Stepping by the pumps, she moved to the white snack bar and found a couple of doors marked for both sexes. She eased open each with the Thompson, and found only autumn-leaves yellow papers and a newly dead squirrel, a prisoner of the inner swing door. Grabbing the rodent by its tail, she stuffed dinner into her pocket and continued with the inspection.
Inside the building, tables had been piled into a makeshift barricade, bullet holes dotting the Formica surfaces. But there was nobody behind the counter. However, off in the corner she found the remains of a campfire, norm bones mixed with mutie skulls in the cold ashes. The muties had to have chased some norms to this place. The men had staged a last-ditch fight and the stickies got them anyway, afterward eating norm and mutie corpses alike. Amanda spit on the corpses. Norm fools!. She was glad they were dead, and hoped it wasn’t quick or painless. Giving muties flame this close to the fuel dump, were they insane?
The kitchen and freezer were empty, as were the offices and video games room. The squat machines painted with gay colors had died the microsecond electrical power was lost. Satisfied she was alone, the heiress to the Citadel went outside the snack bar and around back.
Searching the ground, she found faint yellow lines and a blue striped area for some sort of wheeled transport, and beyond that, a couple of flat metal disks set into the concrete on the ground – the access lids for the underground storage tanks. Oddly, all three contained gasoline, and nobody had ever been able to satisfactorily explain why the station would have three different storage tanks for the exact same thing. Safety wasn’t an issue, because if one tank detonated, surely the others would ignite also. Fuel was fuel. It didn’t come in calibers the way bullets did. What worked in one engine worked in another. The predark world was full of such inexplicable mysteries. Maybe that was why it fell-simple foolishness.
Kneeling on the asphalt, she tried to unscrew a lid but was unable to make it budge, and the others proved equally resistant. Laying down her gun, she used both hands to strain against the accumulation of rust, almost busting -a knuckle as the lid came free. Sucking on the minor wound, she slid the heavy steel disk aside.
Inside the round depression was the main feeder pipe, two valves, a button that did nothing these days and the ‘vent hole. That was what she wanted. The hole had been plugged with a piece of cork long ago to prevent evaporation and save every drop of the juice. Wiggling out the cork, Amanda dropped in the hose until she heard a splash. Making sure the other end was in the canister before starting, she worked the hand pump in smooth strokes, nice and easy. In a few minutes, the container was full. She neatly returned everything to its original position, awkwardly jockeying the heavy metal lid back into place.
Capping the canister, she reached for her weapon and a blur struck the Thompson, sending it skittering into the weeds. Spitting a curse, she drew the Eagle and fell backward against the snack bar. That had been an arrow!
Controlling her breathing, she studied the weeds and wreckage. Nothing was in sight. A sound made her jump, and the woman raced for her bike. Damn her stupidity! Stickies she could handle by the dozen, and stingwings and grumblers were common problems. But an arrow meant people. Could be throwbacks, technophobes, rad worshipers, or worse, the Sons of the Knife. If that rabble got their filthy hands on a lady of the blood, daughter of the ward himself…
As the blonde turned the corner, a black shape hit her in the face. Amanda had to have blacked out for a second for she awoke lying on the ground, surrounded by them. She screamed, knowing full well that nobody could hear, and the pack was upon her, ripping and tearing like wild animals.
LEVIATHAN’s FIFTEEN wheels hummed steadily as the vehicle rolled along the road. Once past the suburbs, Ryan found a highway in good shape. The concrete was relatively smooth, and there were few potholes. As was to be expected, the road had no signposts, so they could only guess it was the Route 65 on J.B.’s map and hope for the best. Most of the day went by in unaccustomed quiet, as the friends cleaned and reloaded their weapons, then consumed another meal of the starchy MREs.