Ryan blinked at the sight. To distort the metal of the lock like that took
unbelievable strength. Then he remembered the way she had suddenly freed herself
of her bonds when Strasser had held them prisoner. And he wondered about that
amazing red hair that had seemed to move of its own volition. For the first time
he realized that the girl had to be some kind of mutie. And he had made love to
her…
“Without blasters they can’t get at us,” said Hunaker, squatting. “If we can’t
get into this joint, then we’ll go back down. In the war wag and off safe as
armor.”
“Not that easy,” interjected J. B. Dix.
Ryan agreed. “He’s right, Hun. Think about it some. There’s a lot of ’em. We
seen maybe fifty. Could be a hundred more. They know the Darks.”
“We can blast them away.”
“Not if you can’t see ’em, Hun. Where are they now? Waitin’ for us? Up on the
cliffs? Maybe they’re movin’ right now, right above us.”
“Night’s still some way off, Ryan,” she argued, reluctant to let it go. “We keep
careful, we can get ready, then make a run for the war wag.”
It was possible. Perhaps the best plan they had. So they rested, snatching a
quick meal and mouthful of water. Doc was in poor shape and he dropped asleep
while they ate. Ryan and J.B. looked at the massive gate to the Stockpile, but
there was no way in. Most of the other Stockpiles they had found were much
smaller and the entrances yielded to small charges of dynamite. This was
heavy-gauge metal that even high-explosive grenades were not going to dent.
About three-quarters of an hour had passed since they saw the last of the
Indians.
Then two things happened at once.
Stones and boulders began to fall around them, rolled from much higher up, above
the entrance door. And the Indians reappeared with what must have been the
oldest piece of field artillery in all of Deathlands.
“What the…!” exclaimed Ryan.
“It’s a cannon!” gasped Doc. “The sort they used in the war between North and
South, about two hundred and fifty years ago. Must have come from some museum.”
“Will it shoot?” asked Okie, taking a professional interest in it. “And what
does it shoot?”
“Probably shoots a metal ball that might be filled with explosive. If it works,
then we’re over the falls without a boat, folks.”
It worked. There was a vast plume of smoke from the bell-like mouth of the
ancient piece, and they all ducked at the whistling sound as the shell came
toward them. It struck the cliff about fifty paces to their left and twenty
paces high, showering them with splinters of white rock.
“Let us get within,” yelled Doc.
“Sure. You open her up, Doc, and we’ll hold ’em off with blasters.”
“Gettin’ ready again, Ryan,” said J.B., calm as ever.
“Let ’em have it. Try and pick ’em off around that gun,” ordered Ryan.
“They got the cover. We got nukeshit nothin’,” swore Okie as she fired her M-16
with rhythmic ease, the bullets skittering and ricocheting all around the heavy
metal shield of the artillery piece. Two of the attackers threw up their arms
and toppled over, but the rest withdrew around the bend in the trail to safety.
It was a standoff. But the odds were greatly against Ryan Cawdor and his
friends. They had no cover at all. Nowhere to go. If the Indians could control
the aim of their cannon they could blow them away. As he poured lead toward the
big gun, it occurred to Ryan that their only hope was going to be a charge
across the flat ground, under fire from the arrows. It was close to suicide, but
it was all there was.
He felt a finger tap his shoulder. He spun around, nearly knocking Doc over with
the barrel of his LAPA.
“Do you wish me to open the door?”
Grinning with his peculiarly perfect teeth, Doc stepped with a long, mincing
stride to the side of the door and reached inside a small square panel set at
shoulder height. “Shall we go in?”