Doc’s clothes were of the finest material and patched in a dozen places. He was leaning on an ebony swordstick, the silver lion’s head peeking out between his fingers, and a mammoth revolver was hung at his waist. The LeMat was a Civil War weapon holding nine .44 rounds, with a single shotgun round under the main barrel. The blaster used black powder, not cordite, but the solid lead mini-balls did more damage than a sledgehammer at short range.
“Besides, with the tide comes those damn crabs,” Mildred added grumpily, watching the shoreline for any sign of the nasty muties.
“Indeed, madam. Our local cornucopia of antediluvian crustace is merely another reason why shelter for the night is mandatory,” Doc espoused, baring his astonishingly white teeth.
“Still gotta get inside,” Dean stated stubbornly.
“Tower short,” Jak Lauren said, crossing his lean, muscular white arms.
A true albino, the teenager was dressed in camou fatigues with a bulky Colt Python .357 Magnum hung from his belt. An ammo pouch lay flat at his opposite hip. His camouflage leather jacket was decorated with bits of shiny metal and feathers, and more than one sec man had seized the teenager by the lapels only to have his fingers cut off by the razor blades sewn into the lining. At present, the arms of his jacket were tied around his waist, showing a lot of his pale skin. His hair was shoulder length and bone-white, his red eyes peering out of his scarred face like ruby lasers. More than a dozen leaf-bladed throwing knives were hidden on his person, with two more tucked into his belt. The handle of a gravity knife was visible in his left combat boot.
“Is it?” Dean asked suspiciously. “Looks okay to me.”
Doc walked closer to the structure as if seeing it for the first time. “By the Three Kennedys, it is too short,” he stated in agreement. “By necessity, lighthouses are always tall, sixty to eighty feet high. This is only, say, thirty.”
The man glanced at the ground. “The lower half must be buried beneath the sand. The front door must be buried, twenty, thirty feet underground.”
“It’ll take days to dig that deep by hand,” Mildred said, scowling. There was already traces of purple on the horizon. Night was coming fast.
“Try a gren,” Dean suggested.
“Only got one,” J.B. answered, titling back his fedora. “I’m saving that for an emergency.”
“If we could reach the balcony,” Mildred continued thoughtfully, “then getting inside would be no problem. Even if the door is locked, we could go through the lens itself. Those were made of glass to withstand the searing heat of the beacon.”
J.B. removed his hat, smoothed down his hair, then replaced it. “Sounds good. But how do we get up there?”
“Mayhap there is another way in,” Doc rumbled.
Going to the lighthouse, Doc put his back to the building and gazed out over the field. He appeared to be counting under his breath.
“There!” Doc said, and walked briskly to the end of the sandbar where there was a short stack of rocks covered with seaweed. Removing handfuls of the soggy greenery, Doc exposed not jumbled rocks, but broken bricks. Tossing them aside, he soon exposed a perfectly square hole that went straight down and out of sight.
“It’s a chimney,” J.B. said with a grin, slapping the man on the back. “Good work, Doc. I didn’t know a lighthouse would have a house attached.”
“A cottage, actually,” Doc replied primly. “But yes, many do.”
Cupping his hands as protection from the sea breeze, Jak lit a match and dropped it down the opening. The tiny flame fluttered away and was gone. The teenager then lit another and stuck his entire head into the passage.
“Too small me,” his voice echoed, and he stepped away from the chimney. “Mebbe Dean, too.”
Dubiously, the boy eyed the flue, then used a stick to measure the opening, then himself. “Tight,” he agreed, and slid his backpack to the ground. He removed his canteen and belt knife, then unbuckled his gun belt and took off the ammo pouch.
“I’m going to need every inch to get down that,” Dean stated, shucking his Army jacket.