Part 2 (2/2)
”Close it,” Jak said bitterly. ”Close door on f.u.c.king place.”
”Amen,” Doc echoed. ”I would rather be anywhere besides here, even if I must endure this h.e.l.lish mode of transit.”
”You could always walk, Doc,” Ryan said. ”The offer's still open.”
”No, I do not relish a rematch with those most unusual followers of our friend the pharaoh. Even though the good Miss Wroth has eliminated Akhnaton from this mortal coil, I shall take my chances with the matter-transfer process, thank you very much though we all know how well it sits on my aged bones.”
”Aged bones, my a.s.s,” Mildred said. ”You'll outlive us all, Doc.”
”A fate I do not relish, Dr. Wyethalthough in your case, I must make an exception.”
”All right, then. Let's do it,” Ryan said, and pulled the chamber door closed, feeling the heavy steel panel click shut, an action that would result in the activation of the mat-trans unit.
A second pa.s.sed, then two.
Ryan felt sweat begin to bead under his armpits.
And then, as it always did, the unit's security lock caught true, and the metallic clunk of magnetic bolts being thrown into the place was followed in turn by the spectral tendrils of the sinister pale mist that signaled the beginning of a jump.
”Hot pipe!” Dean said excitedly.
Despite his tension, Ryan grinned at his son's sense of adventure. ”They don't make 'em any hotter,” he acknowledged.
The white fog continued to gather, thickening around the unearthly s.h.i.+mmering disks in the floor and ceiling, and an almost inaudible hum from within the bowels of the chamber began to make itself heard deep inside the very core of their individual beings, a hum that increased slowly in pitch, making their skulls vibrate. For a few fleeting seconds of sheer agony and discomfort, it always felt as though the flesh were being flayed back from the bone.
”I could use a bottle of extra strength headache pills,” Mildred mused. ”I used to eat them like candy back when I was in med school. Pulled many an all-nighter with them and the radio as company, and got to where I'd bite down and chew them up one by one without water. I actually developed a taste for the flavor. And I thought I had bad headaches then!” She paused, then went on. ”Now I also feel as if a whole hive of electricity generating ants were running all over my bodyand I want to talk and talk so I won't notice as much.”
”Any of the stuff we grabbed out of here good for headaches?” J.B. asked. ”I got a pocketful of drugs and syringes.”
Mildred shook her head. ”What you're carrying are just broad-spectrum antibiotics. Good for infection, but they're not painkillers in the sense I'm needing.”
”Too bad. Bad enough taking a mat-trans jump when you're feeling good. Triple bad when your head's already hurting.”
”I know,” Mildred replied, snuggling in closer to J.B.'s lean body. ”I'd have to wait and take them after the jump anyway. Otherwise, I'd probably just vomit them up once we got to where we're going wherever in the h.e.l.l that might be.”
John Barrymore Dixbetter known as J.B.was Ryan Cawdor's longtime companion, best friend and his own personal walking and talking cache of knowledge of all forms of weaponry and how they could most effectively be used. J.B. wore the t.i.tle of Armorer with quiet pride, a t.i.tle given to him by the legendary Trader in the days when J.B. and Ryan rode with the grizzled old master of survival before fate stepped in and set them on their own path.
Trader had respected Dix and made him his head weapons master and b.o.o.by-trap expert. J.B.'s encyclopedic mastery of blasters and their specs was invaluable to anyone attempting to traverse the Deathlands. From simple black-powder muskets to rumbling war wags equipped with high-tech lasers, J. B. Dix had obsessively spent his childhood and young adult life studying and memorizing how to use and repair any kind of offensive weapon.
He was still learning, but it was the rare weapon indeed he hadn't read about or seen.
With J.B. was his companion and lover, Dr. Mildred Wyeth, a ”survivor” from the period before the nukecaust that ended the civilized world. Like J.B., Mildred was also a rare find for the Deathlands, since she was a trained physician and pioneer in the field of cryonics and cryogenics, a talented woman whose abilities had saved more than one member of the group.
Ironically, due to an illness near the end of the year 2000, she had been frozen by the very same cryonic process she had helped to develop, and had remained that way until Ryan and the others had found and managed to restore her to life, not knowing she was a physician.
Of even more practical use in her new surroundings, Mildred was a crack shot, having partic.i.p.ated in the Olympics of 1996 as a free-shooter and taking home a silver medal for the United States. She carried a ZKR 551 Czech-built .38 target revolver, and while she took her oath as a healer seriously, she had seen enough and experienced even more since her reawakening to know the old saying ”he who hesitates is lost” was written with the Deathlands in mind.
But for now the Armorer and the doctor were both at rest. Although they kept their relations.h.i.+p restrained and private, Ryan couldn't help but notice the comforting arm J.B. had placed around Mildred's shoulders. She leaned back into the side of the Armorer gratefully. Out of all the band of friends, Mildred came closest to actually understanding the h.e.l.lish process they were about to endure, but that didn't mean she particularly enjoyed it.
J.B. was ready. Ryan saw the lean man had already removed his steel-rimmed eyegla.s.ses and tucked them safely away inside the front pocket of his worn leather jacket. J.B.'s other hand gripped his Smith amp; Wesson M-4000 scattergun tightly, reminding Ryan to check his own weaponry. Ryan caught J.B.'s eye, and the Armorer nodded an affirmative, tilting his battered fedora down over his eyes as if readying himself for a late-afternoon nap.
Ryan smiled at the gesture. J. B. Dix didn't like to use words when a gesture or a nod would do the job. Saved time. But he spoke up when things needed saying, or at times, when Mildred needed something a little extra from him.
”Planning on standing up for this trip, lover?” Krysty asked.
Staying upright during the matter-transfer process was never a good idea, since they usually ended up after a jump flat on the floor and unconscious anyway.
Ryan sat down in the graveyard mist next to Krysty, and she gave him a brief wink. As always, he couldn't help but marvel at her striking beautythe flawless pale alabaster skin that managed to keep its purity even under the adverse conditions they sometimes traveled in, the radiant green of her eyes and the pa.s.sionate fire of her long red hair. It was odd considering the amount of time they spent outdoors that there wasn't even a hint of a freckle on her nose or cheeks. Such a lack of freckling was very unusual for a redhead.
”You're staring,” she whispered, taking his hand in her own and squeezing.
”Just thinking about how lucky I am to have you,” Ryan replied.
”Nice to be appreciated.”
”I'm just glad to be moving again,” Dean Cawdor remarked to his father. The boy was seated next to Krysty, his knees drawn up tight to his chest. Ryan could almost swear the lad had grown an inch during their brief separation. If the growth spurts continued, the boy would soon be as tall as Ryan himself. They already shared the same dark complexion and curly black hair.
Like many young people of the Deathlands, Dean was chronologically poised to enter his teens with the life experiences of a much older person.
Across from Ryan was a young albino he considered his second son. Unlike Dean, there was no sharing of bloodlines, nor any resemblancebut the mutual feelings of love and respect ran deep. The teen's features were distinctive enough to bring more than a glancing notice, even among the more unusual appearances in Deathlands. Jak Lauren's pallid complexion was paler than usual, throwing the crisscrossed scars on his face into sharp relief. His ruby eyes were half-closed, and his mouth was drawn tight in antic.i.p.ation of the jump to come.
A heavy, well-used but well-maintained Colt Python blaster was safely fastened down in a holster on one of Jak's legs. As a rule, Ryan didn't want his party to have weapons combat ready before a jump, so there was no need to have the handblaster c.o.c.ked and ready. The mental and physical condition of everyone after a jump prevented the use of any weapons. Even if they were to beam into the midst of a firefight or a band of scalies, the group wouldn't be able to lift a finger to fight back until recovering from the physical toll the mat-trans experience took as payment for the instantaneous method of travel.
Besides, hidden on his person, Jak had several leaf-bladed throwing knifes, their hilts taped for perfect balance. The young albino didn't need to worry about using a blaster when he had access to his knives, and he never went anywhere without one or more within instant access.
As usual before a mat-trans jump, Jak had nothing much to say, unlike the thin man beside him, who kept up an ongoing discussion with anyone who would listen or, when that option was out, keep a dialogue going with himself.
Next to Jak's eerie whiteness was the weathered face of Doc Tanner, a man trawled from the 1800s and thrust into present-day Deathlands. A lifetime of sights was etched into his skinand his eyes. Doc gripped his ebony walking stick tight, the silver lion's-head handle keeping the secret of the hidden and honed blade of Toledo steel housed inside the body of the cane.
A most unusual handblaster was holstered at the man's thin hip. It was an ornate Le Mat, a weapon dating back to the early days of the Civil War. The weapon was almost as much an antique as Doc himself, but probably in much better condition. Engraved and decorated with twenty-four-carat gold as a commemorative tribute to the great Confederate soldier James Ewell Brown Stuartor Jeb Stuart, as his friends and folks in Virginia referred to himthe ma.s.sive hand cannon weighed in at over three and half pounds.
The blaster had two barrels and an adjustable hammer, firing a single .63-caliber round like a shotgun, and nine .36-caliber rounds in revolver mode. Finding ammo was difficult, but the old man refused to give up the sometimes clumsy blaster for a more modern weapon.
”Once you are set in your ways, there is no reason to change unless absolutely, positively necessary,” Doc intoned.
Ryan did a quick inventory of his own personal a.r.s.enal. The 9 mm SIG-Sauer P-226 blaster was at his side like a loyal dog, the weapon's bulky baffle silencer digging rea.s.suringly into his hip. The twenty-five-and-one-half-ounce weapon served as his third hand.
He had looped his bolt-action walnut-stocked Steyr SSG-70 rifle over one shoulder. Also on hand were two bladed weapons, a large eighteen-inch panga strapped to his left hip and a flensing knife, hidden away at the small of his back. Various bits of ammunition and a talent for the lost art of hand-to-hand combat made for a dangerous two-legged killing machine.
”Dad don't take s.h.i.+t off n.o.body,” Dean had once said in awed wonder to Krysty as they both watched Ryan take out twin attackers in less than thirty seconds.
”I know. He doesn't have to. And what have I told you about watching your language?” the redhead replied.
This same incident had caused a third foe to cry out in exasperation at the firepower Ryan was using and the skill in how it was deployed, ”It's a wonder the one-eyed son of a b.i.t.c.h doesn't clank when he walks!”
”That's mister one-eyed son of a b.i.t.c.h to you, stupe,” Ryan spat back, before unleas.h.i.+ng a single shot from the SIG-Sauer pistol and turning the upper part of the attacker's head into a messy mix of brain, blood and bone.
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