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Going to their bellies, the companions crawled forward over the predark
concrete, the rough material scratching at their clothes and scraping exposed
skin. They stopped at the edge when voices could be heard, men complaining
about eating vegetables and some bitch named Patrica. Gently putting down his
rifle, Ryan unearthed the plastic mirror and looked around, then withdrew.
"Same as yesterday," he mouthed. "Two guards armed with muzzle-loading
longblasters, one with a handblaster on his belt. Searchlights on either side
behind a sandbag wall. No sign of the med kit."
Krysty looked at the low buildings nearby, and discounted them. The thief
couldn't live that close to the ville and stay hidden for very long. And he
headed straight here, so the med kit was in the ville somewhere. Probably in
the hands of the baron by now, or whoever ruled the place. They knew nothing
of what was on the other side of the wall.
"If they don't have it," Krysty whispered, "then where did the thief go?"
"Let's ask," Jak suggested, drawing a gren from a pocket, a predark pineapple
from WWII. The color coding showed it was a concussion grenade, used for
distractions and evasions. Useless for battle, as the kill range was less than
a yard, it was perfect for taking prisoners.
"Might lose one," the Cajun said callously, wiggling the pin free. "Mebbe two,
but only need one."
Considering the matter, Ryan reluctantly vetoed the idea. "Still too damn
noisy. If there are more guards inside the tunnel, we'll have a major fight,
with reinforcements coming from the ville. We have got to be quiet."
"I say jump them," Krysty said, drawing a sleek stiletto from her boot. "Toss
a blaster far down the road, and when they start forward to investigate, we
take them from behind. Knife in the lungs and nobody makes a sound."
"Can't breathe, can't scream," Jak agreed, nodding.
"Sounds good." Ryan drew his panga, the curved blade streaked with dried blood
from the previous night's interrupted dinner. The sight shocked the man, as he
had never gone so long before without cleaning the weapon. He had to take his
mind off Dean and concentrate on killing the sec men. Then a familiar rumble
sounded from the ruins, and a horn beeped in warning.
"Shit," Ryan whispered. "Convoy!"
The distant rumble of engines became louder, until around the corner lumbered
an old WWII jeep jammed full of men. Behind it was a flatbed truck piled with
mattresses, and lastly a battered U.S. Mail truck, the driver wearing a gas
mask.
"Exhaust-pipe leak?" Krysty guessed.
Scowling, Ryan said nothing, and Jak continued to unwrap the electrical tape
from the handle of the gren.
The convoy of predark vehicles pulled to a ragged stop in front of the tunnel,
and the drivers got out.
The tunnel guards walked over to greet the newcomers, and soon the two groups
were smoking pipes and swapping canteens. From the reactions, some of the
containers didn't contain water. The desert
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breezes carried away most of the conversation, with only scraps audible to the
companions.
"& bodies slashed to ribbons& "
"& blasters& "
"& muties had a real party last night& "
"& enough for a new greenhouse& "
His ruby eyes going wide, Jak curled a lip in disgust. Krysty turned slightly
pale, and Ryan felt sick to his stomach. The local baron was using people as
fertilizer in greenhouses? Part of him acknowledged the intelligence of the
notion, turning liabilities into assets, but the whole thing was a bit too
close to cannibalism for him.
Ryan motioned for a retreat, and the companions crawled back to the river some
fifty yards away, where they could converse in private.
"Gaia, eating their own dead," Krysty said.
With a curt hand motion, Ryan interrupted. "Doesn't matter. This is even
better than questioning the guards. This is our way in and out of the ville.
Everybody agrees the thief must have sold the kit to the baron, right?" Brisk
nods answered the question. "Okay, then, so do we. Here's the plan."
"HEY, HARRY," a driver called out, leaning his long-blaster against a truck,
the hot engine under the battered hood ticking loudly as it cooled. "You gotta
see this!"
Puffing on his corncob pipe, Harry started over as Trevor began to unfold a
glossy sheet of paper.
"What-cha got, Trevor?"
"Found this on the wall of a brake shop. Not bad, eh?"
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