THE COFFEE SUB WAS HOT and black and even had a faint, residual taste of coffee, one of the great rarities in Deathlands, where the climate didn't favor it.

Ryan stirred three spoons of sugar sub into it, sipping at the brew as he lay back in the bed.

"Could get used to this," he said.

"Make the most of it."

"Where's my breakfast in bed?"

Krysty was sitting at the desk, drinking her own unsugared coffee. "Not much choice. Egg sub, so you can have an omelet. Some frozen meat, but Mildred recommended that we steer clear of that. Cans of tomatoes. Cans of luncheon meat that Mildred says should be all right if they're not blown."

"How's Dean?"

"Others are all still fast asleep. Don't know about J.B. and Mildred, though. Their door was firmly shut, so I just left it like that. Surprised they didn't have a Don't Disturb sign hung outside."

"Thought the boy might've been up and playing with those vid games. If they work, they'll probably be

the first he's ever seen. Me too, for that matter."

"Omelet with canned luncheon meat and tomatoes?" She moved to the doorway. "And some more coffee?"

"Sure, why not?"

DEAN WAS STILL SLEEPING like a babe after all the others had risen, showered and eaten.

"Want me to wake him?" Jak asked.

Ryan shook his head. "No. Leave him be. Just Nature recharging his batteries for him. Lad needs it. And

we aren't in any hurry to leave here."

"I'd vote for staying for another week, or more," Trader said. "Warmest crib I've come across in years.

Surprised nobody's broken into it from outside."

J.B. wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Shouldn't have put so much hot pepper sauce on that omelet.

Double-stupe of me."

He turned to Trader. "Had a quick look around, but all of the main control areas and the ob section's

locked tighter than a war wag's sec code. There's a way to the main entrance, but I figured better to wait until we're all together before opening that."

"Find anything else interesting?" Ryan asked.

"Smell of sulfur's strong close to the sec door to the outside. And salt, as well, like you figured."

"Yellowstone," Trader said.

"Western islands of California," Ryan stated, grinning at his former chief.

"We'll see about that."

"Yeah, Trader, we will."

ONLY TWO OF THE STUDIES hadn't been cleared out.

One of them contained a small pile of paperbacks. One without a cover was advertised as Stephen King's Big Fiftieth, and there were ancient Westerns that had been read so hard that they crumbled like the Dead Sea Scrolls when touched.

Doc had been browsing in the other room. "I say!" he called. "I believe I've found the remains of a diary or journal. It had become stuck between two of the drawers and overlooked when the redoubt was finally evacuated."

As Ryan came into the passage to examine Doc's find, he bumped into his son, walking blearily along, rubbing at his eyes and yawning.

"Yes," Ryan said quickly. "That's the answer to the question you were about to ask me. But first you have a shower and cook yourself something to eat. Then you can go play those games. I'll be along in a while."

"Wow, thanks. See you" And he was gone.

JAK WAS ALSO sufficiently fascinated by the video games in the small side room off the refectory to want to remain behind with Dean. All the others had crowded into the little study where Doc had made his discovery.

"I believe that the young woman who wrote this had intended to take it with her," Doc said. "But she missed the last few pages, and here they are now."

The paper was flimsy and delicate, faded to the palest of greens. The woman, who was nameless, had written on the backs of some old military Stock-Indent forms, using a black pen and a small, neat hand.

Doc passed the sheets to Ryan, who held them to the light. "Can't make out the writing all that well. Mildred, can you read them to us?"

"Sure. Hand them over." She shuffled them, checking what she was actually holding. "They're dated, right through to January 20, the day the world ended."

The journal began five days earlier, opening up in the middle of a sentence.

" ' he think he is? Living in the dark ages with his ideas on what women can and can't do. Times like this with everything going to hell in a handbasket, it's everyone together. Only way we'll beat the Soviets. Luanne reckons they'll back off and stop their game-playing. I'm not so sure." '

DEAN HAD GOBBLED DOWN some cereal with add-water milk sub, eager to get to grips with the half dozen games that he'd seen so briefly the night before.

"Reckon they'll work, Jak?"

"If do, will. If not, won't. If not, we can try make them work."

"Then let's go."

" 'PRAYERS ANSWERED. Test came up neg, so at least no worries about maternity leave next summer. Won't tell the major for a couple of weeks. Make the bastard sweat like I did.'"

Mildred flipped over the next page. "Just some more personal stuff about her relationships. Then Ah, then we get back to worrying about the possibility of a war."

" 'Tracey whispered she'd seen a blue-code intercept from the S side of the fence. Their leaders have been in secret session for nearly two days now. Something big must be going down. Or going up? Shouldn't joke at a time like this. Hope Mom and Dad are all right back in Sioux Falls. They know about the buried control base there, but it never seems to worry them. Worries me.'"

"WOW! HOTTEST PIPE EVER.".

The machines worked off quarters, but most of them had several spare coins lying in the reject slot, as well as another dozen or so pieces of silver glinting on the carpeted floor.

Dean and Jak walked around, touching the gleaming glass, peering at the garishly illustrated facades, one labeled Grand Prix.

"What're grand pricks?" Dean asked. "Looks like a fast wag-race game to me."

It was a capsule, shaped like an Indy car, in brilliant crimson plastic, flecked with gold and silver. The

steering wheel was dark maroon. The large screen in front of it was blank.

"Try it," Jak said. "Get in. I'll put jack in."

Dean was suddenly shy. "Don't know how to work it," he muttered.

"Just go for it. Can't get chilled on vid game."

The boy adjusted the big blaster on his hip and clambered in, sliding comfortably into the cockpit. He

grasped the wheel and glanced down to check the foot controls.

"Ready. I think."

Jak put a quarter into the slot and pressed the red Start button.

There was an instant howling sound and the screen came alive, showing a starting grid, other cars on

either side. A pair of lights at the top of the screen were glowing red, and a man with a flag was waiting on a dais to the right.

The lights changed to green.

The other cars disappeared in a scream of burned rubber and roaring engines. Dean stamped on the foot control. The screen shuddered, and a patronizing voice came from the speakers.

"Bad luck, competitor. Too hard on the gas. Stalled on the line. Insert further money for a second attempt on the Grand Prix challenge."

And the screen went dark.

"Fuck that," Dean said, climbing quickly from the car. "Let's try another."

" 'SEEMS LIKE SOMETHING big's happening. I've never seen such excitement. Nerves and tension and snapping voices. Word is that the Ruskies are going to stage a preempt. Walter's been saying that we should fight to the last man and woman. Make it hot for the bastards. I don't see it coming to that. Crazy. Gateway's been busy with top guns from Washington and the Five-Sider. If they try and invade, then we'll likely be in the front line. Most went to bed early tonight. I watched "Dueling Dollars" and got nine out of the ten questions right. My best score ever. One wrong was stupid about some Chinese leader called Mow. Corey in filing said the shredders are overtiming it.'"

"WHAT'S VIRTUAL REALITY?" Dean asked. "Never heard of that before."

"Me neither. Mebbe best not put head in that helmet, Dean. Try another."

They stood and looked at the black headpiece with built-in goggles and headphones. The game was called

Castle Douglas of Doom, and promised dark encounters in black dungeons and turreted towers with enemies from both sides of the grim divide. There were pictures of phosphorescent, leering skulls and sheeted ghosts with bloodied talons.

"Try next one," Jak said.

"You try it."

It was called Arnie the Armadillo, and the purpose of the game seemed to be a quest through a tropical

forest to collect as many sacks of gold from the mines of the dreaded trolls before you ran out of lives.

Dean pushed in the quarter as the albino leaned against the front of the machine, readying his long white fingers over the controls.

An animated scuttling little figure began to buzz from left to right, along a narrow tunnel. As Jak

struggled to understand the controls, it ran headlong into a wall of spikes. The genial voice cut in. "Ouch!