James Axler – Rat King

“I wonder how much more he can take,” Krysty added.

“So do I. It’s hard enough to figure out what’s happened to his metabolism

anyway, without the stresses of a mat-trans jump and a nerve-gas gren adding to

it in such quick succession.”

She was still holding Doc’s wrist when his slack hand suddenly made a grab for

her arm, holding it tightly with a strength belied by his skinny frame. His eyes

opened wide, staring glassily into the light above her.

“Ah, Emily, my dear. Is it teatime already? I fear I am studying too hard, as I

seem to fall into the arms of Morpheus far too quickly. So tired… Tell me, did

you toast me a muffin, and is there honey for tea? I promise that I will take

you and the children for a picnic when the weather improves enough.”

Doc’s rambling didn’t disguise the click of the door as it opened behind them.

Ryan turned slowly. No need to turn quickly and make jumpy trigger fingers itch

on their blasters.

A man and a woman stood just inside the room. Both sec guards held 9 mm Heckler

& Koch MP-5 K blasters, with the casual air of the regular user who was used to

little opposition. Light grip, ready to brace and tighten on the trigger in an

instant. They felt they didn’t have to keep on the alert, as the blasters would

take out the closely gathered group in front of them with ease.

In Deathlands you always kept on the alert or got chilled.

Ryan noted it as mistake number two.

Chapter Three

“Is there any point in asking where you’re taking us?” Ryan asked as they exited

the room.

“Shut up and walk,” Murphy replied, a smile playing across his face.

His captain reveled in having the upper hand. Ryan could see that it made him

sloppy. The Heckler & Koch was pointing downward at an angle of about sixty

degrees. It would take him precious fractions of a second to level it.

The corridor was a typical redoubt corridor. Long, with a dull floor and walls

broken only by the installation of vanadium-steel sec doors.

It was bizarre to see shuffling figures attending to maintenance tasks. One man

was mopping the floor; another had the control panel off a sec door and was

staring blankly at the wires, as though trying to remember why he had taken it

off in the first place.

“John, is it me or is this ridiculous?” Mildred whispered from the side of her

mouth to the Armorer, who was walking slowly beside her. “They call this an

armed guard?”

“They’re either triple stupe or it’s a trap of some kind,” J.B. replied.

“Problem is, I can’t figure out what kind of trap.”

“Or why… I’ll go for the stupe option. Maybe they just need to get out more.”

Panner heard the whispered conversation and yelled, “Hey, shut the fuck up, you

black bitch. And you, four-eyes.”

Mildred’s lips tightened, and J.B. could feel her body tense beside him. Not

that he was exactly pleased at being insulted by someone who was made brave by a

blaster.

“Oh-oh,” Dean murmured to himself, exchanging a shifting glance with Jak. Both

were aware of Mildred’s intense hatred of stupes who picked on her color. Both

knew it would be stored up for a future occasion.

Which came sooner than they expected.

Doc had been lagging behind. He walked slower than the rest of the party, and

Panner had gleefully jabbed him in the ribs with the barrel of her weapon,

spurring him on. Looking over his shoulder, Ryan wasn’t sure if the old man was

planning something or if the effects of the jump and the nerve-gas gren still

debilitated him. He tried to look at Krysty, to see if she could give him some

indication. To see if she could sense something.

There wasn’t time.

Doc was still shuffling, and Panner shoved him again. Harder, this time. Hearing

her braying laugh, J.B. looked around at the same time as Ryan.

Both men knew instinctively that Doc was giving them an opportunity to move. He

had timed his last shuffle until they passed the point where one of the