“Blasted muties,” Jak growled. Watching the interior of the supermarket for any further movement, he cracked open the cylinder of his Colt Python, pocketed the spent .357 shells and thumbed in fresh ammo.
Retrieving a dropped clip for the Uzi, J.B. stood and tucked it away. “Never seen this type before.”
The filaments of her hair waving about in agitation, Krysty clicked shut the reloaded cylinder of her S&W .38, tucking the blaster in a holster at her hip. “Thankfully, these wolves are a lot easier to kill than those hellhounds we encountered in Ohio,” she remarked without humor.
“Easier ain’t easy,” Jak said, rubbing a set of parallel scratches on his throat. “Bastards fast.”
Mildred walked over and took hold of his jaw, turning the teenager’s head to inspect the red marks on his albino skin. “Didn’t break the dermis,” the physician announced, and released him. “You should be okay. But let me clean it, so you don’t go septic.” Opening her bag, she anointed him with a splash of alcohol.
“Thanks,” he muttered, gingerly touching the scratch.
“Just be glad it didn’t chew your ass.” She grinned.
Brushing the snowy hair off his face, Jak snorted in response.
The distant rumble of an approaching storm sounded in the cloudy sky as Dean picked up the ejected brass from his blaster and dropped it into a pocket for later reloading. One of them seemed bent, which meant it was useless, but he could check on that later. Carefully, the boy inspected his Browning for any signs of fouling from being dropped in the sand, and when satisfied, he inserted a fresh magazine. Snapping off the safety and working the slide, the boy walked away from the group and stood guard at the corner of the intersection.
“Mildred, check the bodies,” Ryan directed, retrieving his rifle from the ground.
Kneeling at a warm corpse, the woman displayed a bloody knife. “Already doing that.”
“Good.” Brushing the sand off his dropped rifle, Ryan worked the bolt, slid in a fresh clip and slung the weapon over a shoulder. Then checking the area, he noted that Dean was already standing guard without waiting for directions. He felt a rush of pride.
“J.B., Doc, recce the market,” Ryan ordered, the longblaster held easily in both hands. “See if there are any more of these bastards around.”
“Or supplies,” Jak added.
Doc eased back the hammer on the LeMat as the Armorer pulled out a gren. Together, the men stepped through the broken window and into the grocery store, J.B. pausing at the registers to let Doc proceed, then the old man doing the same at the head of the first aisle as J.B. crept past him in a standard two-man defensive rotation pattern.
“Slick move with the Hummer,” Ryan told the redhead as he walked over. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Krysty replied, pumping gas and trying to start the engine. It took two tries before the big power plant caught. “Just angry that they got so close before I saw them.”
As she backed the wag away from the brick wall, the wolfs body stayed where it was as if nailed in place.
“Headlight’s broken,” Ryan reported. “So no more night driving until we can replace it at the redoubt. Pop the hood.”
She did, and he listened to the humming engine.
“No real damage,” Ryan stated, closing the hood and latching it in place. “Thankfully, the Army built these things to take damage and keep going:”
A whistle heralded the appearance of J.B. and Doc from within the predark store.
“Clear,” J.B. reported. “No more wolves, not even cubs. Also, nothing much usable on the shelves. All of the cans are empties, just there to make the store look like it’s full of goods. It was expertly cleaned out long ago.”
“This was all we appropriated,” Doc added, lifting a plastic bag of bottles and glass jugs. “Some grape preserves, Band-Aid bandages and a few odds and ends.”
“I expected as much,” Ryan said with a sour expression. “But it never hurts to check. Stow it away, and check the side streets, will you?”
Doc deposited the bag of food carefully in the cargo area of the Hummer, while J.B. climbed into the wag and set the safety on the M-60 before easing off the bolt. The military blaster was one hundred years old, and even though it was in perfect operational condition, it wasn’t wise to keep tension on the firing spring. Otherwise, next time he used it the weapon would break, becoming a twenty-two-pound paperweight.