Without breaking stride, J.B. sheathed the knife, and brought up the M-4000, which he had been cradling in his left arm, so that he grasped it with both hands. He stopped for a moment, planting both feet firmly to take the recoil, and fired the charge of barbed metal flechettes into the packed group of Sunchildren, who were too bewildered by this sudden apparition to move.
The white-hot metal, shot at enormous velocity and spreading over a wide area as it left the confines of the barrel, bought death and pain to the group, which disintegrated suddenly into a mass of writhing, bloodstained flesh. Some of the muties at the front of the group took the full brunt, their faces and torsos ripped to shreds by the load. Their already chilled remains were flung backward into the group, the force pushing other muties down and saving their lives—at least temporarily. They thus avoided the main load of death, but were still wounded by the storm of flechettes that had spread low and wide.
The Armorer had wasted not a second in slinging the M-4000 and bringing the Uzi into play, his short bursts directed at mopping up those sections of the heaving mass that still seemed to be alive and dangerous.
Passing the now chilled pile of mutie flesh, the Armorer established a safe position by a sheet-metal shack, firing a quick blast through the opening to clear the inside of any possible danger. Covering his back, he began to pick off any muties that passed his view, with his attention primarily focused on the ranch house windows and doorway, from which the wood and glass had long since disappeared.
“Only me,” a breathless cry had announced as J.B. had whirled to greet the sounds coming up behind him. “Had the same idea, eh?” the sardonic Downey announced, settling himself in beside J.B. and sweeping the long, iron-gray hair from his sweat-spangled face. Somewhere along the line, his habitual ponytail had come loose, and the strands of hair across his vision were both irritating and dangerous.
J.B. could smell the powder and heat from the discharged Sharps, and knew that the sec man had been busy at his task, and that he, too, had the foresight to target the ranch house.
“Better to chill them as they emerge, not let the bastards get those blasters all over the show.” The sec man grinned in answer to J.B.’s unasked question.
And now they were picking off passing muties and had a group holed up in the ranch house, loosing blaster shots that whined high and wide past the sec men.
There were also shots from inside the ranch house itself.
“Think we could leave them to chill themselves like that?” Downey questioned. “Guess I’m getting cramp around here.”
“Could risk a gren,” J.B. answered. Squinting through his spectacles, the Armorer took a hand from his Uzi to push his fedora back on his head and scratch idly at his forehead. “Doesn’t seem to be too many of ours around this point, and the house looks strong enough to contain the blast. Problem is, what if they’ve got a stock of grens in there themselves?”
“Good call,” Downey replied thoughtfully, realizing why the Armorer hadn’t risked a gren before. He looked around. There was no localized righting. The ville was small, but large enough for there to be none of the war party within a radius of about fifty yards. “Wouldn’t they have blown themselves up by now, if they had any?” he asked.
J.B. pursed his lips and blew. “Odds are,” he said simply, reaching into one of the pockets stuffed with ammo and grens that littered his jacket. He produced a gren, pulled the pin and rose to a standing position. A seemingly lazy swing of the arm, along with a perfect eye for distance, saw the gren arc in the air and land through one of the windows.
“Down,” J.B. commanded, pushing Downey to the rear of the shack.
The explosion was muffled, only the open doorway and windows allowing the force to escape. The structure of the building seemed to blow out, almost to the point of crumbling, before returning to normal. The sound of the ammo supplies firing off filled the immediate area, and then died.