A low moan sounded from above, the windows softly rattling.
“I have a theory,” Doc rumbled, adding powdered milk and thoughtfully stirring the brew, “that the personnel of our redoubt established this ville. The military hierarchy, the greenhouses, the tunnel in just like our tunnel out.”
Jak looked up from scratching at the bandage on his side. “Shit! New redoubt.”
“Would explain a lot,” Ryan mused, adding a few drops of homogenized oil to the trigger assembly. “And thankfully, they don’t know about the real base in the mountains anymore.”
Muted thunder rumbled somewhere.
“What’s that noise?” Mildred asked, changing the subject. “Storm finally hit?”
“Sandstorm,” Ryan said, sliding the assembly back into the bottom of the stock and tightening the screws. “And a real bastard. That’ll buy more time. It’s why nobody is on guard duty. We can’t even open the door against the pressure of the wind.”
“Once Dean wakes up, I’ll do a few tests and we can leave.”
“Useless to go hunting in a sandstorm,” the Deathland warrior continued. He inserted the bolt into the receiver slot and worked it back and forth a few times to make sure the action was smooth. A drop more oil was added. “Wind blows right down the barrel, and the grit clogs a blaster solid. Can’t get off more than a single shot before they jam.”
“Autofires,” Jak said grimly. “They got muzzle-loaders. Be okay.”
“No, my friend,” Doc stated. “Those will jam also. Much more grease in an iron works of a muzzle-loader than a modern rifle.” He affectionately patted the LeMat on his hip. “Trust me.”
Jak accepted the rebuff. Doc would know.
“Got knives.”
“Sure, but the wind is still too strong. Even if they had diving weights tied to their shoes, the storm would smash them against the buildings like bugs on a windshield.”
“Wonder how the greenhouses survive intact?” Mildred asked pensively.
“Not care,” Jak said. “Their prob.”
“However, when the storm stops, we can expect company.”
Finished with her repast, Krysty wiped her mouth on a tiny moist towelette from the MRE pack. “Think Dean will be ready to travel by then?”
Mildred shrugged. “Hopefully.”
“We aren’t waiting that long,” Ryan said, dropping in a clip of fresh round and ramming the bolt home. “Once the wind dies down a bit, Krysty and I will move out to hit them hard. Cut down the numbers of the opposition as much as possible.”
Unwrapping a stick of sugarless gum, the redhead nodded. The matter had already been discussed between them.
“During a sandstorm,” Doc said, slowly arching an eyebrow.
“How?” Jak asked pointedly.
Mildred added, “Can’t wrap blasters in cloth as protection from the grit. Bolt action and autos would jam immediately on any loose fold, and the revolvers would set the material over the cylinder on fire.”
“Nothing like that.” Ryan laid the assembled weapon across his lap. “True, we’ll need some specialty equipment, but I spotted the place to get it when driving back here.”
“Don’t remember any scuba shops or anything like that,” J.B. said, scratching under his hat. “Mebbe a pharmacy. Going to put condoms over the barrels? No, the guts would still be exposed. What’s the place?”
“Shoe store.”
As the desert winds fiercely rattled the windows again, the companions stared blankly at the one-eyed man. Already knowing the answer, Krysty allowed herself a half smile waiting for the man to explain.
Only J.B. burst into laughter. “You crafty bastard. They’ll never know what hit them.”
“Agreed. As soon as the storm breaks, we attack.”
IN THE NORTHERN section of the ruins, sec men were using the butts of their blasters to nail boards across the inside of thick Plexiglas windows. Boards were already on the outside, but the white expanse of the drive-through window shook from the fury of the storm, so it seemed a wise precaution. The front door of the bank wasn’t even visible through the stack of sandbags offering them protection from the storm.
At a teller’s cage, the quartermaster was frying onions in a skillet held over a small fire of paper money to add to the soup for dinner. A lone corporal was playing harmonica in the lobby, while the night crew was sleeping in their bedrolls down in the cellar. Some officers were upstairs throwing dice for cigs. One enterprising private was skinning a lizard he’d caught, and the rest of the sec men were sitting on their duffs, ritually field-stripping their blasters merely for something to do. Out of the seventy-four men, only six stood guard duty with loaded weapons.