“Thinks we stalled,” Ryan guessed, easing the tension in his arms and hands.
“These old engines probably do it constantly,” Krysty said, placing the blaster in her lap for fast access.
“Well, we were lucky with this truck,” Ryan observed, shifting uncomfortably in the seat. The bullet hole had forced out a spring that was digging into his ribs, annoying as hell. “Can’t chance that again with the flatbed. Must have three guys or more riding shotgun. And if they see us, we’re in for a fight.”
The tunnel gently curved to the left. Ryan had always wondered why long tunnels did that until Mildred explained it to him. The angle was a break-slope, designed to ease the rush of water charging along the tunnel should there be a midspan break.
“Only three,” Krysty said resolutely. “We can take them.”
“Can’t chance it,” Ryan countered. “Getting that med kit is our top priority. If we get caught, Dean could be dead before we could escape.”
“He’ll be fine. He’s tougher than a nail.”
“Dean’s a survivor,” Ryan said, offering his highest compliment.
“We have mebbe ten or fifteen minutes before we reach the end of this tunnel. We have to come up with a plan.”
“Yeah, I know,” Ryan told her, shifting gears as the curve gently straightened. “I’ll have something by then. Mebbe we could— Fireblast!”
Up ahead, faint orange daylight streamed into the tunnel, and tiny figures were walking around on the ground near what resembled a machine-gun nest and a concrete barricade.
Chapter Twelve
Standing guard on the roof of the federal building, Doc checked his windup pocket chron. The timepiece said noon, but the sky above beguiled the fact with streaming yellow clouds streaked with lambent red and blotchy with purple. Even the lizards in the streets seemed to know a bad storm was approaching, as they dug holes in the sand and collapsed the openings upon themselves.
Careful not to pinch his fingers, J.B. lowered the sheet of Plexiglas into the skylight frame. The janitor’s closet had been a windfall of material, including replacement glass for the windows and skylight. Unfortunately, the silicon putty had long ago turned into a dried brick, but he had an answer for that problem.
“How’s it look?” the Armorer asked, extracting a candle from the bag at his feet. Crushing a pellet of pyrotab so it burst into flame, he lit the wick before the chemical compound burned itself out.
Standing nearby, Doc removed his gaze from the ville around them and studied the repair job. “Good,” he finally said, the Heckler & Koch G-12 resting in the crook of his arm.
Rifles weren’t his forte, but as a rooftop sentry he needed something a lot quieter and with greater range than his hog-leg .44 LeMat. Dean’s caseless rifle fit the bill perfectly, even though this was the last reload. A hundred rounds and the blaster was dead.
“Very good, in fact. That soap you smeared on the inside of the sheet makes it seem sandblasted just like the others.”
Tilting the candle, J.B. carefully dribbled the melting wax along the edge of the glass, using a stick to push it into place. He just nodded, concentrating on his work. This window needed to resemble the others in the skylight so that nothing and nobody could tell this was where Dean had fallen through.
“It will last for months if the weather holds.”
“More than sufficient,” Doc agreed, as he fought back a yawn. “The flask is still half-full. Some more coffee?”
“Hell, yes,” J.B. said, starting a second pass over the frame. It had been a long night moving their supplies over to this building, then erasing every trace of the work, using brooms to sweep away their tracks in the sand.
There came the single crack of a blaster.
J.B. dropped the candle and rotated on his heels, his Uzi out and ready. “Muties?” he demanded.
“Skylight,” Doc remarked, shouldering the HK G-12.
“Come again?” J.B. demanded, sliding the safety back on his weapon.
“Disguising our location is a logical precaution, agreed? However, I decided to augment the strategy by offering any possible hunters an alternate locale for investigation.”