Ryan’s ribs still ached, but now that he’d had some time to rest, the pain had ebbed to a level he could tolerate. The cut on his shoulder had also cleaned up well, the wound having looked far worse than it really was.
Krysty squeezed the sponge and let the water flow over Ryan’s broad, muscular shoulders, then she guided it down his chest and over his stomach toward the water.
Ryan flinched the moment the sponge traced a line over his aching ribs.
“Sore, lover?”
“A bit tender is all, but I’ll manage.”
Krysty kept her hand under the water, but let go of the sponge and let it float to the surface.
Ryan could feel her fingers caressing him between his legs. He quickly responded by growing hard.
“I thought you were tired, lover.”
“I am.”
“But not too tired?”
“Never too tired for that,” Ryan said.
“I can see that. Or should I say, I can feel it.”
Ryan reached up and cupped one of Krysty’s full breasts. She moved closer to him, bringing the nipple close to his mouth. Ryan responded by taking it between his lips and sucking until it condensed into a rosy nub of flesh.
“Oh, lover,” Krysty whispered, continuing to stroke Ryan beneath the water.
“To the victor go the spoils,” Ryan said. Krysty joined him in the tub. They made love long into the night.
Chapter Thirty
J.B. had roused the group before the sun rose, and they spent the first hour of the day just getting the wag started. After having sat in the garage for several months, the wag’s battery had run down and was without power. So instead of using the wag’s starter motor, the group had to push the wag while J.B. used the clutch to put the vehicle in gear. After a half hour of trying, it seemed the engine was never going to start, but then it coughed once.
Spurred on by that success, they tried again and again, cough turning into sputter and then finally into a shaky rumble.
And then the engine roared to life.
J.B. wasted no time getting everyone on the wag and moving. The exhaust fumes had a foul smell to them, and the less they had to breathe them in the better.
The group pulled the wag out of the underground garage just as dawn broke over the horizon. The sky was a dazzling shade of orange, and the cloud cover that had been hanging over them the past two days was now all but gone.
They left the garage and soon turned onto Niagara Falls Boulevard. With an open road in good condition in front of him, J.B. opened up the throttle and the rumbling noise from the engine smoothed out into a loud but regular hum.
They drove several blocks along the boulevard until they found the remains of a building that suited their needs. J.B. stopped the wag about a city block from a deserted and crumbling bank building on Pine Avenue, keeping the engine running in the hopes that it would recharge the wag’s battery. The east wall of the bank building was made of bricks and painted white, and would provide an excellent test target for the 37 mm cannon.
J.B. judged the distance to be about one hundred yards, well within the range of the cannon and the .50 calibers, but a tough distance to cover with small-arms fire, especially from remades like those used by the farm’s sec men.
“Put a round in!” J.B. ordered.
In the back of the wag, Doc loaded one of the better shells into the cannon’s breech. They had decided to try the shells in the order of the ones in best condition first, because if the cannon didn’t fire the best quality shells, it probably wouldn’t fire at all.
“Ready!”
J.B. paused a moment, knowing that the cannon barrel could just as easily blow apart as fire the shell. At least if the barrel exploded, he’d be chilled instantly.
J.B. pulled the cord he’d fashioned into a makeshift trigger, and the cannon boomed.
The cannon’s recoil pushed the wag back about two feet, despite J.B.’s firm pressure on the brake pedal.