“Black dust!” he whispered, reaching out a finger to touch the autoblaster as if he couldn’t believe it was really there. Then he jerked his hand away. “You can’t be serious. Thisthis is for barons, not sergeants. And you folks going to need every wep if you’re going against Overton and his blue boys.”
“We have enough, and better than this.” Then Mildred added a lie, knowing the honest man simply wouldn’t accept the priceless weapon as a gift. “And we damn well want it returned afterward or it’s your ass. Friend or not!”
“Fair enough,” he said softly, and lifted the weapon as if it were made of fragile glass already filled with cracks. The balance was excellent, and the stock fit snug in his palms as if the machine were made just for the sheer pleasure of chilling.
“These adjustable sights?”
“Yes, the little screw over there.”
“I see it. Any spare clips?” he asked.
Mildred placed three full magazines on the table, the curved metallic boxes smeared with blood. Daffer made no comment at the sight.
“You got to show me how to work this thing,” he admitted sheepishly. “Wheelguns and bolt actions are all I know.”
Over the next hour, Mildred ran through the basics with the man. Already a seasoned fighter, he learned quickly.
“Short burst, you say, don’t ride the trigger like a runaway horse.”
“Beginner’s mistake,” she agreed, checking on Tabitha. Her pulse was good, breathing easy and regular. The mother-to-be was simply asleep. “Burp the rounds, unless there’s a whole gang of people, then pull the trigger hard and move the barrel fast in a sideways figure eight.”
“A what?”
Dipping her forefinger in the ‘shine, Mildred drew the figure on the tabletop. “See? Like this.”
“Leg to head, then again. Oh, I got it. Smart.”
Standing, Daffer rested the heavy assault rifle on his shoulder and experimented, dropping a spent clip and slapping in a reload. The fireplace crackled loudly, filling the hut with waves of warmth. Tabitha moaned softly in her sleep.
A pebble hit the door, and Mildred dropped into a crouch, blaster drawn. Going to the door, she slid the bolts and peeked outside. The truck was gone, and a squad of sec men in blue shirts was going from hut to hut, kicking open doors and checking the occupants at blasterpoint.
“Overton?” Daffer asked, awkwardly holding the AK-47 in his trembling hands. “Let’s send them to hell!”
“There are way too many,” Mildred stated, glancing around the small fortress. “Is there another way out of here?”
“Nope. Except the chimney.”
“Got a cellar, a back room?”
“Don’t even have windows.”
Frantic, Mildred walked to the wall and kicked it resoundingly with her steel-toed boot. The material neither shook nor dented.
“Damn, damn, damn!” she cursed. The guards were a minute away, maybe less. The truck was gone as expected. There was no sense in everybody getting captured again. She might escape alone, but then the blue shirts would have Tabitha as a hostage again, and Daffer would be killed on the spot. They could lock the door and make a stand, but one gren down the chimney and they were toast. Mildred glanced at Tabitha, lying on the bed softly sleeping.
“No,” the physician stated, undoing her blouse. “The bastards aren’t going to get her away from us. Strip.”
Daffer blinked and almost dropped the blaster. “Eh? What was that?”
Mildred dropped her shirt and undid her bra with one hand, while struggling with her belt buckle. “I said strip, man, if you want to save Lady Cawdor and her babe!” Next to go were her beaded plaits.
STANDING ON THE DARK street of the ville, Krysty motioned for Ryan and the others to advance into the fortress. They raced past her, and she stayed behind to cover their rear. Satisfied nobody had spotted them, Krysty started to casually walk toward the drawbridge to make sure their escape route was kept open.
“Hey, you there, Red!”
Icy adrenaline flooded her body at the cry, and Krysty turned, her AK-47 leveled. A platoon of blue shirts was running toward her, armed with longblasters, wheelguns and grens. One large man even carried what resembled a flamethrower, a hideously deadly weapon at close quarters.
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