James Axler – Rat King

Ryan’s anger retreated into amusement. The boy could have been him. There was so

much of Ryan Cawdor in his son that he would have to watch him in a few years.

The lad would want to assert himself.

But that could be dealt with when the time came. Right now they had to get the

hell out of this fireblasted pesthole.

Ryan grinned. “You know I’m right. You said it yourself, son. Heading for the

armory is only double stupe. That’s one less than heading for the outside.”

Dean shrugged. “Mebbe you’re right,” he said grudgingly.

The elevator shuddered to a halt at the right level. As the door slid open, the

levity of a few seconds earlier was forgotten. Split into two, the friends

flattened themselves against the sides of the car, taking advantage of the scant

cover provided by the control panel and intercom on each side of the elevator

doors.

The corridor in front of them was empty.

Moving out in formation, falling into position with familiarity, they headed

down the corridor.

When they reached the unguarded armory, they received a shock that was more

jolting than a surprise attack. The doors to the armory had been left open, and

after J.B. had run an expert eye over them to check for any booby traps, Jak

made his way inside while the others surveyed the corridors.

Jak reappeared with a baffled expression.

“What is it?” Krysty asked.

“Better see for self,” Jak replied.

J.B. and Krysty entered the armory.

“Well, what can you make of that?” Krysty whispered, bemused.

J.B. shrugged. “Not worth thinking about—just act on it.”

He moved forward to the collection of objects that had been the cause of their

bemusement. The walls and floors of the armory were, for the most part, stripped

bare—with the exception of a small pile of blasters and ammunition that lay in

the center of the floor.

J.B. hunkered down and poked at them with the end of his blaster, in case there

was any hidden trap. As he had expected by now, there was no catch. The pile

consisted of the weapons they had possessed when they entered the redoubt.

“What is it?” Ryan whispered, glancing over his shoulder at the armory.

“Expect the unexpected,” J.B. replied cryptically.

Ryan furrowed his brow and looked at Doc, who shrugged.

“John Barrymore—as elliptical as ever,” Doc told him.

The Armorer ignored the comments from outside and concentrated on the blasters

in front of him. Ryan’s weighted scarf was neatly coiled, and the SIG-Sauer and

panga were gleaming, while the Steyr SSG-70 had been greased and loaded. His

M-4000 was similarly overhauled, and the Uzi was ready for action. His knife was

gleaming and freshly whetted. Best of all, his minisextant, which he had thought

lost, was in the pile. He pocketed it before proceeding to examine the rest of

the blasters—Mildred’s ZKR, Krysty’s Smith & Wesson 640, Doc’s lion’s-head

swordstick and LeMat blaster, Dean’s Browning Hi-Power, Jak’s .357 Magnum Colt

Python and—best of all—the full collection of leaf-bladed throwing knives, all

freshly whetted.

J.B. allowed himself a small smile, knowing how the taciturn Jak would be

pleased to have these returned to him, but wouldn’t show much sign of his

pleasure. He called over his shoulder.

“Wallace’s up to something strange. All our blasters are here, all cleaned and

loaded. Come and get them.”

They collected their weapons one at a time, gradually gaining confidence as the

guard in the corridor increased in firepower. Yet at the same time they were all

puzzling over the central problem—what was Wallace’s intent in leaving nothing

but their own weapons in the armory, all in full working order.

It was almost as though he wanted them to escape, despite the noises he had made

about needing Doc.

There had to be some kind of warped thinking behind it all, but it would have

been foolish not to take the opportunity to get their blasters back. J.B.

finally emerged from the armory when everyone had collected his or her weaponry.

“Feels better,” Jak grunted, adjusting to the change in weight the knives made

in his patched jacket as it hung on his lean frame. Like the others, he had