Glancing about, he realized they were in a cave of some kind, the light coming from oil lanterns set into holes in the irregular walls. It was quiet and cool, very restful. That was when he noticed his side didn’t hurt much, and exploring fingers found he was expertly bandaged. It was a little difficult to catch his breath, but the pain was almost entirely gone. Also, he seemed to have been washed and dressed in clean clothes. His own clothes, the rips sewn and holes patched. Rubbing his chin in contemplation, Ryan was shocked to find himself shaved. Even his Army boots were polished. What the hell was going on here?
Some wooden tables formed a square under a hanging lantern, and stumbling over Ryan discovered their weapons lying there. Not the ones they had taken from the hack room, but their personal weapons: his Steyr SSG-70 and SIG-Sauer, Krysty’s Ruger, Jak’s big bore .357 Magnum, and Doc’s oddball LeMat and swordstick. It was all of the supplies and equipment they had when that blond bitch gassed his people after they saved her from the bikers.
He lifted his pistol and checked the ammo clip. Incredible. The blasters and knives appeared to have been cleaned and oiled, and there were boxes and boxes of ammo, a lot more than they had taken from the hack room. There were even some HE grens and an old box of dynamite, the coil of fuse lying nearby, but not too close.
“What’s going on here?” he asked aloud, shoving his blaster into its holster.
His voice acted as a clarion call, summoning the rest from their induced slumber.
Yawning mightily, J.B. staggered over. “What’s going on here? We pass out in the courtyard and wake up in a cave?”
“Lightning hit us, and the courtyard collapsed?”
Krysty suggested, her hair in knotted tangles, a sure sign she wasn’t fully cognizant yet. “Or did J.B. hit something with his tommy gun?”
Then she stared at her hands. “Clean nails? Hey, I’ve been bathed,” she said as a fact. “And the rips are mended.”
“Blasters are over here,” Ryan said, shouldering the Steyr.
With cries of astonishment, the weapons were reclaimed.
“Our own weapons?”
“Hot pipe, look at all the ammo!”
Pockets were stuffed.
“Better also check them for blocked barrels,” Doc said, peering into his pistol. “Maybe this is an intelligence test of some kind.”
“Mine’s clear,” Ryan announced, closing the SIG-Sauer.
“Clear,” Krysty said.
Mildred closed her target pistol. “They’re fine, you old coot. Don’t go paranoid on us.”
“Even paranoids have enemies,” Doc stated loftily. “Besides, how do we know this ammunition is still viable?
Weighing a full box of .357 bullets in his palm. Jak examined a round, then slid a single bullet into his blaster and fired. The Magnum discharge sounded like thunder in the confines of the cave, and the slug blew a hole in the wooden table the size of a fist. The furniture toppled over with a crash, and a leg cracked off in pieces.
“Seems okay,” the teenager announced, reloading his revolver.
“Fool,” Doc snapped. “You could have blown off a hand.”
“Know another way to test ammo?” Jak asked bluntly, snapping shut the cylinder of his Magnum.
Doc glared at the teenager, then relented with a grudging smile. “No, sir, I do not. My apologies.”
After acquiring the grens and dynamite, the Armorer slid his shotgun over a shoulder and then paused, looking at the Thompson .22 submachine gun lying next to his Uzi 9 mm submachine gun.
He patted the tommy gun fondly but reclaimed the Uzi, studiously checking it over for damage.
“J.B.?” Dean said, tucking away his Browning automatic, his vest once again bulging with ammo rounds.
“Yeah?”
“Can I have it?” he asked, pointing.
228
J.B. waved the boy on, and Dean took the Thompson. Cradling the ungainly blaster, he experimented with different grips until finding a proper balance. “Heavy pump,” he grunted. “I have to wind this key before firing, is that right?”
J.B. showed him how. “And work the bolt.”
“Like this?”
“That’s it. But be careful! It snaps into place like a rattrap.”
“Gotcha.”
“I also found it shot to the left, so take that into account.”