James Axler – Stoneface

Ryan finally regained his voice. “What was that J.B. said? The mother of all stockpiles?”

Mildred husked out a small, faint laugh. “John had no idea, did he?”

Chapter Twenty

The sun rose in the east and streaked red ripples on the roof of the departing AMAC. Dust rose in gray spirals from beneath the tires as it rumbled through Helskel.

Krysty, Doc, J.B. and Jak stood outside the wag compound and watched as the big armored vehicle shrank in the distance. Krysty’s eyes were wet as she murmured, “Please, Gaia, watch over them and keep them safe.”

J.B. took off his spectacles and made a show of cleaning the lenses. “Goddamn dustgets on everything.” His voice was unsteady.

Behind them, a sec man swung the wire gate shut and ..clicked a heavy padlock into place. “Best move on, folks,” he said.

Doc cleared his throat and recited softly, “‘The lamentable change is from the best. The worst returns to laughter.'”

Jak glanced at him. “What supposed to mean, Doc?”

“It is from Shakespeare. I disremember which play or sonnet. I surmise the meaning is simpleas long as we still laugh, we have not met the worst.”

Krysty shook her head. “I don’t feel much like laughing.”

“Me either,” Jak said. “Feel more like breakfast.” As they turned and trudged up the street, Krysty whispered, “You get an eyeful, J.B.?”

“Yeah,” he answered in a low voice, ducking his head. “One of the dune buggies looks to be our best bet. Small, fast, maneuverable. Simple to hot-wire. Even if there’s a plas-ex theft deterrent connected to the ignition, it’ll be a cinch to disarm.”

As the four people walked toward the eatery, no one else ventured forth on the streets. As early as it was, there should have been a few people, if only those staggering home from an all-night drunk.

Doc shouldered his cane jauntily and murmured, “From the oppressive atmosphere, it appears friend Ryan’s assessment was correct.”

No one responded. All of them had stayed awake most of the night, huddled in Krysty and Ryan’s room, talking in whispers, planning courses of action.

The question that never arose among them was, should they trust Lars Hellstrom to allow them the run of Helskel during his absence?

They were, all of them, battle-hardened and scarred veterans of Deathlands. One reason they were veterans and not victims was their almost instinctive distrust of anyone who wielded power over others.

This distrust was similar to a code, as necessary to survival in the wastelands of post-nukecaust America as food and water. So they had devised an escape plan, with Ryan briefing them on the location of the armory where their blasters were stored and how much opposition they could expect.

They had also settled on an escape route, using Hellstrom’s map of Mount Rushmore and the surrounding environs as a blueprint. For the plan to work, it was crucial that they all behave as if they suspected nothing, to maintain the facades of trusting souls, worrying only about their loved ones, off on a mission in the service of Helskel.

They entered the eatery. The heavyset, wart-faced woman behind the counter glanced at them with sullen eyes. She didn’t greet them.

“Breakfast, my good woman!” Doc shouted good-humoredly, rapping the countertop with his swordstick. “First and foremost, deliver to us a pot of your delectable coffee.”

The four companions took seats around a table, and cups and a steaming pot were set before them. The woman didn’t look them in the eye.

They ordered their food. The woman didn’t write down their requests, but her eyes suddenly flickered, casting an anxious glance toward the doorway. Quickly she turned and slipped into the kitchen.

The four sec men entered quietly, lining the counter, leaning against it lazily. A couple of them stifled yawns. Phil seemed to be the leader of the quartet. He met Krysty’s gaze and grinned. “Got tired of breakfast in bed, little princess?”

She returned the grin. “No, I got tired of seeing your ugly face first thing every morning. But as long as you’re here, fetch us some bread and butter.”

Phil stiffened, brows drawing low over his eyes. His hand strayed to the butt of his blaster. “You mutie whore. I’ll show you some fetchin’.”