by James Axler
“Stinks in here,” Mildred said, wrinkling her nose, setting the lantern on a convenient coffee table. The covers of the magazines showed smiling politicians, sleek cars and skinny women in bikini swimsuits that looked painful to wear.
“Smelled worse,” Jak stated, going through the file cabinet.
As with most offices, the key to the cabinet had been left in the lock, to be removed at the end of the day. But the end had come sooner than expected and the files were completely accessible. The teenager found a dried-out bottle of Scotch whiskey in the bottom drawer, along with a couple of Western novels and a rat who had made a nest by chewing the documents into shreds.
Defensively, the rodent hissed and snapped at the intrusion. Without an expression, Jak flipped his wrist and the rat fell over dead, its head neatly removed. The neck stump pumped out a gush of red blood, soaking the books and making the pulp paper swell to twice its original size.
Interrupting the search, a window rattled as a boom sounded from outside, closely followed by two sharp whistles. Holstering their blasters, the companions relaxed and returned to their task. Whatever the trouble was, Doc had handled it alone.
“Found the warehouse ID card,” Dean said, pulling a plastic card from a battered wallet, then glanced at the open door. “Same name as the base CO.”
“Keep it,” Ryan said, standing in the middle of the dusty room, his arms crossed. “Could come in handy.”
“At least it means we’re on the right track,” J.B. said, going through the top drawer of the desk.
Krysty made a rude noise as she lifted a ring of keys into view and started going through them one at a time. The lock on the warehouse was large and shaped like the letter H. A Vishi, or something like that. One of the few locks J.B. said nobody could trick or pick. He often joked that a sledgehammer was the best way through a Vishi.
Not helping in the search, Ryan stayed where he was and continued to carefully study the furnishings of the room. Something was out of place here, but he just couldn’t put a crosshair on what was wrong.
Then he spotted it. Hung on the wall behind the desk was the classic unfinished portrait of George Washington. There was nothing obviously suspicious about the picture, and Ryan had to look twice before finally realizing it was the only thing hanging on the walls that was still perfectly plumb. This close to the volcano, the base had to have received thousands of miniquakes from pressure vents over the decades.
“There’s a wall safe,” Ryan said, going around the desk and pushing the office chair of bones out of the way. The deceased commanding officer tumbled to the carpet and was kicked aside, but the bones rolled under the desk. Even in death, the officer refused to relinquish his post.
Running his fingers along the frame, Ryan thought that the portrait was nailed in place, until he touched a release switch on top and it swung away from the wall on squeaky hinges. Set in to the concrete wall was the pebbled armor front of a small safe. It was regulation size, with the standard numbered dial and lever.
Ryan stepped out of the way and let J.B. sweep it with his compass.
“No mag fields,” he said, tucking the compass into a pocket. “If it’s boobied, I can probably bypass the trigger.”
“Mebbe we shouldn’t bother,” Krysty said, beating the dust off her clothing. “Safes are usually cleaned out.”
“Not always,” J.B. replied, pressing an ear to the steel door and closing his eyes to concentrate on the task.
Artfully, he rotated the dial twice to zero, then began slowly turning the dial listening for clicks. Less than a minute later, J.B. twisted the handle and began pulling out wads of papers marked Top Secret.
“No warehouse manifests,” Ryan said, glancing at the paperwork before tossing it away.
Triumphantly, the Armorer withdrew a small wooden box. Forcing the lock with a knife blade, it sprung open to show red velvet lining with irregular indentations, spaces for a dozen keys, but only four were in place.
“Front gate,” J.B. said, reading the tags, “main office, fuel pump…loading dock!”
“Bingo.” Mildred grinned.
Leaving the office, the companions started toward the last warehouse. Blaster in hand, Doc waved in passing, a shoe resting on top of a crow, feathers strewed across the parking lot.
From the jungle, Ryan could hear a mixture of animal noises and glanced at his rad counter. The needle was near the redline and climbing steadily as they approached the rear of the warehouse. Any higher and they would have to cancel the recce or risk getting rad poisoning. That was a bad way to get aced, just about the worst.
Staying as close to the brick building as possible, the companions crept along the loading dock, the concrete ramp extending from the warehouse at shoulder height. On the dock were three rust-streaked metal doors and a wire fence closing off the dock itself. To the left was a set of stairs leading from the parking lot to a door alongside the dock, but those were also enclosed by wire fencing, this time topped by what was probably once concertina wire. Only the endless coil of razor blades had disintegrated from exposure to the elements, and nothing remained but some reddish-brown stains on the fencing.
“Dark night, it’s hot here,” J.B. said, checking the rad counter on his lapel.
“Which is why we’re not going to waste time with lock picks,” Ryan stated, firing the SIG-Sauer at point-blank range. The padlock blew apart, and the man hastily dragged off the chain holding the gate closed.
Rushing into the enclosed area, the companions climbed the stairs and breathed a sigh of relief as the rad counters eased their ominous clicking. The warehouse had to be at the very edge of the rad field, mere yards making the difference between lethal and livable.
At the top of the stairs, J.B. fired the Uzi and shattered the door lock. Instantly, a loud siren cut the stillness of the air, and the companions covered their ears, momentarily stunned by the power of the alarm. But a few moments later, the siren faded away completely.
“Impressive,” Ryan commented, uncovering his ears. “The damn thing still worked after a hundred years.”
“Just a fluke,” J.B. retorted, pushing open the door with his rapidfire.
Just like in the city, the companions held their breath while out poured a rush of dry lifeless wind. Impatiently, they waited until fresh air had a chance to circulate inside.
Then Ryan gave it an extra couple of minutes, just to be sure. Sometimes, the corpses in the sealed buildings rotted in a strange way, maybe from the rads pouring through the walls, and the bodies filled the air with sickness. He’d seen strong men begging to be chilled only hours after entering a sealed structure.
When Ryan deemed it safe, he took the lead and entered, J.B. and Krysty close behind. In the bright illumination of the pressurized lanterns, they could see the three huge doors of the loading dock to their right, and straight ahead was a large open area with the floor sectioned in yellow stripes. A forklift stood mutely near an oil drum whose top was littered with foam coffee cups and a large thermos. Clothing and shoes lay in disarray on the polished concrete floor, obviously disturbed by small scavengers.
“Any rads?” Dean asked.
“We’re clear,” J.B. said, setting his lantern on top of the oil drum. A startled beetle scuttled out of the thermos and spread its wings to fly into the rafters.
A cargo elevator filled one wall, the panels closed, the controls dark. The door to a stairwell stood alongside, yellow lines on the floor marking its swing pattern, obviously to prevent folks from getting hit by the opening door.
“‘Safety First,”’ Krysty muttered, reading a sign on the wall.
Straight ahead, a long central corridor stretched to the far brick wall, both sides of the passage with large doors marked in alphanumeric sequences.
“Damn predark codes,” Ryan snorted, resting the stock of his longblaster on a hip. “These storage units could be filled with shoelaces for all we know.”
“Got to open each,” Dean said, walking his lantern close
r to the first door. The portal was veined metal, unblemished by the passing of the years. If there was a lock or hinges, they were nowhere in sight.
“How the hell do we get in?” he asked, annoyed.
Jak went to a toolbox lying near the forklift and returned with a sturdy pry bar. “Got key,” he said, proffering the tool.
“Hey, what was that?” Krysty asked, swiveling. The woman stood in a crouch, with her blaster searching for a target. “Sounded like…well, like popcorn.”
Mildred scowled. “What makes a noise like that?”
“Nothing I know of,” Ryan said, lifting a pressurized lantern high to see the rafters. Nothing moved in the shadows, and overhead there was only the bare iron rafters, some moist water pipes for the fire-control system and the silvery insulation wrapped around the electrical conduits.
Krysty listened intently, but the noise was gone.
“Rain on roof?” Jak asked, looking upward. “Mebbe birds?” There was no skylight in the warehouse, and no windows to see outside, only a hooded ventilation fan in a steel cage. The building was a fortress offering no easy way for thieves to get inside.
Slowly, Krysty shook her head. “Can’t say exactly what it was,” she murmured uneasily. “But definitely not rain.”
Ryan went to the rear door and glanced outside. “No sign of anything,” he reported. “Might have been a fan moving from the breeze of us opening the door.”
“Mebbe,” Krysty agreed reluctantly.
“Hear anything now?” Mildred asked, listening herself. There was only the hiss of the pressure lantern to be heard.
“Nothing,” the redhead said, easing her stance.
“Good. Let me know if you hear it again,” Ryan said.
“Bet your ass,” Krysty muttered.
Going to the first storage room, J.B. checked for traps, and Jak stabbed the pry bar into the jamb. The teenager gave a heave, something snapped loudly and the door slid sideways. Mildred raised the lantern to see, and there was only bare floor inside the storage unit.
“Empty as a stickie’s pockets,” Ryan growled, lowering his blaster.
“Sure hope this isn’t a bust,” Dean added.
“Funny,” Krysty said, wrinkling her nose. “Now I smell horseradish.”
Mildred spun from inspecting the corrugated walls of the unit. “You sure?” she asked urgently, sniffing hard. “God no, please, not that.”
“I smell it, too,” J.B. said, puzzled. Horseradish, he’d smelled that before in a predark ruin many years ago.
Retreating a step, Krysty pointed at the baseboard of the wall. “Look!”
With a burbling hiss, thin yellow fumes began to rise from disguised vents, the vapors becoming thicker and stronger in irregular swells.
“Gas!” Ryan cursed, covering his face with a sleeve. “Everybody, out of the room!”
Dashing into the central passage, J.B. shoved the door shut, but the fumes seeped past the jamb, swelling and expanding to sluggishly fill the passageway completely. From the rafters, a beetle tumbled down to hit the floor near a twitching mouse, lying on its side. Blisters were already forming over its furry body.
“Mustard gas!” Mildred spit, backing away fast. “Don’t let it touch you!”
“This way!” Jak commanded, heading for the exit.
But as the companions tried for the loading dock, the swirling yellow fumes were already waist high there, sealing off any possible escape in that direction. Retreating to the far end of the central passage, Ryan and the others put their backs to the brick wall. Steadily increasing in volume, the deadly mustard gas was swirling like a living thing, slowly filling the passage in random spurts. The reek of horseradish was becoming overpowering, their eyes painfully tearing, and breathing was becoming torture.
Pulling out a canteen, Mildred splashed some water on her face, then soaked a handkerchief and held it to her mouth.
“Make masks!” she ordered, passing over the container.
“This stop?” Jak asked hopefully, coughing hard.
The physician shook her head. “Wet masks will only buy us a few minutes. We’re dead meat unless we get out of here right now!”
“Vents must not be working correctly,” Ryan said, his voice muffled by the wet rag.
“Only reason we’re still here,” Krysty agreed, gasping for breath.
“I’ll stop it,” Dean growled, pulling a Molotov from his bag. Igniting the fuse, the boy threw the bottle at the expanding death cloud. In a crash, the cocktail roared into a fireball, but as the poison gas touched the flames, they dimmed and diminished in size until winking out of existence.
“Goddamn it,” Mildred cursed. “Fire is useless. There’s no free oxygen to feed the flames.” In desperation, her mind raced to recall chemical formulas. Did she have anything in med kit to use as a counter agent for mustard gas? Truthfully, the physician wasn’t even sure there was a counteragent effective against the lethal war gas.
Slow and steady, the yellow fumes moved along the passageway, getting inexorably closer.
“Got to find another way out of here,” Ryan said, running his hands over the brick wall. The concrete between the bricks was flush to the surface, leaving nothing for them to use as chinks to climb to the roof.
“Blow the wall!” Dean shouted, his chest heaving.
“Wind would only bring the gas on us faster!” J.B. shot back.
“Other wall!” Jak urged, pointing down the passage.
Turning, Ryan thrust a hand into his pocket. The teenager meant blow open the loading bay doors and vent the gas out the front. Brilliant.
Pulling grens, Ryan and J.B. whipped a couple of HE spheres through the mustard gas. Moments later the charges violently exploded, but there was no change in the growth of the poison vapors.
“Dark night, it didn’t work!” J.B. raged.
Snarling, Ryan pulled another gren. “Do it again!”
“No, cover your faces!” Krysty commanded, pulling out the Veri pistol. Aiming for the ceiling, she yanked the trigger and the signal gun thumped in her grip, her last flare launching on a sizzling column of colored flame.
Chapter Sixteen
Streaking away, the signal flare slammed into a steel rafter and exploded into a blinding flash of colors. Almost instantly, there was a gurgling hiss and water began to sputter from the fire sprinklers lining the vaulted ceiling. As the brackish fluid began to rain upon the swirling poison, yellowish water started running along the concrete floor and into the rusty drains.
Tearing and coughing at the pungent reek of horse-radish, the drenched companions held wet handkerchiefs and covered their faces. Incredibly, the cloud was getting smaller, the deluge of water diluting the gas and washing it away. But the volume from the sprinklers was already slowing, what little water had remained in the century-old feeder pipes depleting rapidly. Now, the military warehouse was fighting itself, the two defensive systems locked in mortal combat. Long minutes passed with the floor vents spitting out tiny gasps of mustard gas while the sprinklers pitifully drizzled their dwindling supply onto the reeking death mist.
Then without warning, the vents became silent, the chem reservoir completely drained. But designed to extinguish a warehouse full of burning munitions, the fire sprinklers still sputtered out the occasional burst of water. In growing relief, the companions watched as the mustard-gas cloud slowly thinned away, even diminishing in density and height, until only faint wisps floated over the puddled floor.
Dean started to remove his rag and Mildred stopped him. Patiently, the group waited for the sprinklers to cease operation, and there was no longer any sign of the lethal gas. Soaked to the skin, Ryan decided to be the first and hesitantly lowered his damp cloth to chance a sniff. The warehouse smelled like a stagnant pool, but without any trace of horseradish. Carefully, the Deathlands warrior did so again, then drew in a full deep breath.
“Clear,” he announced, tossing aside the rag. “Good thing you had a flare.”
&
nbsp; “And that mustard gas is a soluble toxin,” Mildred said, blinking rapidly. “How did you know?”
“Didn’t,” Krysty replied, pouring some more water from her canteen into a palm and smoothing down her stinging hair. “But there didn’t seem to be anything else to try.”
A drop of water fell from the overhead pipes, landed with a splat on the protective hood of a lantern and hissed away into steam. Dean moved the lantern to a peg on the wall.
“Damn smart move,” J.B. said, shaking the moisture from his Uzi, the bolt and wire stock clacking softly. “Going to remember that trick.”
“Try running first, lover,” Mildred said, squeezing out her sodden sleeves. “If this had been VX or M-55 nerve gas, we would have been chilled before the first drop of water fell.”
“VK chills even faster,” Ryan growled, using stiff fingers to brush back his crop of dripping hair.
“How know that?” Jak asked.
Exchanging glances, Ryan and J.B. didn’t reply. There were many secrets in the Deathlands that they would never talk about. What they knew about nerve gas was one of the biggest.
“I’m going to open the door,” Dean said, wrinkling his nose at the remembered stink, and headed for the exit.
Splashing through the shrinking puddles, the companions reached the loading dock and forced open the three doors. A warm breeze moved into the warehouse, carrying the rich fragrance of the jungle, flowers, fruit and the heady aroma of living green plants.
Leaving wet footprints on the apron, the companions walked outside and Ryan gave two short whistles. A single long whistle answered from around the corner, telling them Doc was fine, and Ryan whistled back, informing the old man they were also fine.
Drying off in the weak sunshine, the companions let the warehouse air out while they cleaned blasters. Nobody spoke for several minutes, thinking about how close they had come to death from the trap, and knowing that they were soon going to go right back inside and try again.
“Where there’s one trap,” J.B. said, wiping off the lenses of his glasses, “there’ll be more.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Ryan said. “We’ll each take turns opening the units, and at the first sign of any more gas, we leave fast.”
