“Nightcreeps,” J.B. growled. “Shoes on the floor, blasters under their pillows. These boys were caught by surprise.”
“Mostly,” Krysty corrected him. “Remember that guy in the hallway.”
“Same tattoos,” Dean announced, letting a blanket drop back into place. “These were part of the same group.”
“Heads up,” Ryan said, easing open a closet with the tip of his rifle. Instantly, there was a twang and out shot an arrow. It streaked across the room to slam into the dead man in the bunk. The corpse jerked at the impact, and the Navy SEAL knife in his withered hand dropped to the floor.
“And it seems as if a few knew something was happening,” Dean said, “but most didn’t.”
“The leaders?” Mildred suggested, eyeing the knife without interest. She already had a Green Beret blade.
Grunting assent, Ryan briefly inspected the contents of the closet. Hanging neatly on racks were blue and gold military uniforms, the creases as sharp as razors, the buttons gleaming with polish. “These are Air Force dress uniforms.”
Cradling her S&W .38 on a crooked elbow, Krysty furrowed her brow. “But the last couple of rooms held green Army fatigues.”
“A combined military base?”
“Never heard of that before, but why not?”
Ryan made no reply, keeping his own counsel.
“Strange there are no women,” Dean said.
“Maybe the leaders did the killing,” Mildred replied. “It’s happened before.”
A metallic noise from the hallway made everybody drop behind furniture, and they waited quietly until two sharp short whistles sounded. Leveling his longblaster at the partially closed door, Ryan whistled once long and low. A few seconds later, his call was repeated exactly. They relaxed and stood as J.B., Jak and Doc entered the room.
“Anything? Ryan asked, shouldering the rifle.
“We found the fifth level burned to the walls,” J.B. stated. “The sort of damage done by bathtub Molotov cocktails. Very crude stuff, gasoline and soapflakes. The sixth held the armory and storage. That was full of corpses and more traps. I had to cope with two on the stairwell, a trip wire at the door, a gren attached to a light switch and a crossbow hidden in the-”
“Closet?”
“Crapper. You had some of the same, eh?”
Ryan nodded grimly.
“Kitchen was also clean,” Doc said, pulling close a chair and checking underneath it before sitting. “There was not so much as a potato peel or eggshell in the larder. Even the cooking oil in the fryers was gone.”
“Probably used it in the Molotovs,” Ryan stated. Studying the predark books on a wall shelf, Mildred said absentmindedly, “Peanut’s the best.” She pulled out a volume, only to put it right back. Damn, only operation manuals full of abort codes. Nothing interesting.
“Any salt?” Krysty asked, resting a boot on an overturned ammo box, its sides streaked with blood.
The elderly man patted a lumpy pocket in his frock coat. “And some spices.”
“Mint?” Mildred asked eagerly.
“A pinch.”
“Excellent.” She looked at Ryan. “Means we won’t be losing lunch on the next mat-trans jump.”
Removing his wire-rimmed glasses and polishing them on the end of his shirt, J.B. studied the room. “Nightcreeps, eh? What did they think was so bastard precious down here?”
“Redoubt itself,” Jak suggested.
“Something’s wrong,” Ryan announced. “Let’s check the top level. That’s where we should find our answer.”
“Roger.”
“Check.”
“Sounds good.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Doc found the second elevator,” J.B. said, following his old friend. “It’s in the south end. But I can’t recommend using it. Too many traps around.”
“Take no chances,” Ryan said, working the bolt action on the Steyr. “Shoot anything that moves. I’m on point, J.B. at the rear. Let’s go.”
The friends proceeded carefully upward. The door on the next level proved to be closed and locked, but with brilliant light seeping from underneath the jamb. After listening for a while, J.B. did his usual magic and the door opened with a minimum of fuss. Inside was a standard military changing room with most of the wall lockers standing ajar. They usually would have done a quick search. Many times they’d found amazing and often useful things that others left behind for no apparent reason.
But the search would wait. The ceiling lights were abnormally bright, brutally illuminating the scene before them in monstrous clarity. A single wooden chair sat in the middle of the room, and sitting limply in it was a girl of no more than ten or twelve years. Her head was tilted, her blond hair streaked with red blood, and lying on the floor beside her was a smoking blaster.