Ramming the cylinder back into the blaster, he slapped the bolt. “J.B., think you can fix that skylight before we get back with the wag?”
“No problem,” the Armorer replied, half of a cigar clenched between his teeth. He discovered the cigar in a humidor in some executive’s office, and for the hundredth time since the previous night he started to light the thing, but forced his hand away. “Found some replacement glass for the windows and such in the basement. Won’t take me more than a hour.”
“Good. Doc, take the roof as lookout. Stay sharp, but don’t fire at anything, even another of those damn mu-ties.”
“Until young Master Dean is mobile,” Doc rumbled, “we shall be the most devout of cowards.”
“J.B., when the roof is done, spell Mildred. Make her get some sleep. She’s got to be rested and alert.”
“Just in case,” J.B. said. “I understand. No prob. Get the med kit and chill the bastard who stole it from under our noses.”
“That’s my plan.”
“Wind is increasing,” Krysty warned as thunder rumbled softly in the mottled heavens. “And the damn tracks are half-gone already.”
“Got go,” Jak urged, stepping away.
“J.B., Doc, if we have any live company when we return,” Ryan said, his voice implying it was highly unlikely, “we’ll use the standard a-b-c codes.”
“Gotcha.” J.B. clearly remembered when they first invented the alphabet code. If one of their group showed up with strangers, how could the rest know if the newcomers were okay or armed aggressors? The solution was as simple as the problem was basic. If the companions identified themselves, or the stranger, with any name starting with the letter a—Alfred, Alexander, anything like that—it meant there was no danger. All clear. If they used a b name, it meant bad news. They were being forced to comply with the folks they were with. And if they used a c name, it meant the whole thing was crap, kill everybody, including the companion.
“Godspeed, sir,” Doc said solemnly. “My prayers go with you.”
“I don’t think your God would approve of my plans for today,” Ryan said, turning to the street.
Down the block, Krysty stood attentively on the corner, while Jak was inspecting the crumpled ruin of a mailbox.
“Freshly sideswiped,” he said, then studying the ground and faced north. “Hummer went this way.”
Spreading out so they wouldn’t present a group target to any snipers, the companions followed the main street until Ryan found a clear set of tracks in some smooth stretch of sand.
“East,” he said, the butt of the Steyr resting on his hip.
Cutting through a brick-lined alleyway, they disturbed a nest of green-skinned lizards who turned as pale as sand and scattered at their intrusion. Climbing over a low mound of rubble from a fallen cinder-block wall, they proceed across a bare parking lot, the ancient black macadam partially hidden under the windblown sand and tufts of dead weeds sprouting from the many cracks in the black surface. The lot was edged with a short concrete wall, the kiosk smashed under a fallen telephone pole. No tracking skills were needed to spot the fresh tire tracks in the churned masonry.
“Did he know the Hummer was tough enough to take the wall,” Ryan asked, “or was he driving with the lights off?”
“Headlight switch is clearly marked on the dashboard,” Krysty said, watching the rooftops for any suspicious movements. “Especially at night, they glow. No wait, shit, I busted one of them yesterday.”
“Even so, scared we following,” Jak offered, not sounding convinced by the suggestion. Then he pointed. “Ammo box.”
Ryan walked over and picked up the green metal container. It was from the redoubt. “Must have lost it when he took the wall.”
“Rolled down street. Couldn’t do if driving all over place,” Jak said thoughtfully. It was an unusually long speech for the normally monosyllabic Cajun. “Damage to box?”
Ryan turned it over in his hands. “Dents and scrapes, but it wasn’t hit by the Hummer if that’s what you mean. Army ammo boxes are tough, but the five-ton wag would flatten this like a soup can.”
Resting a hand on her canteen to stop it from bouncing as she walked, Krysty started toward the intersection. “Then he went this way.”