there and turned back to the door, punching in the return code of 5.9.6., then
the H.
Nothing happened for a breath-stopping moment, then the vanadium steel swung
open and Ryan returned to the warmth and security of the redoubt.
Back in their living quarters, the first person he saw was J.B. The Armorer
looked impassively at Ryan’s torn and blood-soaked clothes and came as close as
he ever did to a smile.
“Fresh air good, Ryan?” he asked.
“I’ve had better,” Ryan replied.
PREDICTABLY, IT WAS J. B. Dix who discovered the museum of arms and armaments.
“I can smell guns,” he said. “Followed the scent of oil and steel and lead and
grease and brass. Found it up on top level. Even got ob slits. See for miles.”
“See what?” Ryan asked.
“Nothin’. Snow. Couple of volcanoes north and east. Sky full of chem clouds and
general nuke shit. Lot of yellow, from the smokies, I guess. Come an’ see it.”
Ryan grunted in reply, but didn’t move, continuing to eat in silence, oblivious
to the rest of the group. Something peculiar was happening in the redoubt. Three
of the microwaves had already stopped working. Several of the sealed clothes
stores that Quint had allowed them to open were showing signs of rapid
deterioration, with garments becoming frayed and actually rotting. The
water-purifying plant in their dormitory had started to malfunction, sometimes
providing a thin green scummy liquid that smelled of death. Ryan had talked
about this with J.B. only the night before, and they’d agreed that the redoubt
and stockpile had been sealed against outsiders for so many years that their
presence had upset the delicate balance of the machinery. Quint was obviously
aware of it and kept asking them when they were going to leave. Yet, oddly, some
of them got the feeling that he didn’t want them to go.
They finished their evening meal, chucking the disposable plates and cutlery
down the garbage chute. Finn paused by the sliding panel for a moment,
listening.
“Fuckin’ funny noises down there. Like rocks grindin’ against each other.”
With J.B. leading the way, they left the dining room and headed for the
armaments museum, marking their progress on their own maps. From ingrained
caution, they paused at every turn of the corridor. They saw no sign of Quint,
Rachel or Lori as they advanced quietly up to the top of the stockpile.
“Here,” J.B. said, putting his hand against an illuminated rectangle set flush
in the wall to the right of a door. The door slid silently open, revealing a
foyer. On the wall there was a sign.
“Do not touch exhibits. Ammo filed beneath under cross-refs,” read Krysty.
“Look there,” said Ryan, pointing to another sign, hand painted, not neatly
printed like the other one.
It’s nice to come, if you’ve got your pass.
But if you don’t we’ll bust your ass.
The double doors at the far side of the foyer had small circles of glass set in
their tops. Ryan pushed them open, stopping so suddenly that Hennings walked
into him.
“Fireblast!”
“What the… Oh, fuckin’…”
The museum stretched out ahead of them, dim lights brightening in the large hall
as sensors detected their presence. It wasn’t the array of weapons that caught
everyone’s eyes. It was what was nailed to the floor just in front of them.
All of them recognized it as the mummified corpse of a young child. Either it
had been assembled by a crazed and skilful surgeon, or it was one of the worst
mutations that any of them had ever seen. Despite the dried, leathery skin, it
was possible to make out scars from what had once been suppurating sores all
over the body. The umbilical cord dangled like a knotted brown string, and a
shrunken penis revealed the original sex of the child. Though it looked to be
only a few weeks old, it had a full set of needle-sharp teeth, and its
fingernails were long and curved like claws. Ryan counted nine fingers on the
right hand. The left hand sprouted from near the shoulder. It looked like a
little paddle of lacy skin and had at least a dozen fingers on it. The legs were