one side of his mouth to the other, but made no comment on the incident with the radio. He had a crazy idea, but wanted to discuss it with Ryan first.
Chewing on a dehydrated sandwich from an MRE pack, Dean approached the group from the cave, the light casting a long shadow ahead of the boy. “We finished removing the rest of the TNT sticks, so nobody can blow up the site underneath us,” he reported with a full mouth. “Now what?”
“Inventory,” Nathan said wearily. “Then we start hauling the stuff to Front Royal. The runners have already left. With luck, the wags should be here by dawn.”
“Sounds good. Any word on the horses?”
The baron laughed, the sound seeming alien amid the massive destruction. “The Casanova horses are gone and forgotten. Those animals won’t stop running until they reach the ocean.”
Accepting that, Dean paused for a long overdue swallow. “So, what about Dad?” he asked, jerking a thumb. Over by the hole in the soil, Mildred was bandaging Ryan’s wounds. There were lots of them covering his muscular form, but nothing major. Mostly scratches, cuts and bruises.
“Your dad is fine,” Krysty said, sitting gratefully on a wheel blown off one of the LA Vs. She ached everywhere.
“I meant the other guy.”
Doc made a rude noise. His opinion of the matter was easily readable from his expression.
“Oh, him,” Clem drawled, a hand tightening on the loaded longblaster. “Mildred said she would keep a close watch and let us know when it’s official.”
“Good,” the boy said grimly. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“OKAY, YOU’RE DONE,” Mildred stated, pressing the last adhesive strip onto the bandage. “It was only a flesh wound, a lateral dermal slash with no depth worth mentioning.”
“Thanks,” Ryan said, standing and tucking in his shirt. The new garment was a rich blue, taken from the stores in the cave. He hated the color, but at least it did fit. He’d replace it as soon as possible.
“Go get some food,” she said, packing away her meager medical supplies, now depleted nearly to non-existence after treating so many wounded. “I think the browns have started raiding the MRE packs.”
“That’s close enough to food for me,” Ryan agreed, and the man shuffled off, too tired to lift his boots any higher than necessary.
Fighting off a yawn, Mildred rubbed her weary eyes. God, they all needed sleep badly, but the work wasn’t finished. Not quite yet, anyway. Strange that there were enough blasters in the cave to start a war, but not a single medical bag or first-aid kit.
Walking over to the square hole in the ground, the shape too reminiscent of a grave for her comfort, Mildred climbed inside the crate. An oil lantern bathed the dying man in bright light. His face pale and waxy, Overton lay sprawled on the dirty floor, a bloody blanket covering the worst of his injuries. The bulletproof jacket had taken the brunt of the Thompson attack, but a score of small-caliber wounds peppered his shoulders, limbs, throat and, worst, his stomach. There was simply nothing more painful than getting belly-shot. Survivors said it was like having your guts on fire, while being eaten alive by ants from the inside. Mildred had personally witnessed several people take their own lives to escape the incredible pain.