“Laying low,” J.B. said. “They likely heard blasters. Decided to duck and cover until whoever was having the disagreement sorted things out.”
“Think they’re inside that thing?” Mildred asked uneasily.
“Seems likely,” Ryan said.
Jak crouched up the concrete steps to the entrance, well over to the right so he wasn’t walking right up to the open, Cubist cave mouth. He glanced inside.
“See nothing,” he called back softly.
“Ryan?” Krysty asked.
“Drive on,” he said firmly.
“You sure that’s wise?” Mildred asked.
“No. If we were wise, we wouldn’t be here.”
“Where else would we be, then, Ryan?” Doc asked.
“If I knew that,” Ryan gritted, “we’d be there. Right. We walk in like we own the place.”
“Won’t somebody spot us?” Ricky squeaked.
“Son,” J.B. said, “somebody has. You don’t think people survive in a place like this without keeping close watch on everything that goes on in their immediate area? Especially intruders coming into it.”
Ryan led the way boldly up the steps. Jak slipped around and inside the building, trusting his superior senses and reflexes to alert him to any lurking dangers—especially ambushers—and get him out of the jaws of any trap before they slammed shut.
Inside was cool and dark, especially after the hot dazzle of the downtown street. Coils of razor wire were positioned at both sides of the entrance, at angles to leave the way in and out clear.
“Looks like somebody likes to be able to shut the place up tight,” J.B. remarked. “Keep unwanted guests out.”
“It is not working on us,” Doc said.
J.B. shrugged. “Mebbe we’re not what they had in mind.”
“Huh,” Mildred said, sniffing the air. “It doesn’t smell like sewage. Much. Other than us, I mean. We have got to get cleaned up. I know everybody these days has a super immune system, but if we don’t want any little scratch to give us pseudomonas, so that our legs swell up and go gangrenous and have to be cut off—”
“Enough,” Ryan said. He halted them just inside the lobby.
“Anyway, it seems like a good sign,” she finished.
“People live,” Jak said. He crouched in an area right of the entrance, where a picnic table and some chairs had been set in what might have once been a kiosk. Its enclosure was now just metal uprights to hold long-vanished glass.
“Yep, they do,” Mildred said. “Somewhere. The question is, do any live here?”
“They do,” Krysty said. “I smell food cooking. With onion, garlic and basil.”
Her stomach rumbled as she said it.
“Mebbe they’ll invite us to join them for lunch,” Ricky said.
“Or to be lunch,” J.B. suggested.
Other tables and chairs sat on a tile floor, dark gray on lighter gray down the central strip that ran from the door, mixed shades of blue and gray to the sides. It looked as if the area was used for socializing. A dead escalator rose at the far end to a second story surrounded by a rail.
“Ryan, look,” Krysty said as they advanced. She pointed at a giant square doorway that opened to their right.
Like several others, it spilled yellow daylight onto the floor tiles. Through it they could see what looked to be another farm or garden. A hole in the roof—or a roof that was missing entirely—allowed the life-giving sunlight in.
“Huh,” Ryan said.
“Nobody home,” Ricky stated.
“Waiting and watching to see what we do, likely,” J.B. said.
“So what should we do, lover?” Krysty asked Ryan.
He had reholstered his weapons when they ducked into the building across the intersection. Now he cupped his empty hands around his mouth and hollered, “Hello! Anybody here? We’ve reached this ville and we’re looking for work.”
A blaster shot fired from the railing toward the escalator was his reply.
“Mebbe they don’t like outlanders,” J.B. said.
“You rad-sucking fool, Tyrone!” a man’s voice shouted from the gallery. “Why’d you give us away?”
“They’re mercies!” another voice yelled back defensively. “We can’t let Hizzoner’s blasters on Angels turf!”
“Back outside!” Ryan yelled, racing toward the doors, which fortuitously were open.
As the companions turned to sprint the few steps back to the outdoors, another shot cracked out. Tile splintered to Ryan’s right. Then another blaster spoke and another.
“More right!” Jak yelped. Meaning other enemies were appearing in the doorway to the odd interior garden plots.
“Hold your breath!” J.B. shouted. “Poison gas!”
Then Ryan heard a clatter and sound of something metal and weighty rolling on tile.
“Gas!” one of the ambusher screamed from the railing.
A female voice cried, “Get back!”
Ryan burst into the sunlight. He took a few steps down the steps to the street, then spun, unlimbering his Steyr and dropping to one knee. He intended to cover his friends’ retreat.
He saw dirty yellow-white smoke billowing up from the middle of the wide floor. Already it rose high enough to obscure the second-story gallery from view, which meant it also obscured them from their enemies’ view, making aimed fire impossible.
Ryan grinned as his friends came flying out of the giant half-gutted building, racing past him. He heard a rip of full-auto fire and recognized J.B.’s Uzi. The Armorer was clearly giving their attackers some additional reason not to be fast about rushing to pursue.
Of course, they would pursue. That was a given. Especially once they figured out that what J.B. had unleashed on them wasn’t poison gas at all, but just one of the black-powder smoke bombs the Armorer and his apprentice, Ricky Morales, had started making in their spare time weeks ago.
Ryan was impressed by just how much smoke a bomb the size of a predark beer can produced—and how quickly.
“Best power
