Wordlessly Ryan passed over the canteen, and J.B. gratefully took the container, sipping steadily. Drink too fast and he’d only lose it again on the floor.
“Thanks,” J.B. said, lowering the container, then holding it out to the others. “Any takers?”
“Here,” a redheaded woman called weakly, reaching for the canteen.
Shifting position, J.B. passed it over, and Krysty Wroth drank deeply, a trickle of water flowing down either side of her full lips.
Her khaki jumpsuit was partially unbuttoned, exposing a wealth of cleavage. Draped over her strong shoulder was a bearskin coat, the fur matted from being badly cured. A Smith & Wesson revolver rode a holster near the buckle of her gun belt, the leather loops full of shiny brass.
“Thanks,” Krysty said, passing the canteen back to Ryan. Already the woman was speaking normally, and she stood without trouble.
In the distant corner of the hexagonal chamber, a boy was on his hands and knees retching quietly. Nobody paid any attention to him. All the friends had gotten jump sickness at one time or another. It was the price they paid for traveling the Deathlands in the mat-trans chambers.
“What happened?” Krysty asked, her face pensive. Gently caressing her face as if stirred by secret winds, her animated hair coiled and relaxed, mirroring her anxious thoughts. “Some sort of malfunc?”
“Seems likely,” Ryan said, forcing himself to stand, then leaning against the steel wall to keep from going down again.
“Least not chilled,” a pale teenager said. “Or a frybrain.”
“So far,” Mildred corrected sternly.
Ryan frowned but said nothing.
Nodding in agreement, Jak Lauren was breathing heavily as if gathering strength for an attack. The albino teen’s shoulder-length hair was the color of snow, and his strange ruby-red eyes peered out through the tangles like the spotting laser of a sniper rifle. A dozen leaf-bladed throwing knives were hidden among the folds of his clothes, and a huge .357 Magnum Colt Python revolver rested backward in a belt holster.
With fumbling fingers, J.B. retrieved a pair of wire-rimmed glasses from his shirt pocket and gently put them on.
“Where the hell are we?” he asked, staring at the drab chamber walls.
Grimacing from sore stomach muscles, Ryan moved to the door, which had a square of plain glass in its middle. He scanned the immediate area and, seeing no threat, he turned the plain knob and opened the door.
“Don’t know,” he replied grimly, looking into the room outside. “I never saw this redoubt before.”
The domed room was made of corrugated steel, just like the kind used on the floors of big-rig trucks, but welded together in a crazy quilt pattern as if assembled randomly from whatever was available. And across the room was a door that looked as if it had come off a submarine. That was totally wrong.
“It’s not a redoubt,” J.B. said grimly, retrieving his crumpled fedora from the floor. He smoothed the brim and placed the hat on his head tilted slightly backward to afford maximum visibility. “Place looks like it was thrown together.”
“Fireblast,” Ryan growled. “It’s another bastard homemade gateway!”
“Aw, shit,” Mildred said, drawing the ZKR target pistol from her belt and thumbing back the hammer.
“Homemade hellholes,” Jak grunted in displeasure, his voice hoarse and raw.
Suddenly more retching noises came from across the chamber.
“Dean, are you okay?” Krysty asked, going closer to the kneeling boy.
The boy gamely nodded and slowly raised himself off the cold floor. He wobbled a bit, the heavy backpack on his shoulders obviously throwing him off balance. But he grimaced and slowly stood erect as if defying the very laws of gravity.
“I’m fine,” Dean mumbled, stealing a glance at his father.
Hiding a smile, Krysty turned her back to the boy. Puberty was upon him, and the strong need to be accepted as another adult was making itself felt. But then, Dean was a battle-scarred veteran of a hundred fights, he owned a knife, a working blaster, a pocket full of ammo and carried more food in his backpack than most poor bastards ate in a month. In the Deathlands, that not only made Dean a rich man, but also a formidable opponent. He possessed a younger version of his father’s strength and speed. Dean had no fear in a fight, and when he was fully grown, Krysty had no doubt he would become a formidable warrior.