Shatter Zone. James Axler
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wonder why they haven’t hit us already?” Krysty said, checking the load in her wheelgun. Five rounds, two of them predark, three reloads. All of the soft-lead ammo had been split into dumdums to maximize their destructive power. The slugs would go in like a finger but come out like a fist. But only on flesh. Against a machine, or a biowep, they were about as useless as spitting.
“Why? Not need,” Jak growled, swinging out the cylinder on his weapon and removing some of the brass cartridges. “Where go? Trapped like rats in shitter.” The Colt Magnum blaster had the unique attribute of being able to hold both .357 rounds and .38 rounds, which doubled the kind of brass he could use. Jak really couldn’t understand why everybody didn’t use this type of blaster. Just made good sense.
“Any grens?” Doc asked, checking the load in his LeMat. The black-powder weapon had nine chambers in the main cylinder, but only six were loaded at the moment. In the bulging pouches of his gunbelt, Doc had plenty of black powder, and .455 miniballs, but it had been a long time since he had found any fulminating mercury “nipples” needed to ignite the Civil War blaster. Without those caps, the deadly LeMat was reduced to nothing more than an oddly shaped club.
“No grens, plas or pipebombs,” J.B. replied, setting the firing switch on the Uzi to full-auto. “If we happen to run into a sec hunter droid, just aim at the eyes and stay out of the reach of its blades.”
“Good luck with trying that tactic,” Doc commented.
Removing the last .38 bullet, Jak tucked them carefully into a jacket pocket, then thumbed in the more powerful .357 rounds. If they were facing whitecoats, he wanted a sure chill with every stroke of the trigger.
“Here,” Mildred said, pulling a plastic bottle out of her med kit. She splashed some of the homie shine on a strip of cloth normally used for a bandage, then tied it around her mouth.
“In case they try to use sleeping gas,” she said, wetting another strip and passing it along. “I don’t know how much it’ll help, but this should buy us a little time.”
Everybody took a mask and tried not to make a face as the sharp smell of the homebrewed alcohol filled their nostrils.
Keeping a close watch on the door, Ryan checked his weapons one last time. He had three full clips for the SIG-Sauer, plus four for the Steyr longblaster. After that, it would be hand-to-hand with the panga. In preparation, Ryan loosened the knife in the leather sheath on his belt.
“Okay, I’m on point,” Ryan stated. “Jak and Krysty, cover me. Mildred and Doc, hold off as backup. J.B., you bring up the rear.” The one-eyed man had almost issued instructions to Dean, too, but his son had left the group a few months ago. His absence left like a ragged wound deep inside Ryan, but pain was part of life, and he accepted it as such. Only the dead felt nothing.
As the other companions moved into positions, Ryan pressed an ear against the door, listening for the sounds of any movement beyond. The silence was thick and heavy. Gingerly, he ran his hands along the jamb, searching for boobies. J.B. then stepped forward and ran a small pocket compass along the surface of the metal. The magnetic needle didn’t quiver once to indicate a hidden magnetic switch or mass proximity fuse.
Mildred tried to snort at the sight of J.B. studiously moving the tiny plastic compass along the door frame. The compass was a recent acquisition, found inside a cereal box in the ruins of a predark convenience store. It was a toy, nothing more, laughably inaccurate compared to a Boy Scout compass or a military-issue model. However, most of the predark compasses the companions found had been demagnetized by the EMP blasts of the nukes that burned down civilization. Incredibly, the toy still worked, and that alone made it invaluable.
“Looks clean,” J.B. said hesitantly, tucking away the precious compass and stepping back. “At least, no traps that I can find.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Mildred noticed that Doc’s hands were shaking a little as he set the selector pin on the LeMat.
“Sure that you can shoot straight?” she asked bluntly.
“Shoot? Absolutely,” Doc replied, assuming a firing position with the Civil War revolver. “As for straight, that is another matter entirely.”
“You know, they may not have attacked us yet,” Krysty said unexpectedly, “because they don’t know we’re here.”
Thoughtfully sucking at a hollow tooth, Ryan considered that notion. “Fair enough. Let’s try for a nightcreep first,” he suggested, inspecting the SIG-Sauer’s acoustical silencer. “We go soft and silent. No blasters until absolutely necessary. Jak, get ready.”
The albino teenager holstered his Colt Python and flexed both hands. Leaf-bladed throwing knives slid from inside his camou sleeves. He flipped the blades once in the air, catching them by the handles, then nodded. “Ready.”
“Triple red,” Ryan ordered, advancing to the door and pulling the lever. As the door swung aside, he slipped into the anteroom, then the control room with his blaster leading the way.
Nobody was in sight.
Whistling softly, Ryan waited as Jak and Krysty moved into the control room. Then the three companions quickly spread out so that they wouldn’t offer a group target for any snipers. Moving in unison across the control room, the three listened hard, but couldn’t hear a thing except for the soft mechanical hum of the giant, wall-spanning comps, and their own harsh breathing.
Reaching the opposite door, Ryan whistled and the other companions entered the control room, their blasters searching for any possible dangers. Staying close to the rear, Doc seemed uneasy, the scholar constantly switching his black-powder blaster from hand to hand to dry his palms on a pant leg.
“Nothing here—” Ryan started to say, then abruptly spun around and fired from the hip. Across the room something exploded in the shadows under the main console, spraying out bits of plastic and wiring.
Advancing slowly, Ryan scowled at the smoking device, wondering what the hell it could be. Then his eye went wide as the pieces lying on the floor began to ripple through an array of colors to finally match the pattern of the floor. But the effect only lasted a few moments before the smashed electronic circuitry of the broken device gave an audible click and the plastic faded into a neutral beige.
“Shit,” Jak muttered, tucking away a knife. “Seen lizard do, but…machine?”
“That is a probe droid,” Doc said, the wall vents gently sucking away the acrid smoke rising from the debris. “A robotic hunter for Operation Chronos.”
“Like dog?” Jak asked.
“Exactly. It is just one of their many…toys,” Doc finished with a sour expression. Standing straight, the scholar looked around with a scowl. “But if I recall correctly, a probe droid is for true emergencies only. By gad, where are we, their headquarters?”
“Does the place look familiar?” Krysty asked, frowning, her long hair coiling tightly in response to her tense nerves.
“They all do, dear lady,” Doc said angrily, thumbing back the hammer on his handcannon, only to gently ease it down again. “I always assumed that was done deliberately as another of their endless defenses. If an enemy force jumped in, they would still have to waste precious time making sure they were at the right location before attacking.”
“The way we do,” J.B. said unhappily.
“Exactly.”
“Shit.”
“Any chance two of them?” Jak asked urgently, watching the shadows in the corner for any suspicious movements.
Askance, Doc raised an eyebrow. “Two? Good Lord, no. You’re looking at about several million dollars’ worth of advanced robotics lying in pieces on the floor. They never even sent one of these after me before. I learned of them only by accident when I was crawling through an air vent in one of their insufferable prisons.”
“That during an escape attempt?” J.B. asked, reaching