Sunchild. James Axler

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      “…don’t give shit. Not eating slop when self-heats there.”

      “C’mon, Jak. Doc’s done his best, and it would make more sense to keep the self-heats and take them with us.” Mildred’s exasperation was showing through in her edgy tone.

      “Yeah, but this crap’ll kill us before we get out of the main door, so then we won’t need self-heats anyway, will we?” There was a wry edge to Dean’s tone that suggested he was enjoying helping Jak to exasperate the more sensible Dr. Wyeth.

      Who was looking for backup. “John, don’t just sit there and say nothing. Help me out on this one.”

      “Leave me out of this, Millie,” came J.B.’s laconic tones. “This crap isn’t really edible, but then I don’t like self-heats much, either.”

      Ryan and Krysty entered what was obviously the redoubt’s kitchen to find their companions arguing at a table, with the exception of Doc, who was standing over a pan that bubbled busily on a hot plate. He greeted them with a sheepish grin.

      “I fear I may be the cause of some discontent,” he began. “Upon finding a supply of self-heats, but also some foodstuffs that had been dried and preserved, I reasoned that it would be sensible to try to make a meal from the latter, thus preserving the self-heats for our travels. However, I must confess that my attempts at the culinary arts have not been altogether—shall we say—successful.”

      Krysty wrinkled her nose at the stale stench emanating from the pan, then glanced at Ryan. He, too, had noticed the smell. Doc noted their silent exchange.

      “Precisely,” he replied to their unspoken question. “The desiccated foodstuffs and—well, what they were I can only assume—seem to be as stale as the spices with which I have endeavored to enliven them. Also, the consistency leaves a lot to be desired.”

      “It’s not going to kill us,” Mildred argued. “It’ll still be nutritious, and that’s the main thing. We can’t waste self-heats.”

      Ryan looked from Mildred to Doc. The old man shrugged once more, and smiled, revealing his eerily perfect teeth.

      “I suspect I know exactly what you’re thinking,” he stated. “If I had merely dismissed the dried foodstuffs as so much dross, and merely pointed out the discovery of the self-heats, then all this argument could have been avoided.”

      Ryan laughed. It was the first time for ages that he had felt able. “Don’t worry about it, Doc. Guess you’re right, but it’s nice to just be somewhere for a while where we have the time to argue about nothing.”

      Doc grinned, his gleaming white teeth in his tightly drawn and lined face giving him the appearance of a skeletal jester. He said no more, but tossed the one-eyed warrior a self-heat, which Ryan opened.

      “Let’s just enjoy it for now,” Ryan added, opening the container and setting off the process by which the contents were heated.

      Doc distributed some more of the containers, and even Mildred conceded that, as poor as some self-heats could be in terms of taste, they were still superior to the bizarre hotchpotch, still bubbling gently if a little malevolently, Doc had thrown together on the hot plate.

      They ate in silence, none of them realizing until that moment how hungry they were, and how tired they had to have been to sleep without even thinking about food prior to this.

      When they had finished, Jak placed his container on the cluttered table and belched. “Air getting bad,” he muttered.

      “And you’re not helping,” Dean pointed out.

      “Seriously, though, Jak has a point,” Mildred added. “We’re going to have to think about leaving. The air-conditioning plant won’t be able to cope with us for much longer, and the air’s just going to get worse.”

      “Okay, we’ll find the armory, check it out, then head on out,” Ryan said decisively. “Let’s check ourselves first, though—don’t want to be too relaxed.”

      The group ran through their weapons and supplies. As well as his leaf-bladed throwing knives, Jak also carried a .357 Magnum Colt Python with a six-inch barrel. It was, as always, in immaculate condition. Dean checked his Browning Hi-Power, Mildred her Czech ZKR 551 .38-caliber target revolver, which she favored because it fitted in with her predark shooting skills that had seen her win an Olympic silver medal.

      Doc’s favored blaster was a LeMat double-barrel percussion pistol, usually firing two different kinds of shot. It was effective as a scattergun at longer ranges, and deadly in close quarters. A .38-caliber Smith & Wesson Model 640 was Krysty’s preferred blaster, and this was also checked. Ryan shouldered his Steyr SSG-70 rifle, and inspected his SIG-Sauer handblaster.

      Mildred and Krysty made sure that they had gathered the remains of the self-heats and tucked them into their backpacks.

      They were ready, if still relaxed. Now to check out the armory.

      As with everything else in the redoubt, it was ridiculously easy to find. And there was no sec lock on the door, which was easily opened.

      “Dark night,” J.B. growled. “I knew it was too damned good to be true.”

      The Armorer and Ryan walked into the room that had once housed the armory. It was empty, apart from one open crate, which contained several rifles.

      “Something’s better than nothing,” Ryan commented, removing one of the rifles from the crate and handing it to J.B.

      “Guess I was mebbe expecting too much,” J.B. replied, pushing his fedora back from his forehead and taking the rifle with his other hand. “But what’s this?”

      “I was kind of hoping you could tell me that, partner,” the one-eyed warrior replied as he, too, examined one of the rifles.

      They were of a fairly conventional shape, although the lines of the barrel and stock seemed to almost blur as they molded into one. The blaster was of some alloy with which they were both unfamiliar, and had a large, round red sight on the top, which was non-detachable. There was a crystal in a cage at the end of the barrel, instead of an opening, and there was no way of inserting ammo.

      “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Ryan questioned.

      J.B. put the rifle down and carefully wiped his spectacles. “Yep, guess so. Mebbe some kind of laser tech. Who knows how that kind of shit works? Never come across enough of it to figure that out. So if these were left here because they’re defective…”

      “Then we leave them because they’re just deadweight to us.”

      The Armorer nodded. “One way to find out.”

      Ryan nodded agreement. Making sure that the armory was clear apart from themselves, they tried each rifle, toying with the settings. None would fire; most wouldn’t even fire up the digital displays that came up in the red sight. Those that did had low power readings and error messages that made little sense without a trained tech or a manual.

      J.B. threw the last one to the floor in disgust—a disgust measured by his treatment of something he would usually cherish.

      “Knew it was too good,” he repeated.

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