“Here,” she said, handing it to the nearest person. “This should help.”
Uncaring if it was poison or whiskey, everybody took a swallow and passed it on to the next.
“I hope it’s better than the last batch,” Krysty muttered, tilting her head and luxuriating in the cool breeze from the ceiling vents.
Smoothing his rumpled fedora, J.B. glumly signaled agreement. “Gave us the runs for a week.”
“That which does not kill us, makes us stronger,” Doc said. “Or at least, that’s the theory. Occasionally I have found Nietzsche to be a total ass.”
However, minds soon cleared and the knotted stomachs eased some. Not much, but some.
“Best mix so far,” Ryan stated, handing the empty canteen to Mildred.
The black woman screwed the cap on tight. “Would have been better if I could have found some mint leaves.”
Sitting upright, Jak arched an snowy eyebrow. “Not?” he asked.
The physician shook her head. “Orange peels and scrag root. Close enough in taste, but not effect.”
“Hope the mat-trans is still okay,” Ryan said, studying the floor with its collection of fiercely glowing rocks.
Hawking loudly, Jak spit out an orange lump and watched the spittle sizzle into steam. “Close,” he drawled.
“Too damn close,” Krysty added.
“But we got the rations. No hunting mutie deer or trading bullets for chickens for a while,” Mildred said. “The risk was worth it. We have enough clean food for a couple weeks.”
“Tis a pity, though,” Doc boomed, leaning heavily on his swordstick as he got standing. “That storeroom was a cornucopia of food, sufficient vittles for years. Decades!”
“Took all we could,” Ryan said gruffly, checking the action on his SIG-Sauer blaster. The pistol was a prized possession, a military police blaster of the finest quality, and its built-in acoustic baffler made the silenced gun no louder than a cough when it fired.
“It’s enough,” said Dean, touching his vest to ascertain he hadn’t lost anything in transit. Having been caught once with no ammo, and damn near getting aced because of it, Dean was grimly determined it would never happen again. Front and back, the entire expanse of a newly acquired leather vest was sewn into tiny pockets to hold individual rounds for his blaster. He was a walking munitions dump, and the weight was awful. However, he doubted if even an arrow could penetrate the thick garment. His father told him he was carrying too much, that speed was as necessary as bullets to stay alive in Deathlands, and he was right. But the lad wasn’t yet ready to admit he had overfigured his own strength.
Feeling better by the minute, Ryan walked about the chamber. “Hmm, black walls with silver streaking. We’ve never been to this redoubt before.”
“Beautiful,” Mildred said, running fingertips across the smooth almost frictionless surface. “Could this be D.C.? Some ancient executive redoubt?”
“Mayhap some crazed billionaire’s private penthouse,” Doc grumbled. “Notice how the excess heat is almost totally dissipated? The life support system is exemplary.”
“Not good enough for me,” Krysty said, pinching her nose shut. “Hot lava and sulfur mixed with fresh vomit. This place stinks.”
“Agreed,” Ryan stated, cracking a rare smile. “Let’s move out.”
He moved to the door, then started to press the handle. Everybody readied weapons as the heavy portal smoothly swung open on silent hinges. However, instead of the usual anteroom on the other side, there was only a seamless expanse of wood, dark and solid as a mountain.
“Blocked off,” Ryan said in amazement
Dean worked the slide of his Browning, chambering a round for immediate use.
“What in hell for?” Mildred asked. “To hide the mat-trans?”
“Seems likely.”
Expertly, J.B. ran his callused hands over the wood. “Hmm, not joined beams, but a single piece.”
“Big tree,” Jak said.
“Paneling,” J.B. stated, tapping the material lightly with a knuckle. “Hear that? Thin stuff. No more than a half inch thick. Pretty light armor.”
“To keep others out, not us in,” Ryan said, holstering his pistol and sliding the Steyr SSG-70 rifle off his shoulder. “Everybody get ready. Triple red.”
Moving to the rear of the pack, Mildred eased back the hammer on her Czech-made ZKR .38-caliber target pistol. Loosening one of the many throwing knives in his belt, Jak did the same with his .357 Colt Python revolver.