“Jarmal, you’re in command now,” the teenager finished.
The grizzled veteran had seen this coming and wasn’t thrilled by the battlefield promotion. The commanders of the sec men had a bad habit of dying in the Strichland reign. “Thank you, Baron. May I suggest we stay here until the storm dies, and then we go home?”
“What did you say?” the youth whispered, staring at the older man with a near deranged expression.
Jarmal sighed. With his wife and children still in Alphaville, he had to follow the little lunatic straight to hell if need be. Afterward would be another matter. Alphaville needed a strong baron, but not another madman in charge.
Then again, people died in battle. Even barons sometimes.
“I said we should attack immediately,” the CO corrected.
“Absolutely!” Leonard cried, then he pointed to the nearest men. “You, you and you! Rip this place apart and find some boxes and rags. Private, you’re the quartermaster. Gather the weapons from outside and field-strip the autofires until you have enough clean blasters for everybody.”
“We each get an autofire, sir?”
Leonard took the Desert Eagle from his left holster and tossed it to Jarmal. “Everybody,” Leonard stated. “Then we go after this bitch and her one-eyed lover and blow them to hell.”
The sec men cheered and got to work with a fever.
“One eye?” Jarmal asked, checking the load on the huge blaster. “Isn’t she with Harold?”
“Apparently not. When that man tried to shoot me, his sunglasses slipped and I saw he wore a patch on the left side.”
“Oh yes, and one more thing, Captain,” Leonard added, brushing his hands across the Plexiglas.
“Sir?”
“Send some men to the supermarket and see if we have any wolves still alive. We’ll use the beasts to track this pair to their bolt-hole and take the battle to them this time.”
“Still want the redhead alive, sir?” Jarmal asked slowly.
“No,” the young baron said without hesitation. “No prisoners. Kill them both on sight.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Resembling freshly unearthed mummies, Ryan and Krysty slipped into the government building and Doc closed the heavy glass door tightly, sliding the wedge of wood under the jamb to help it stay firmly in position. Overhead, the storm was noticeably weaker. Thunder rumbled again, but the lag between noise and lightning was increasing. The Deathlands tempest was almost finished.
“How’s Dean?” Ryan asked, uncovering his mouth. “Can we leave yet?”
“I do not know, sir,” Doc said, offering a canteen. “Dr. Wyeth is spoon-feeding him broth, and most of it stays down.”
“Most? That doesn’t sound good.” Ryan took a healthy swig of the tepid water. “Damn.”
Yanking down her mask, Krysty accepted the canteen and took a long pull. “Whew. Thanks,” she said gratefully, stripping off the cloth holding the shoe box on her arm.
“You seem undamaged,” Doc said, pleased. “May I assume the mission was a success?”
“Shit, yeah.” Ryan coughed, also removing his box. Holstering the blaster, he flexed stiff fingers.
“Excellent.”
Doc returned to watching the street outside as the man and woman raised quite a dust cloud while unwinding the intertwined rags covering them before reaching clothes. Feeling pounds lighter, they climbed over the barricade of file cabinets and started downstairs.
“Any problems?” J.B. asked, rising from a chair, a napkin tied around his throat and an open MRE envelope in his hand.
“Went like clockwork,” Krysty announced, dropping the stack of ammo clips on a table. “Found these for you.”
“Thanks.”
“Is that spaghetti?” Ryan asked, amused for some reason.
The Armorer blinked at the odd question and checked the foil package in his hand. “No, corned-beef hash. Want some?”
“Mebbe later.” Maneuvering through the sea of tables, Ryan reached the bedsheet tent and scratched on the cloth.
Mildred came out, stooping to clear the fold. “You’re back. Thought I heard voices. Any damage that needs mending?”
“Just bruised and tired,” the big man replied. “How’s Dean?”
The physician glanced backward. “Stable, nothing more. I’ve done everything possible. It’s a waiting game now.”
Cawdor took her shoulder and squeezed gently in understanding. She shrugged, apologizing for not being able to do more.
“How many dead?” Jak called out. The albino teen was lying on a crude bed of sofa cushions with his boots off, an arm draped over his face to keep out the lantern light. The first rule of surviving combat, after not getting shot, was to always grab as much sleep as possible.