As the boy climbed onto the saddle with his father, Jak slid behind Doc and the companions rolled along the wide expanse of the cracked tarmac for a hundred feet before reaching the warehouse. The asphalt of the parking lot was badly cracked, stunted weeds growing in the cracks.
Braking to a halt for a brief consultation, Mildred served as the anchor with her rapidfire, while Ryan and Krysty drove a recce around the building. When they were gone from sight, J.B. went to the front door of the warehouse and studied the complex locking mechanism.
“Nobody about,” Krysty reported, returning from around a corner of the warehouse and braking next to the other bikes.
A few moments later, Ryan appeared from the opposite side. “Loading dock in the rear,” he added, spreading his legs to support the purring machine. “But the doors are bigger and look even stronger than the front.”
“Which are also locked,” J.B. reported. “Electronic keypad, palm reader and ID card necessary. Going to take a lot more C-4 than I have to open that slab of steel.”
“And the rear doors are stronger?” Doc asked incredulously.
Ryan nodded. “Like a bank vault.”
“Any windows?”
“None.”
“So let’s try Occam’s razor,” Mildred said, glancing at the small building with the flagpole in front. “Maybe the keys are in the main office.”
“Worth a shot,” Krysty agreed, turning off the engine.
Leaving Doc to guard the bikes, the others took the pressurized lanterns and walked over to the small building. On point, Ryan found the screen door locked, but the inside door was held open with a rubber wedge. Rain blown in through the screen had destroyed the front room, the chairs and carpeting reduced to rags, the legs of a dark wooden table bleached gray.
The lanterns were lit, and, cutting a slit in the screen, Ryan released the latch holding the outer door in place and entered the dim building. Immediately, he was assailed by the stink of dust and mildew, the smells as familiar to him as blood and cordite.
Spreading out, the companions found nothing of interest in the waiting room, and started along a short hallway. Side doors led to a file room, a bathroom and finally to a large office with tarnished gold lettering stamped on the mahogany door. The name shown was Major Eric K. Thomas, Commanding Officer.
Kicking the door open, Ryan immediately fired and the sheet of paper fluttering off the desk jerked as the 9 mm round punched through to slap into the wall. Entering the room, the Deathlands warrior picked up the spent brass from the floor and cursed at himself for wasting a round.
Gray sunlight filtered through the grimy windows to poorly illuminate the CO’s office. In the corner was a water cooler streaked by mineral deposits on the inside. Next came a line of red leather chairs that had been badly nibbled by mice, the foamy cushions tufting out randomly. The walls were heavily decorated with framed diplomas and commendations, pictures of family and friends, each so badly tilted that a few were hanging sideways. Near a green metal file cabinet was a sofa blanketed in cobwebs, and a vid camera hung at the distant corner of the ceiling where it could cover both the door and the windows.
The door to a private bathroom was ajar, and dominating the room was a tremendous oak desk, topped with a sheet of greenish glass. A skeleton was slumped over the desktop. Tiny bits of blue fiber and tarnished metal sticking to the collar bones seemed to imply that this was an officer of some kind, possibly the CO himself. As the companions started searching the office, puffs of dust were raised from every step on the crunchy carpet.
“Stinks in here,” Mildred said, wrinkling her nose, setting the lantern on a convenient coffee table. The covers of the magazines showed smiling politicians, sleek cars and skinny women in bikini swimsuits that looked painful to wear.
“Smelled worse,” Jak stated, going through the file cabinet.
As with most offices, the key to the cabinet had been left in the lock, to be removed at the end of the day. But the end had come sooner than expected and the files were completely accessible. The teenager found a dried-out bottle of Scotch whiskey in the bottom drawer, along with a couple of Western novels and a rat who had made a nest by chewing the documents into shreds.