Closed. Cautiously Ryan eased the lever upward toward the word Open.
There was a whisper of gears meshing, and the door began to move sideways. As
soon as it had opened a couple of inches, Ryan stopped it. Very carefully he put
his good eye to the gap, looking both ways. Sniffing again.
“Anythin’?” asked Okie.
“No. Blank wall. But…I think…seems like I can smell food.”
“Food?” Finnegan quickly repeated.
“Yeah, it smells like meat cooking, but it’s very faint, maybe from some days
ago.”
The rad counter was silent, surprising Ryan. What kind of place was this, he
wondered, that had virtually no radiation? Had to be a place where there’d been
no fighting. Or where they’d used some low-yield weapons with short half-lives.
“Any idea where the fuck we are, Doc?” he asked, leaving the door barely open.
“Not a clue, my dear fellow. Trouble with these jumps. All the control
instructions long gone. They took care that the redoubts held nothing, in case
any Russkies came sauntering along. All coded and tucked away. All gone?”
“Russkies?” said Krysty Wroth. “Back in Harmony, my Uncle Tyas McNann used to
talk to Peter Maritza, about Russkies.”
“Russians,” J.B. said. “Used to call ’em reds, ’cause they killed so many
people. Huge land out west of us beyond where the coast all fell in. Mean
bastards—so the old books I read kept sayin’ about ’em.”
“I’m openin’ the door.” Ryan pushed the lever all the way up, and the door slid
open, revealing a blank wall and a narrow corridor running in either direction
as far as they could see. Not that they could see very far; the passage was
gently curved, its ends out of sight.
Joining Ryan, they entered the corridor, fanning out with guns ready. He tasted
the air again, still catching the elusive but undeniable scent of cooking.
“I can smell it, too,” whispered Finnegan. “Good meat stew and fresh bread. That
way,” he said, pointing to the left.
“Best go that way,” said Hennings. “Fat little tub ain’t never wrong ’bout food.
He’d ride the tongue of the mouth of hell for a mug of broth.”
“Left it is,” agreed Ryan, leading them off, his bootheels ringing uncomfortably
loudly on the stone floor.
This redoubt was different from the others they’d seen. There were no rooms
opening off the main corridor, just a long bare passage with a high domed
ceiling. At its zenith, lights were deeply recessed behind thick glass. The
walls were a restful cream color, unmarked by the passage of the hundred years
or so since the place was built.
“See any tracks, Hun?” Ryan asked, after walking a couple of hundred paces.
The girl knelt, placing a hand on the stone, lowering her head until the stubble
of her green hair brushed the floor. The others watched. Hunaker was probably
the best scout in the group; the Trader had often complimented her about it.
“It’s cleaned,” she said. “Swept in the last few days by a buggy with fat, soft
tires. There’s a layer of rubber down here that’s real old, like someone’s been
drivin’ the buggy for fuckin’ years. No prints.”
Ryan led on, every fifty paces or so noticing a slit in the ceiling. Finally he
stopped and stared up at one. “Looks like a heavy-armor shield. Drops down to
seal off a section.”
“Spotted the mini vid cameras?” asked J.B. He pointed with the muzzle of his
Steyr 5.6 to a tiny glass bead on a thin metal stem protruding from the wall
where it curved sharply into the ceiling.
“Linked to a sonic pickup, I guess,” he continued. “Been watchin’ us since we
left the gateway. Watchin’ us now.”
“Not now,” said Okie, hugging her beloved M-16A1 carbine against her hip, with
the stock collapsed, and ripping off a short burst at the camera. Half a dozen
5.56 mm rounds spat from the eleven-inch barrel and exploded into the concrete,
pulverizing the little camera. The spent rounds screamed and bounced along the
corridor.
“That’s brilliant,” said Krysty. “Real brilliant.”
“Keep your lip sewn up or—” the tall blaster began, turning angrily toward the
other girl. But Ryan stepped between them.