“Last load!” Ryan barked, dropping the Steyr’s clip and sliding in a fresh magazine. “Double time!”
Wasting no time in recriminations, everybody climbed inside, dragging packs of supplies and goods. The thick door was pulled closed with a solid, reassuring clang, and Jak drove home the locking bolt.
“Dark night, I hate leaving supplies,” J.B. panted, collapsing into a seat.
“Once the dogs are dead, we can loot the place down to the nails in the walls,” Ryan told him, his good eye focused out an ob slit. “But first things first. We kill the hounds.”
“Anything moving?” Doc asked.
“Not yet.”
“Lights on or off?” Mildred asked from the driver’s console.
Wearily, Ryan sat down, the cushioned seat feeling sinfully soft. “On for now. Let’s catch our breath.”
“Take five,” Krysty said, dropping her backpack of supplies.
The recessed ceiling lights were bright but not harsh, and Ryan found the inside of the tank surprisingly plush. The coldhearts had to have liked their comfort. There was combat seating for eight in the back, with lockers lining the two walls. Next was a gunnery seat for the left and right Remington .50-calibers, and ammo dumps, nicely full. In the middle was a field surgery unit that Mildred was already examining. Beyond that was a standardized gun rack with a locking bar holding a couple of longblasters in place. Next was a line of general storage lockers with the pile of tools and fuel cans from the garage. He was surprised at how much loot his people had been able to grab in the short period of time allotted. Near the front were more seats, these facing forward instead of inward, then the cockpit with driver’s seat and gunner’s chair. Ryan walked closer, pausing to note the water tank seemed to be almost full and pleased that the ceiling was high enough he didn’t have to bend or stoop. The dashboard was covered with electronic instruments, only half of which he could identify: radar, nightscopes, infrared and a powerful radio. In spite of the luxurious interior, Ryan reminded himself that this was no pleasure craft, but a combat vehicle, a troop carrier with blasters. Nothing more.
“Can we fuel from inside?” Dean asked from the rear of the tank.
“Yes. There’s a feeder pipe over by the flamethrower.”
“The what?”
“But there’s no lay,” Mildred continued, loosening her sleeves and rolling them up. “Could get messy if we’re in here for any length of time.”
“No kitchen either,” Krysty remarked, taking stock of their most recent acquisition. “But at least we can eat these food packs without coking them.”
Moving to the front, Krysty took the gunnery chair and examined the controls. “There are twice as many nuke batteries as needed.” She tapped a gauge with a fingernail. “And fully charged.”
“We ever get some insulated wiring,” Mildred said, “we can connect the spare batteries to the door handles to dissuade invaders.”
“Dissuade?” Jak repeated, arching a snowy eyebrow.
“Fry,” Doc explained.
“We also have three motors,” Ryan stated, studying the complex collection of gauges, indicators and lights. “But we only need two to run this behemoth.”
“A spare motor? There’s a fine notion.”
A thump sounded from outside. “Company!” Ryan told them, grabbing his blaster. The friends jumped to the gunports, but the dark shapes were already disappearing into the jumble of vehicles.
“Odd they didn’t hit the door or a window,” Krysty said, watching them go.
“Maybe they weren’t trying to get in,” Mildred suggested.
J.B. frowned. “They were doing something else.”
“Everybody check for damage,” Ryan snapped, looking out the front windshield. “Fine over here.”
“No damage.”
“Hell’s bells,” Mildred cried, struggling to see out the starboard blasterport. “There’s a tire missing!”
“What? They ate a tire?”
“One is gone, that’s for sure. I see a bare rim on the port side.”
“Why would animals eat a tire?” Dean asked.
“Not animals,” Jak said distinctly. “Bio weps.” Krysty understood immediately. “Freaking things are going to try and ground us. Without tires we can’t leave. The belly won’t clear the floor. We’ll be trapped and eventually have to walk out or die of starvation.”
“Same as the coldhearts,” Doc said. “Fuck that,” Ryan said, returning to the driver’s seat. There was no specialized key to start the engines, merely a push button. Setting the choke to the middle, and hoping that was correct, he hit the gas and revved the Starter. The diesels rumbled mightily, making the whole vehicle vibrate with the barely confined power of the Detroit engines.