That sounded acceptable, and the men spread out, hunting for anything usable.
“Hey, Sarge!” the private called out from near the smoking chassis of a destroyed Mack truck. “Some of this stuff isn’t burned much.”
“Anything good?” the sergeant asked, walking closer, his boots crunching on the packed sand. With the lanterns behind him, his legs cast long shadows across the parking lot.
“Don’t know. What’s an MRE?” The sec man tried to open the foil pack and started to turn red from the effort. There were directions clearly printed on the package, but the squiggles were meaningless to the man.
Keeping a careful watch on the sky, the two sec men proceeded to the library while the driver kicked over the white-haired corpse in a weird coat. The man’s shirt was covered with so much blood it was impossible to tell if it was his or came from the other fellow. “These must be the last of those jolt dealers the muties aced,” the driver theorized. “They came out of hiding to reclaim their stuff and kilt each other.”
“Good.” A toothless sec man laughed happily, rattling the library doors. There was no sound from inside. “More for us.”
The foil finally ripped apart, spilling out an assortment of smaller packs and pouches. “Hey!” the man cried in delight. “These are food packs!”
“Hell, no wonder they fought,” the driver commented. “Let’s see what else they got on them.”
Fred rubbed his chin. “Mebbe a little jolt?”
“Could be.” The driver grinned, bending over the old man when there was a sharp metallic click. The driver recoiled just before his chest exploded, and he flew backward to slam into the pickup with a hole the size of a dinner plate in his torso.
“Sumbitch!” Benson cursed, clawing for his blaster.
But the other corpse rolled over, firing a squat machine gun from a prone position. The sec men near the library died on the spot. The sergeant drew his pistol and got off a wild shot before the LeMat removed his head in a grisly spray of bones, brains and blood.
The last sec man jumped over the low stone wall and took off for his life. Stumbling after him, J.B. and Doc both fired their blasters, but the nimble man disappeared into the ruins.
“Bedamned, we are shaky,” Doc rumbled, clumsily reloading his blaster.
“Just be glad we’re still alive,” J.B. panted, leaning against the library wall. He was exhausted from the minor exertion. “When I saw those stupes going for the library, I almost shot them right there.”
“They were not a good pattern yet.”
“I know. That’s why I waited.”
Finished reloading, Doc holstered his piece and took a lantern from the pickup. Hurrying over to the library, he lifted it to a window. Instantly, there was a rustling of bodies and the snapping of wings. He ducked quickly and a juicy gob flew across the lot.
“Our guests seem most perturbed by imprisonment,” Doc stated, closing his eyes until a wave of dizziness passed. “Perhaps we should amend the terms of their captivity.”
“Too dangerous to shoot them through the windows,” J.B. said claiming his rumpled hat from where it had dropped. He winced from the pain in his pulsating arm as he beat the dust off the fedora, then reset the crown and brim. “That bat venom is bad news, and they spit way too accurately for my taste.”
“And mine, sir.” Moving about, Doc found his sword and ebony cane. “Think there is enough fuel in the—well, let’s be polite and call it a vehicle—to burn them to death?”
Forcing himself to keep standing, J.B. donned the hat, then tilted it an inch to the proper angle. Dressed again, the man felt more like his old self. “No way, even if the tank was full.”
“How inconvenient,” Doc commented, glancing at the skyscraper rising about the ruins. The upper levels were lost in the distance of the nighttime sky. “And I can only postulate that we did indeed capture them all, or else we would be long dead and eaten while we were unconscious.”
“Screw them. Let’s blow,” J.B. said, shivering slightly. “It’s colder than a baron’s witch out here, and I’m starving.”