James Axler – Rat King

J.B. nodded.

“Backs to the wall, people. This is it.”

With caution Ryan tried the wheel lock that opened the chamber door. They hadn’t

seen a chamber door like this since the old military installation in Dulce, New

Mexico. Was this going to be a regular redoubt, or something different? The door

was unusual but the rest of the chamber was the same as most—armaglass, not

concrete like Dulce. The wheel gave easily under his grip, far easier than he

expected. Yet more evidence that this redoubt was in regular use.

Did this mean someone else knew the secret of the gateways?

The wheel spun, and the door opened smoothly.

Only a fraction. Ryan stopped it and braced himself for any immediate attack.

J.B. was at his side, the scattergun up and ready.

Nothing.

“So far, so good.”

“Doesn’t mean much,” the Armorer added. “They’re not stupe enough to rush us.

Could make them more dangerous.”

Ryan nodded. They would proceed as planned.

As they flattened themselves to the green-and-cobalt walls on the left side of

the chamber door, Ryan reached out a hand and steadied himself to fling it open.

J.B. stood slightly away from the wall, to one side of his friend, ready to step

out and fire a covering blast as the one-eyed man flung himself through the

door.

Many years of traversing the Deathlands and encountering death, staring it in

the face before blasting it away, gave the two friends an almost telepathic

bond. Ryan gave only the slightest of nods before flexing his wrist and flicking

the door.

As he had expected from the ease with which the wheel lock had worked, the door

opened freely, as though smoothly oiled and with no friction to impede the

motion.

J.B. stepped in front of the door at an oblique angle, aided by the hexagonal

shape of the chamber, his finger closing on the Smith & Wesson’s trigger and

squeezing until the cartridge exploded with an almost deafening impact in the

enclosed space. The flechettes of barbed steel were driven from the barrel in an

ever-widening arc. Anyone standing in the room beyond wouldn’t be standing for

long.

Ryan sprang through the doorway, rolling across the floor, trying to get a fix

on any possible cover. He moved so quickly on the back of J.B.’s shot that the

hot air from the blaster seemed to brush his cheek as he passed.

His eye took in the surroundings at a glance as he rolled. The throbbing pulse

of the siren still pounded in his head, but otherwise conditions seemed normal.

The usual anteroom was missing, but the control room was fairly standard. There

were the usual free-standing comp terminals, as well as desks, chairs and

terminals that blinked on and off in the controlled atmosphere. The harsh

fluorescent lighting cast no shadow on the room, leaving no place for anyone to

hide.

Ryan came out of the roll into a crouch behind one of the desks, which he pushed

on its side to provide cover. It would be no good against heavy blasters, but

the steel would act as a shield against small-caliber handblasters, as well as

providing a visual blind.

It was only when the clatter of the uprighted desk and comp terminal died away

that he realized the alarm had stopped.

Krysty, Mildred and Jak sprinted from the doorway to cover, risking their speed

in the enclosed space against the reactions of anyone training a blaster on

them.

There were no blasters; there was nothing.

Behind a desk on the far side of the room, Jak picked up a framed photograph

that had been knocked onto the floor. The glass had cracked, throwing a web of

lines across the smiling face of a young woman long since dead. There had been

similar personal mementos on desks in some of the other redoubts they had seen.

They meant nothing to Jak, but it didn’t escape his notice that there was no

dust on the frame. It had been regularly cleaned.

Without pause he threw the frame high in the air, over the top of the desk and

out into the unknown territory that was the rest of the room.