“Blast, I can’t carry all of this,” Krysty said, and laid down the Webley. “We’ll have to make two trips.”
“Better save the .44 bullets for Doc,” Ryan suggested, tugging the body harness of the flamethrower into place. “Mebbe we can finally get him to abandon that antique and keep the other Webley.”
“Hope he’s okay,” Dean said, changing the subject. He knew only one person was needed to guard the bikes, and with the gates closed the parking lot should be secure. But the National Guard base was cut in two by the cliff, and anything could have climbed onto the mesa and caught the old man from behind.
“He fine,” Jak stated confidently, stuffing a box of .357 ammo into the pocket of his jacket. “Hear shot if trouble.”
Closing her eyes, Krysty tilted her head for a moment.
“Curious,” she said, frowning. “There it is again.”
“Doc?” J.B. asked, stuffing the Armbrust into his backpack.
Pensive, the redhead turned slowly. “No, it’s that soft popcorn noise again.”
“More gas?” Dean demanded, looking about for any signs of yellow smoke.
“I hear it, too,” Ryan added with a frown, tucking the vented wand of the flamethrower through the chest straps and drawing his handcannon. “Seems to be coming from the elevator.”
“We never checked that,” Mildred said, pointing the double barrels of her M-16/M-203 in that direction. “If the soldiers sent the trash down here with the elevator, then anything could be in there.”
“Making popcorn?” Jak asked, puzzled.
“Or mebbe something walking on bubble wrapping,” Dean suggested.
“Droid?” Jak asked skeptically.
“Damn near anything,” Ryan said. “Triple red.”
Quickly, the companions assumed positions behind the mounds of rubbish.
With his Uzi in hand, J.B. walked to the elevator to listen for a moment, before placing a hand on the lever of the elevator door.
“Open it,” Ryan directed, leveling the fluted muzzle of his weapon.
Grabbing the handle of the cargo elevator, J.B. pushed up the gate, the action making the bottom half drop from sight.
Inside the lift was a towering stack of wet wooden crates piled high on a plastic pallet identical to the one used for the Pegasus . The sides of the boxes were soaked with an oily residue that was dribbling onto the metal floor. As each drop struck, it detonated like a firecracker. The irregular sound was vaguely reminiscent of making popcorn.
“Dark night,” J.B. gasped, going motionless at the sight. “Everybody freeze. Don’t move. Don’t move a goddamn muscle or we’ll be blown to bits!”
“Dynamite,” Ryan said between clenched teeth. “Nuke-shitting hell, that’s got to be four or five tons!”
Lifting a leg, the Armorer awkwardly untied his left boot and slid his foot out, then did the same with the other.
“Remove your boots and walk to the stairs in your socks,” he ordered in a whisper. “Make no sudden moves, and for fuck’s sake don’t drop anything. Take whatever you’re holding. Nothing more.”
“But the ammo” Mildred began.
“Leave it,” Ryan said, tying his boot laces together and slinging them around his neck to keep his hands free. “That old dynamite is sweating pure nitro. We got to go, and fast.”
“Come again?” Dean asked.
J.B. felt a trickle of sweat run down his face as he moved for the door to the stairwell. “Dynamite was just nitro in some sort of inert packingfuller’s earth, sawdust, anything would do. But over time, the nitro can seep through the waxy covering of the sticks and ooze on the outside in droplets.”
There came a crackle of tiny explosions from the ground of the elevator.
“And then it explodes whenever,” the boy said hoarsely, suddenly understanding.
“Damn straight. Why the fuck it didn’t detonate when I yanked open the door, I have no idea. But if it goes off now, there wouldn’t be enough left of this armory to stuff into a spent brass round.”
Gently placing her sock-clad feet on the terrazzo floor, Mildred stared at the stack of crates on the pallet. “Anything we can do?” she asked, licking dry lips.
“Leave,” J.B. said, tiptoeing toward the exit. “And then run for our lives. That elevator is a bomb just itching to go off.”