It was true. The companions were exhausted from the transfusions. Just prior to the operation, Mildred had taken a pint and a half from each of them, the maximum that could be safely drained without endangering the giver. Only Ryan’s blood type matched his son’s, so the rest went into mason jars and they were swung overhead at the end of a rope for hours until the clear plasma and the blood cells separated. Mismatch blood types, and a patient suffered horribly. But anybody could accept anybody’s plasma. Some mighty fine engineering there by the Lord, as her father used to remark during his Sunday services.
Not bothering to try to stifle her next yawn, Mildred noticed a lack of enthusiasm from the others.
“I said he’s going to be fine,” she stated irritably. “Why all the long faces?”
“Skyscraper on fire,” Jak said, resting his elbows on his knees, his snowy hair tumbling down to hide his scared features.
The physician frowned. “Still? I thought J.B. said the fires died from the cocktails he and Doc used on the muties.”
“This is the new baron’s work,” Ryan said, stepping from the bedsheet tent, carrying the other lantern. Mildred was right; the boy seemed fine. He put down the lantern he had brought out and turned off the wick. No sense wasting fuel. Dean would sleep regardless, and they were low on juice.
“Set fire to a whole building, just to get rid of us?”
“More likely to flush us out of hiding,” J.B. stated, polishing his glasses on the sleeve of his new shirt. Smelled a bit musty, but it was nice and thick.
“Me, specifically,” Krysty said, tearing open an MRE pack. Suddenly her appetite was back with a vengeance. Using her teeth to open a foil envelope of corned-beef hash, she dug in with the attached plastic spoon. One hundred years old at room temperature, and it tasted like ambrosia.
“Damn.” The physician nervously glanced at the covering of barbed wire and curtains above them as if able to see the tall building fifty blocks away. “Is the blaze spreading?”
“Thankfully no, madam,” Doc replied, resting his chin on top of his cane. “We kept careful track of its progress until the danger passed.”
And they didn’t inform her so she could concentrate on Dean. Smart move. “Think he’ll set fire to the rest of the ruins?”
“I doubt it. Too much here yet to be salvaged. Probably just removing a potential source of danger,” Ryan said, reclaiming a chair and laying the Steyr across his lap. Nimble hands began stripping the blaster for a cleaning. “After all, that’s where I launched the rockets from.”
Mildred chose her next words carefully. “Yeah, about that, why didn’t you use the Hafla to kill the sec men? It carried four rounds. Should have been more than enough. Or do you have a plan cooking?”
“No plan. Just common sense.” Disassembling the rifle without looking, Ryan patiently explained to Mildred that armor-piercing weapons were almost useless against troops. The damn rockets went through a heavy steel bulldozer before exploding. Shoot a man, and they would bury themselves underground. Only kill one or two at the most that way. But seal the tunnel and there were no more reinforcements coming. What troops and supplies Leonard had with him was it until they dug free.
“At least we are safe for a while,” Doc said, getting himself a cup of coffee.
“But while he’s digging in, the others will be digging out,” Krysty said, tossing the trash into a receptacle. “We may have only bought a few days.”
“More than we had before,” Ryan stated, laying aside springs and levers.
“The guy should be delighted we made him baron,” Mildred said, rubbing a tired hand over her face. “Unless Strichland was his father or something.”
“Blood feud.” Jak frowned. “Nasty.”
“Can’t be.” Krysty chewed a brick of gray U.S. Army cheese. “The baron was different, like me, and he wanted to breed a son. So it can’t be a member of his family. He didn’t have any.”
“No, wait,” she added, blinking. “A guard did mention something about a boy named Leonard.”
“So it’s his adopted son who’s after us.”