At a branching corridor, J.B. laid a handful of 7.62 mm rounds on the carpet.
Low on ammo, Doc asked a silent question.
“Don’t touch those,” the Armorer warned. “It’s a special gift for the blue shirts. Trust me.”
Just then, a sec man appeared through the smoke and died from a volley of fire from the companions. But others followed close behind the brave fool. Darting from doorways to tables, the friends made it alive to a set of winding stairs. Abandoning defensive actions, they bolted up the steps until reaching an ornate stained-glass doorway. It was locked, but smashing through, they piled onto the parapet overlooking the southern acres of Front Royal. A team of prisoners was in the distance, cutting grass and stacking it as winter food for the cattle. Clouds moved low in the sky, and the morning shadow of the fortress stretched across the fields and forest.
“Give me a hand here,” Ryan grunted, struggling with a decorative gargoyle set in a niche. Jak and Doc joined the man in rocking the granite statue to and fro until it dropped in front of the open doorway. The curved horns snapped off, but the figure was otherwise undamaged by the short fall.
Crouching behind the outstretched wings of stone, J.B. sprayed a wreath of copper-jacketed 9 mm rounds down the stairs, the slugs bouncing off the curved walls and whining out of sight, but there came no answering cries of pain.
“What these?” Jak asked, dropping his spent shells and thumbing fresh rounds in his Colt Python. Several canvas backpacks lay on the parapet, and he regarded them warily.
“Gifts from Nathan,” Ryan said, grabbing a pack and slinging it across a shoulder. “I told him we would be here if the rad hit the Geiger.”
A group of blue shirts appeared on another parapet opposite from them and started to shoot. The companions ducked, flying granite chips from the misses hitting them with stinging force. The rough stone of the parapets pressed hard into their spines, a cold breeze tugging at their clothes as the men frantically reloaded.
“It has,” J.B. said, firing controlled bursts from the Uzi at the dodging sec men. A man cried out, blood spraying from his shoulder.
Hopefully, Doc ripped open a pack and found food, candles, matches and lots of mixed ammo, but no grens.
“I am less than pleased with the choice of accoutrements,” Doc rumbled in annoyance. “A dozen grens would have done us a world of good.”
Suddenly, a powerful explosion rocketed the stairs, and a billowing cloud of acrid smoke blew out the shattered door and expanded over the parapets. Wails of agony came from below, along with bitter curses and virulent oaths.
“They found my gift,” J.B. stated with a grin, adjusting his glasses.
“What was that?” Dean asked, picking up a backpack.
“I emptied the gunpowder from the bullets and packed them solid with C-4. Not a blaster made can contain that detonation. The fools took off their own arms and hands using my ammo.”
“Thou shalt not steal,” Doc recited, casting away the AK-47 and drawing the LeMat. “Most appropriate.”
J.B. judiciously fired the Uzi at the other parapet, while the others cut loose at the men trying to sneak up the curved stairs.
“They have us trapped,” Dean announced grimly, his left hand holding his right wrist to steady the blaster and get maximum accuracy. “As soon as we run out of ammo, we go into the cellar.”
Doc shuddered, clearly recalling his prior days as a captive to another mad baron fond of torture. “I would rather die fighting,” the time traveler said resolutely.
“We’re not going to surrender,” Ryan said, releasing a shard of colored glass from the broken door and watching it tumble into the moat. The wind took it a bit to the left. “And we’re not going to die. We’re going to jump.”
“Jump?” J.B. repeated, dropping a spent clip and replacing it with a fresh magazine. His munitions bag was alarmingly light in weight. Stretching his neck, the Armorer stole a peek at the choppy waters below. “Dark night, it’s five freaking stories, and that’s a shallow-ass moat, not a river. We’ll hit bottom and break every bone we got!”