Jak ran a quick circuit of the rooftop and came back. “All around us.”
Ryan put a fresh magazine into the SIG-Sauer and pocketed the empty. One of the things he’d hoped to find in Idaho Falls was a new supply of magazines for the weapon and military-issue 9 mm rounds left over from before the skydark. He was down to three magazines for the blaster, and in a sustained firelight he didn’t have time to keep feeding fresh cartridges into magazines.
He glanced at the rooftop-access door in the center of the building. The air-conditioning units and other HVAC equipment had long since been stripped from the rooftop, harvested for the compressors and other salvageable parts, as well as for the metal itself. A lead-filled pipe was easy to make, and could be a hell of a weapon in close quarters.
“Get the door open,” he told Jak.
The albino nodded and hurried away.
During the search earlier, Ryan had noticed that it was stuck. The lock had been ripped from the door, but the collapse of the building had caused the door to jam. He’d left it alone then, figuring it served to contain whatever lurked below. But now it offered a possible escape route.
With the loaded blaster in one fist, Ryan grabbed Krysty by the shoulder and rolled her over.
She twisted bonelessly, and the loose way she moved made him certain she was dead.
The breath caught in Ryan’s throat as he stared down at his lover’s pale face. Then he noticed her breasts rise with a drawn breath, and he began to breathe again himself. Gently he reached toward her face, cupping it in his callused hand.
“Wake up,” he said.
Her eyelids jerked, then flew backward to reveal the bloodshot whites of her eyes. The irises rolled back up into her head. She convulsed, like someone near to drowning just coming back to take his or her first breath.
“Krysty,” Ryan said hoarsely. He patted her cheek tenderly but with force enough to rock her head slightly. “You’ve got to get up.”
Abruptly she sat up, her eyes snapping into focus like electronic sights on a war wag. “Do not presume to touch me again, whoreson!”
DEAN RAN POINT for the companions as they sped back into the collection of gutted buildings. He kept the Browning Hi-Power in his fist and worked on keeping his mind clear, as well. Gunfire cracked and echoed between the structures. The hounds’ baying sent a chill down his back.
“Slow down, Dean!” Mildred yelled at him from behind. “This isn’t a race.”
Changing his stride, Dean made for an L-shaped corner of a building foundation sticking up from the weed-covered ground. He hunkered down behind it and studied the broken terrain in front of him.
The baron’s riders had closed on the coldhearts, splitting the groups off into miniature battlefields. Both sides knew each other from the sound of the shouted oaths and vehemence they exhibited in their efforts to kill one another. But neither side appeared to be suicidal, taking cover where they found it and trying to get a better position. The dogs also became a factor, charging in under the jumbled mess of broken rock and attacking from the rear. Where most of the coldhearts’ weapons were single shot and single action, Baron Shaker’s men carried a number of semiautomatic rifles and handblasters.
The coldhearts tried to form a skirmish line, but the best they could do was slow the advance of the riders. However, as the Slaggers drew more deeply into the ville toward the junkyard of dead wags, they held back the riders’ advance with increasing success.
“Damn,” Mildred gasped as she reached the foundation remnant. “You call that a trot? I distinctly remember John telling you to strike a reasonable pace.” Her words were broken up by her struggles to catch her breath.
Dean wasn’t even breathing hard. “I can’t help it if I move so quick.”
“You run off and get your ass shot up, you won’t be so damn proud of being a speed demon,” Mildred told him.
A gray furred shape sprang from the other side of the foundation, scrabbling at the irregular surface of the mortar chunk with its black claws. The jaws were open wide, revealing the pink gums and white fangs.