“Would have thought it would be the other way around,” Ryan said. Wetting the blood on his face with spit, he managed to get it nice and runny. “Perhaps that is why they always work together.”
“I don’t know.”
“How do I look?” asked Cawdor.
“Awful,” Krysty said.
“Perfect,” J.B. added.
Rumpling his clothes and tousling his hair, Ryan lurched around the corner.
“H-Hammer…he-help me,” he stammered, keeping his ghastly face in plain view. A runnel of blood drooled out of the empty socket.
Pistols snapped out of holsters, then the guards gasped in horror and lowered the muzzles.
“What happened!” the big man asked.
“Fell…stairs…” Pitifully, Ryan stretched out the hand holding his blood-covered fake eye. Hammer scowled and stepped out of reach while Roy came closer. Ryan tripped past the big guard and lunged forward, ramming the edge of his hand into Hammer’s throat Gargling in pain, the guard tried to level his pistol, but Ryan hit him again and seized the blaster, slamming the weapon backward into the face of Roy. The big man stumbled back, his mouth a bloody ruin. Viciously, Ryan clubbed both until they dropped, then used his boots until all movement stopped.
The dying men were still bleeding as the rest of the companions slid round the corner. Krysty took Roy’s pistol and looped his ammo belt over a shoulder. Mildred searched their pockets and found nothing useful. Lockpick out, J.B. went straight to the unmarked door.
“Doesn’t say hack room,” Dean said, his clenched fists posed in a boxing stance.
“Would you advertise where the blasters were kept if you were baron?” his father asked, replacing his patch.
“Today, the Hammer fell,” Shard said, sounding very pleased. “That settles many debts.” He smiled.
“Footsteps, coming this way,” Mildred said softly, positioned near the intersection.
“Hurry up with that lock,” Ryan snapped.
J.B. shoved the handle with a twist and the door swung open. Ryan eased in fast, the stolen revolver leading the way.
“Clear,” he whispered brusquely, and the rest piled inside, dragging the dead men with them.
The room was small, a single electric bulb hanging from a chain. But the stone walls were lined with gun racks, most holding rows of pistols, the butts jutting outward. Everybody grabbed some and boxes of ammo. Several of the rifle racks were empty. Only a few held some old Enfields, Brownings and Remington .22 Explorers, the weapons held in place by a stout locking bar. J.B. headed straight for it.
A bookcase was full of different types of knives. some badly rusted, others razor sharp in oiled leather sheaths. Jak started weeding the good from the bad. Countless wooden crates covered the floor, the tops nailed tight. Doc started to open them haphazardly. A couple of big oak barrels stood by themselves in corners, a clear space around them, indicating explosives.
Dean pried off a lid. “Black powder,” he said, and moved on to search elsewhere.
Wandering in a circle, Shard couldn’t believe his eyes. “I’ve never seen so many blasters in my life,” he gushed uncontrollably. “There’s enough here for every prisoner in the whole ville.”
“Now there’s an idea,” Mildred said, stuffing her pockets with loose bullets.
Ryan tossed the man a Browning rifle. “Here’s one of your own. Know how to use it?”
With clumsy hands, Shard worked the bolt, peering inside the slide to check the stacked clip of .38 long rounds. “I’ve seen enough runaways slain,” he stated grimly, levering a round into the chamber.
“Good, then you know to shoot for the body, not the head.”
“Head wound would kill quicker, no?”
“And it’s tougher to hit,’ even for somebody trained. Shoot for the belly, that’s your best bet.”
Shard slung a belt of cartridges over his neck. “As you say.”
“No autofires, no grenades,” Doc reported, shouldering a Browning Automatic Rifle.
“Must have them elsewhere,” Ryan said, rejecting an Enfield and taking a Browning. “Too bad.”
All conversation stopped as footsteps sounded outside the hack room. Someone asked somebody else about the blood on the floor. The door latch rattled, then stopped and the steps moved away quickly.
“Time to go,” Ryan said, tucking a knife into his boot.