Zanders tried to hide his pleasure and failed.

"The man was a total jacka.s.s," he spit, "Should have told me, sir. I would have turned on the Machine myself and tossed him in."

"Which is why you are in charge now, Captain." Baron Leonard Strichland stepped down from the Cadillac and walked about.

"However, I do agree with you about mobility. This area will merely be our base camp. From here, we spread out through the ruins, systematically checking every street every building."

The former sergeant scratched his ear. "I don't know, Baron. That might drive her into the desert."

"I'm prepared for that," Leonard replied, watching a team of specially chosen hunters head out into the dunes. They were his insurance. If this should fail, their job was to track the woman until they brought back her head. The families of the hunters would stay safe and warm in Alphaville as security to guarantee their allegiance to the task. Fear and hunger made all men obedient. In a well of emotions, his chest ached with the thought of his slain father, then the youth forced himself hard again. Only the strong survived, and the weak didn't rule.

"Baron, the area is secure," a sec man reported, crisply saluting. "The buildings on both sides of us are clear, cellar to roof."

"Good. Thank you," Leonard replied, wiggling uncomfortably in his new stiff boots. Sneakers were more comfortable, but didn't look impressive. Power knew no pain. His father had also told him that many times over dinner, or at an execution.

"Any footprints or tire tracks?" Zanders asked brusquely.

"None, sir."

"Well, they didn't fly away, moron. Have the trackers search again."

Another salute. "Yes, sir." Zanders slapped the hand down. "And stop doing that, ya gleeb. The boss looks bad enough in his new uniform. You want to tell a sniper exactly who to shoot at?"

Walking slowly forward, the Cadillac right behind him, the baron arched an eyebrow at the statement, but didn't speak. Was he overdressed? d.a.m.n. Mebbe.

"Oh." The sec man had obviously never considered that. "Sorry, sir." His hand twitched but stayed at his side.

"Better," the captain grumped. "Now, have we checked the skysc.r.a.per yet?"

Watching a squad of men dig foxholes, Leonard turned and interrupted. "Is that necessary, Captain?

The top is so far away, what weapon could possibly..."

His words faded as a contrail of white smoke moved across the sky from the top of the tall building, traveling straight for them.

"Incoming!" the captain bellowed, diving for the ground, pulling the baron with him.

The contrail arced down to impact directly inside the mouth of the tunnel. The world shuddered from the explosion, bricks and tiles shotgunning out to fell scores of screaming men. Another contrail streaked in to punch through the bulldozer, the ground underneath the machine rising to tear it to pieces. Then a third and fourth contrail hit the tunnel again, cracking apart the concrete ap.r.o.n in strident fury. With the groan of a dying giant, the tunnel crumbled apart, the steel support beams screaming as they twisted out of shape. In slow grandeur, the opening crashed shut, spewing thick billowing clouds of acidic concrete dust.

"Rockets!" a man yelled in panic. "They'll wipe us out! We surrender! We surrender!"

Rising, Leonard drew his blaster and shot the man where he stood, the .50-caliber round from the Desert Eagle spinning the man like a top before he fell over.

"There are no more rockets," the young baron shouted, holstering the piece, his wrist aching from the recoil. "If they had more, they would have used more. Do you hear any more explosions? No. The attack is over."

Sullenly, the troops got to their feet and retrieved dropped weapons. For most of them, this was a lot different than bullying civvies or shooting escaped prisoners.

"Captain, I apologize," Leonard said, offering the man a.s.sistance. "Get a squad up there immediately.

Or should we set fire to the building?"

There was no response from the still form, and the young baron noticed an unbroken tile sticking out of the back of Zanders's head, his exposed brains a pulpy ma.s.s of soggy red tissue dribbling onto the dry soil. Leonard turned away from the corpse, his eyes stinging, his heart pounding. So fast, it had happened so fast.

"Lieutenant Kelly, you are now in charge of the men," he barked. "Get a team to the skysc.r.a.per and kill anybody you find. Then set fire to the b.a.s.t.a.r.d thing!" "Sir!" the officer barked, saluting.

The young baron ignored that for the moment. "Sergeant Jarmal, divide the men into thirds. One group starts clearing the tunnel, the second finds that high school Zanders mentioned and begins fortifying it, the third salvages anything useful from the wreckage." Leonard paused for longer than he meant to. "And the dead."

"Yes, my lord!"

"It appears," Leonard said grimly to n.o.body in particular, "that despite my wishes, we're trapped here until further notice."

Chapter Nineteen.

Sweaty and b.l.o.o.d.y, Mildred stumbled out of the tent in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the building. The exhausted physician was holding a lantern. Every other lantern the companions owned was inside the bedsheet tent, backed by a mirror, the glow infusing the food court with almost noontime clarity. The air of the entire level reeked with alcohol, and the floors shone from a fresh scrubbing.

Five anxious faces watched her approach. n.o.body spoke. Ryan sat in a chair holding a full cup of cold coffee. Earlier in the day, it had been steaming hot Krysty sat nearby, her hand on his. Doc crossed his fingers. Trying hard to appear calm, J.B. and Jak both looked as if they were about to defuse a bomb.

"He'll live," Mildred reported, removing her homemade surgical mask and mopping her damp brow.

Just a few layers of white cloth cut from a shirt and boiled clean, but it served the job. Her gown was a kitchen ap.r.o.n, bleached white and boiled in antiseptic mouthwash.

Ryan started to rise, then sat down again. Krysty squeezed his hand, while J.B. slapped him on the back.

"Told you so," the Armorer said, grinning. "Dean's tough as shoe leather."

"He's young and strong, and everything went textbook perfect. Oh, he'll have some scars, but the rib will be fine and there's no danger of paralysis or blindness."

Walking to a punch bowl filled with bottled water and contact-lens cleaner, a mild solution of boric acid, Mildred washed her bare hands clean, using a spare toothbrush to scrub extra hard under her fingernails.

Apparently, in predark days, business executives traveled unexpectedly a lot. Most of the offices here had travel packs in the desks. The old materials were a perfect mix for surgery-mouthwash, soap, floss.

And the first-aid box in the receptionist's desk had given her enough iodine solution for postop, once she revitalized the dried crystals with sterile water.

"So he'll be okay," Ryan said without emotion.

Patting her hands dry, Mildred snorted. "You should be so healthy."

On a nearby table, a gla.s.s pot of MRE coffee was simmering over a candle. J.B. poured Mildred a cup, added two sugars and brought it over. She accepted the brew gratefully and slumped into an empty office chair. Mildred took a sip and for the first time in a long while didn't grimace in distaste. By G.o.d, even this military boot cleaner was good after six hours of meatball surgery. Homemade masks, flour, water and newspaper to make papier-mache for the cast, fishing line for sutures, vodka to wash thefloor...Hawkeye Pierce, eat your heart out.

Seeing her actions, Ryan drained his own cup untasted and stiffly stood. "Can I see him?"

"Sure. You couldn't wake Dean with a bomb. I shot enough sodium pentathol into him to keep him asleep for hours. Had to guess at the dosage, it was so old and weak. But he'll be out for quite a while."

"You sure?" Ryan asked, taking a spare mask off the small pile on a restaurant countertop.

Typical concerned parent. Mildred kept her voice soothing. "Yes, Mr. Cawdor, everything went fine.

Dean will be his old self in a few months."

"Months?" Krysty repeated. "Mildred, we can't stay here that long."

J.B. offered the physician a refill, but Mildred waved it off. Sleep was what she needed most now.

"Don't have to. We can leave as soon as Dean wakes. Maybe tomorrow."

"Hallelujah." Doc sighed.

"We just have to take it real easy going over those dunes," Mildred continued, fighting a yawn. "I don't want my fine st.i.tching to pop and have to go in again. I'm out of 4-0 silk, and you folks can't afford the blood."

It was true. The companions were exhausted from the transfusions. Just prior to the operation, Mildred had taken a pint and a half from each of them, the maximum that could be safely drained without endangering the giver. Only Ryan's blood type matched his son's, so the rest went into mason jars and they were swung overhead at the end of a rope for hours until the clear plasma and the blood cells separated. Mismatch blood types, and a patient suffered horribly. But anybody could accept anybody's plasma. Some mighty fine engineering there by the Lord, as her father used to remark during his Sunday services.

Not bothering to try to stifle her next yawn, Mildred noticed a lack of enthusiasm from the others.

"I said he's going to be fine," she stated irritably. "Why all the long faces?"

"Skysc.r.a.per on fire," Jak said, resting his elbows on his knees, his snowy hair tumbling down to hide his scared features.

The physician frowned. "Still? I thought J.B. said the fires died from the c.o.c.ktails he and Doc used on the muties."

"This is the new baron's work," Ryan said, stepping from the bedsheet tent, carrying the other lantern.

Mildred was right; the boy seemed fine. He put down the lantern he had brought out and turned off the wick. No sense wasting fuel. Dean would sleep regardless, and they were low on juice.

"Set fire to a whole building, just to get rid of us?"

"More likely to flush us out of hiding," J.B. stated, polishing his gla.s.ses on the sleeve of his new shirt.

Smelled a bit musty, but it was nice and thick.

"Me, specifically," Krysty said, tearing open an MRE pack. Suddenly her appet.i.te was back with avengeance. Using her teeth to open a foil envelope of corned-beef hash, she dug in with the attached plastic spoon. One hundred years old at room temperature, and it tasted like ambrosia.

"d.a.m.n." The physician nervously glanced at the covering of barbed wire and curtains above them as if able to see the tall building fifty blocks away. "Is the blaze spreading?"

"Thankfully no, madam," Doc replied, resting his chin on top of his cane. "We kept careful track of its progress until the danger pa.s.sed."

And they didn't inform her so she could concentrate on Dean. Smart move. "Think he'll set fire to the rest of the ruins?"

"I doubt it. Too much here yet to be salvaged. Probably just removing a potential source of danger,"

Ryan said, reclaiming a chair and laying the Steyr across his lap. Nimble hands began stripping the blaster for a cleaning. "After all, that's where I launched the rockets from."

Mildred chose her next words carefully. "Yeah, about that, why didn't you use the Hafla to kill the sec men? It carried four rounds. Should have been more than enough. Or do you have a plan cooking?"

"No plan. Just common sense." Disa.s.sembling the rifle without looking, Ryan patiently explained to Mildred that armor-piercing weapons were almost useless against troops. The d.a.m.n rockets went through a heavy steel bulldozer before exploding. Shoot a man, and they would bury themselves underground. Only kill one or two at the most that way. But seal the tunnel and there were no more reinforcements coming. What troops and supplies Leonard had with him was it until they dug free.

"At least we are safe for a while," Doc said, getting himself a cup of coffee.

"But while he's digging in, the others will be digging out," Krysty said, tossing the trash into a receptacle.

"We may have only bought a few days."

"More than we had before," Ryan stated, laying aside springs and levers.

"The guy should be delighted we made him baron," Mildred said, rubbing a tired hand over her face.

"Unless Strichland was his father or something."

"Blood feud." Jak frowned. "Nasty."

"Can't be." Krysty chewed a brick of gray U.S. Army cheese. "The baron was different, like me, and he wanted to breed a son. So it can't be a member of his family. He didn't have any."

"No, wait," she added, blinking. "A guard did mention something about a boy named Leonard."

"So it's his adopted son who's after us."

A low moan sounded from above, the windows softly rattling.

"I have a theory," Doc rumbled, adding powdered milk and thoughtfully stirring the brew, "that the personnel of our redoubt established this ville. The military hierarchy, the greenhouses, the tunnel in just like our tunnel out."

Jak looked up from scratching at the bandage on his side. "s.h.i.t! New redoubt." "Would explain a lot," Ryan mused, adding a few drops of h.o.m.ogenized oil to the trigger a.s.sembly.

"And thankfully, they don't know about the real base in the mountains anymore."

Muted thunder rumbled somewhere.

"What's that noise?" Mildred asked, changing the subject. "Storm finally hit?"

"Sandstorm," Ryan said, sliding the a.s.sembly back into the bottom of the stock and tightening the screws. "And a real b.a.s.t.a.r.d. That'll buy more time. It's why n.o.body is on guard duty. We can't even open the door against the pressure of the wind."

"Once Dean wakes up, I'll do a few tests and we can leave."

"Useless to go hunting in a sandstorm," the Deathland warrior continued. He inserted the bolt into the receiver slot and worked it back and forth a few times to make sure the action was smooth. A drop more oil was added. "Wind blows right down the barrel, and the grit clogs a blaster solid. Can't get off more than a single shot before they jam."

"Autofires," Jak said grimly. "They got muzzle-loaders. Be okay."

"No, my friend," Doc stated. "Those will jam also. Much more grease in an iron works of a muzzle-loader than a modern rifle." He affectionately patted the LeMat on his hip. "Trust me."

Jak accepted the rebuff. Doc would know.

"Got knives."

"Sure, but the wind is still too strong. Even if they had diving weights tied to their shoes, the storm would smash them against the buildings like bugs on a windshield."