Part 19 (1/2)
”There's a library,” Doc said, pointing, his other hand holding tightly on to the window frame. ”Always a good repository of...” The oldster squinted hard. ”I say, are those trucks in the parking lot?”
”Vehicles?” J.B. asked, coming over to extend his telescope. ”I would have thought the sec men had gathered everything with wheels for that b.l.o.o.d.y huge wall. Hey, those are U.S. Army trucks, and they're filled with crates of military supplies. Hot d.a.m.n!”
”Hmm, I do recall Jak saying that the sec men retrieved bodies from an attack by the muties,” Doc rumbled, his coat spreading out like wings from the stiff breeze. ”That must be the location where they struck.” ”And the sec men took the bodies but left everything else?” J.B. admonished, lowering the telescope.
”But that doesn't make any sense... Oh, they took half of the supplies. A little something for the baron, a little for them.”
”And more for us.” Doc smiled, marking the location in his mind. ”I wonder where they located the military supplies, still intact?”
”Can't be the redoubt. If they got in, they would never leave. So it must have been a bomb shelter,” J.B.
said thoughtfully as he lowered the telescope. ”Just look at all the government buildings this city has! It must have been the capital of...well, wherever the h.e.l.l we are. And the predark government always built plenty of bomb shelters to save the pencil pushers and a.s.s kissers.”
Stepping away from the opening, Doc straightened his collar and smoothed his hair. ”A most logical a.s.sumption, my good sir. What say we swing by there on our way back and see what the G.o.ds of chance have laid at our altar of need?”
”Sounds good,” J.B. said, checking his compa.s.s. ”North is that way. Let's see if we can spot the ville.”
”Certainly.”
As they walked around the burnished-metal rectangle of the elevator banks, neither man seemed to notice as the doors slid silently apart behind them, exposing the blackness within.
To the west was endless desert, only the hint of mountains lost in a purple haze of the horizon. But directly north of the skysc.r.a.per was the yellow river, and beyond that the nameless ville.
”By the Three Kennedys, look at those greenhouses,” Doc said, s.h.i.+elding his vision from the weak daylight with a raised hand.
Tilting back his hat, J.B. whistled. ”Must have a hundred of them. Where the h.e.l.l did they find any clean dirt? From under the ruins, mebbe?”
”Or they made it themselves,” Doc said, rubbing his chin. ”Simply mince and boil your own night soil until it was sterilized, then mix with sand.”
”And that will grow crops?”
”Without question.”
Whew, the things the old man knew. ”Searchlights to attract people and protect the ville from the muties, trained wolves and now greenhouses,” J.B. muttered, lifting the telescope for a view. ”Their baron must be a genius!”
”Or a farmer.”
”Farmer with an army,” J.B. stated, spotting a commotion in the ringed compound. Adjusting the focus, he swept the milling crowd gathering before a raised platform. ”Looks like they're having a meeting of some kind.”
”Any sight of our comrades?” Doc asked worriedly, pressing his boot against the frame of the window.
The gusts of wind tugged at their clothes, whipping about the loose cloth and keeping them slightly offbalance. It was necessary to hold on to the window frame to keep from going over.
”Not yet,” J.B. replied. ”Here, take a gander.” But turning to offer the telescope, he saw a furtive movement near the elevators. Then the man went cold as he spotted the tip of a gray wing sticking out from behind one of the support pillars.
”Ah, Doc,” he whispered, pocketing the telescope.
”Mm-hmm?”
J.B. casually withdrew a grenade. ”Muties.”
Slowly, the oldster brushed back his billowing coat and drew the LeMat. ”How many?”
Just then, they heard a skittering noise, like dozens of claws on a hard surface, followed by the faint crack of a piece of gla.s.s.
”Too many,” J.B. answered, prepping a gren. The awesome power of the LAW slung across his back was useless for this kind of combat. The ant.i.tank weapon took thirty seconds to prep, even if the creatures should offer a nice grouped target. Hardly likely. ”Hate to say this, but I think we found their b.a.s.t.a.r.d nest.”
”Congratulations.”
”Thank you.”
Easing back the hammer on his blaster, Doc glanced over the side of the building, looking at the distant streets and the tiny Hummer, no more than a dark jot in the tan sand. There was no convenient fire escape or any other way down. Even if they were over water and jumped, a fall from that height would kill them.
”Could we reach the stairs?” the old man asked out of the side of his mouth.
”Not a chance. Ready?”
”So it would seem I must be. On your mark, my friend.”
”Go.” J.B. turned and threw the gren, while Doc spun and fired the LeMat in a single smooth motion.
The blast of the HE blocked their view of the floor and threatened to throw them off the building, but as the smoke cleared, both men started to fire at the crowd of muties crawling around the elevator bank and coming straight for them.
SWADDLED IN DIRTY CLOAKS, two people walked through the bustling market square of Alphaville. The tall one carried a rolled-up blanket on his back; the other was shorter and most definitely a woman despite attempts to hide the fact.
On this side of the river, the ruins of the predark city had been extensively rebuilt, and while the new mortar between the recovered bricks didn't precisely match the colored bands of the ancient concrete still supporting pieces of walls, the homemade concrete did seem to be holding the patchwork of bricks and cinder blocks together, which was all that really mattered. A former gas station was serving as a stable for a few skinny horses, and a tavern was open for business on the corner across from a pottery shop, a dozen people inside spinning clay by hand on rotating tables.
A tailor was cutting garments for an impatient child, while the mother was giving unneeded directions. A bookstore was a burned-out sh.e.l.l, with workmen digging through the wreckage to haul away the trash. A cooper was frowning in frustration, a water barrel before him leaking water from every seam. A cobbler, a baker, a barber, a school for small children, a gallows, a defense nest of sandbags and sec men. And everywhere were the greenhouses, the gla.s.s glistening clean, folks inside doing things with the rows upon rows of lush green plants while grim-faced sec men stood guard at the doors, muzzle-loading rifles at the ready.
Shuffling along, talking to n.o.body, the pair reached the main market square and stopped. Here hundreds of people were exchanging items, buying vegetables or haggling over the cost of rat poison. Set between a greenhouse and a barracks, across from a dentist, was a gaudy house. Topless women leaned out the second-floor balcony, dangling the goods for sale.
The ville was thriving with activity. Tables galore in the market square were piled with salvaged tools, sc.r.a.p wire, mismatched shoes and even a few books. A plump woman with a babe in tow haggled prices with a merchant and came away with a mason jar to be used for canning food. She paid for it with a small loaf of fresh bread from the basket on her arm.
”But no weapons,” Ryan said, adjusting his scarf to hide his eye patch. ”Not even knives.” More than a few folks had similar wrappings, and once again Ryan wondered where they were.
”No butchers, either. Baron keeps a taut s.h.i.+p,” Krysty said quietly. A hood covered her head to hide her unusual hair. There was a faint reddish streak across her cheek where the bullet had grazed her face the previous night, but it was already fading. She always healed fast.
The crowd surged from an influx of people coming out of a steaming laundry, and Ryan got b.u.mped hard from behind. Instantly, his hands flew to check his weapons, and stopped.
”Sorry,” he muttered, hurrying away. He couldn't afford to draw attention to himself. They were here to find that med kit and leave. Nothing more. Besides, this seemed to be the nicest ville he'd ever seen since his own barony back in Virginia.
”Hey!”
Ryan turned, his hand resting on the handle of the panga inside his s.h.i.+rt. Hopefully, it appeared as if he were merely scratching an itch. But the stranger's throat was one fast step away from eternal silence.
”Yeah?” Ryan asked bluntly.
”Nice boots,” the big man said, displaying a mouthful of broken teeth. His hands were covered with the fine scars of brawling, his ears lumpy from badly thrown punches. But he stood on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, not the flat soles. This was a professional fighter, not some alleyway thug. Krysty eased herself away from the two and started to edge behind the newcomer.
”Yeah?” Ryan said noncommittally.