“This will do,” Ryan said and closed the case to search through the rest of the crate. There was nothing more inside, so he ferried the flamethrower over to J.B. and continued the garbage hunt. A few more of those and they would be back in business.
An hour later, the tired people reached the starting point and broke for a fast meal of granola bars and beef jerky while J.B. finished his inventory of the meager finds.
“From the grease trails and fuel stains on the floor, I’d say the National Guard stored their wags down here,” Ryan said, biting off a chew of jerky. “Lots of Hummers, a few trucks and a couple of APC wags, Bradleys from the tire tracks. The soldiers loaded them with the blasters from storage and drove away.”
“To where?” Dean asked.
His father shrugged. “Where did all of the troops from the redoubts go? Nobody knows.”
“And they just tossed the trash down here as they unpacked the weapons,” Krysty added, unwrapping a stick of gum and popping it into her mouth. “Must have been in a hell of a rush to leave the area.”
“Which was lucky for us,” Mildred observed. “We found quite a few working weapons accidentally disposed of in the trash.”
“And some that are worth shit,” J.B. said, joining the group and tilting back his hat. “Want the bad news first?”
“Nothing good?” Jak asked, wiping his mouth on a sleeve, then screwing the cap on his canteen.
“Some,” J.B. admitted. “We have an M-60 with no ammo. A hundred rounds of 30 mm shells and no blaster they’ll fit. Got ten blocks of 4.5 mm caseless ammo, which I wouldn’t give as a gift to a stickie. There’s two shotguns with bent barrels, four M-16 longblasters with dented receivers, six Stinger guided missiles without a launcher tube or radar box, not that the circuits would have worked anyway after the EMP of the nuke.”
None of the companions smiled at the information.
“Now the good news,” the Armorer said, turning to walk along the line of four crates covered with military hardware. “We got a flamethrower with ninety seconds of fuel. Six M-16/M-203 combo blasters, nine usable clips and a thousand rounds of ammo. Plus, twenty assorted shells for the 40 mm launchers. Ten grens, two of them smoke charges, one Claymore land mine with a broken timer, but I can jury-rig something for that, a hundred timing pencils, a 4-shot LAW rocket with one live round, and an Armbrust with five HE rounds, only one of which is usable. Plus a ton of assorted small-arms ammo, more than we could ever carry.”
“Got the bikes,” Dean reminded him, going closer.
“More than even they can carry.”
The boy nodded. “Good.” His Browning didn’t really have much of a punch, and Dean was thinking hard about getting a second blaster, something with more power. However, the Weatherby weighed ten pounds. He wanted something lightweight, but with maximum chilling capability.
“Was hoping for more,” Ryan said gruffly, standing. “But it should do. Everybody take an M-16/ M-203, I’ll haul the flamethrower.”
Each of the companions took their fill of ammo for their personal weapons, filled their pockets with grens and draped themselves with the new blasters.
Taking his share, J.B. then went to help the man with the straps and tapped the pressure gauges to test the needles.
“Should have thirty-two, three-second bursts,” the man warned. “But it might only be half that since the pressure valve was sticking and we don’t know if that’s a true reading.”
“Say fifteen. So at short range, forty-five seconds total,” Ryan finished. “Good enough for the droids. Don’t know about the spider. That last mutie fought for a long time after we set it on fire.”
“No prob.” Jak pulled shut the 40 mm gren launcher of the M-203, and slapped a clip into the receiver of the M-16. Then with a scowl, the teenager pulled the clip and primed it first by rapping it against the wall, then sliding it into the weapon.
“Triple-stupe design,” he muttered.
Mildred grunted in agreement. “Give me an AK-47 any day,” the physician said, yanking the top bolt on the blaster. “Or an Uzi. Something reliable.”