used previously, and had found to be very effective, to say the
least. He took it down from the shelf. The last one; after this there were no more. He put it in an industrial cart with wheels
and pushed the cart on around the square room, which contained an amazing amount of firepower, considering. Stone was trying
to walk without the crutch already. It hurt like he was being tortured—but with the steel band tightly around the broken area,
it seemed to at least hold the whole thing together. He knew he was doing wonders for his body and would be a complete wreck
by the time he hit fifty. On the other hand, since he probably wouldn’t live past thirty, he wasn’t going to start worrying
about it.
Next he took a small crate of rockets—a half-dozen of them, then a .50-caliber machine gun, with automatic belt feed. Stone
walked on around the shelves, which towered up above him filled to overflow with the products of the dark side of man’s technological
expertise. But if the other bastards had them, Stone wanted them too. And worse. He reached up and took down a sawed-off Browning
12-gauge autofire shotgun. That would do nicely—and a hundred rounds of ammo. Then, for personal use, a Beretta PM 12S, stripped-down
version, 9mm, and with twenty-, thirty-, even fifty-round clips that could be fired singly or on full auto, emptying a whole
load o in seconds. And finally—for his takeout handgun—another Ruger Red Hawk .4d with twelve-inch barrel. The thing would
have made Clint East-wood green with envy. He strapped it on. It made Stone feel very secure.
He pushed the shopping cart of destruction out of the room and back down the hall. He was walking into the lion’s den. How
did the poem go? “Do not go gentle into that good night.” Well, it wasn’t a good night—it was a rotting, screaming night.
And he wasn’t going gentle, but kicking, blasting his resistance to the last second. Back in the garage, Stone used the block
and tackle to haul up the machine gun first. He set it down right between the raised handlebars like a water buffalo’s horns,
and getting the right-size steel clamps to hold it in place, welded it down. He tested it, turning the wheel back and forth.
The machine gun was set as if in concrete. Then the Luchaire missile tube—about three feet long, twelve inches wide—to the
side of the be.
It was slow going, making sure the ball-bearing hinges were angled just right. For even a slight angle off made the tube scrape
against the be when he opened it out. But at last, with a little more fiddling with the welding torch, Stone had that set
in too. Then the rack for the shells right below it so he could pop one out from the top of the spring-loaded container tube
by just pushing a release button. It gave him the ability to load and fire the 89mm rocket within five seconds.
Finally Stone took some steel boxes from one of the shelves of the garage and mounted them as well on the back of the bike.
Storage for ammunition, tent, med supplies, and spare clothes. After spending nearly the whole day on the project, he stood
back and looked. It was definitely one of the weirder gasoline vehicles ever to roll along the planet earth. Even the dog,
when he came snooping around from its floor mopping, made a sucked-in face and let out a howl of derision, like “You expect
me to ride on that hunk of shit?”
But when Stone lowered the completely assembled motorcycle back down to the ground and sat atop the thing trying it out—testing
the feel of the bars, the give of the seat—the pit bull jumped on behind him and began sniffing around, snarling and biting
at the thick leather as if he wasn’t sure if it was enemy or friend.
SEVEN
With the bike assembled, Stone headed to the kitchen to see what the dog had wrought. It had licked clean the entire floor.
The animal was a junkie, an addict of anything that didn’t make him puke. And he had eaten a few
least. He took it down from the shelf. The last one; after this there were no more. He put it in an industrial cart with wheels
and pushed the cart on around the square room, which contained an amazing amount of firepower, considering. Stone was trying
to walk without the crutch already. It hurt like he was being tortured—but with the steel band tightly around the broken area,
it seemed to at least hold the whole thing together. He knew he was doing wonders for his body and would be a complete wreck
by the time he hit fifty. On the other hand, since he probably wouldn’t live past thirty, he wasn’t going to start worrying
about it.
Next he took a small crate of rockets—a half-dozen of them, then a .50-caliber machine gun, with automatic belt feed. Stone
walked on around the shelves, which towered up above him filled to overflow with the products of the dark side of man’s technological
expertise. But if the other bastards had them, Stone wanted them too. And worse. He reached up and took down a sawed-off Browning
12-gauge autofire shotgun. That would do nicely—and a hundred rounds of ammo. Then, for personal use, a Beretta PM 12S, stripped-down
version, 9mm, and with twenty-, thirty-, even fifty-round clips that could be fired singly or on full auto, emptying a whole
load o in seconds. And finally—for his takeout handgun—another Ruger Red Hawk .4d with twelve-inch barrel. The thing would
have made Clint East-wood green with envy. He strapped it on. It made Stone feel very secure.
He pushed the shopping cart of destruction out of the room and back down the hall. He was walking into the lion’s den. How
did the poem go? “Do not go gentle into that good night.” Well, it wasn’t a good night—it was a rotting, screaming night.
And he wasn’t going gentle, but kicking, blasting his resistance to the last second. Back in the garage, Stone used the block
and tackle to haul up the machine gun first. He set it down right between the raised handlebars like a water buffalo’s horns,
and getting the right-size steel clamps to hold it in place, welded it down. He tested it, turning the wheel back and forth.
The machine gun was set as if in concrete. Then the Luchaire missile tube—about three feet long, twelve inches wide—to the
side of the be.
It was slow going, making sure the ball-bearing hinges were angled just right. For even a slight angle off made the tube scrape
against the be when he opened it out. But at last, with a little more fiddling with the welding torch, Stone had that set
in too. Then the rack for the shells right below it so he could pop one out from the top of the spring-loaded container tube
by just pushing a release button. It gave him the ability to load and fire the 89mm rocket within five seconds.
Finally Stone took some steel boxes from one of the shelves of the garage and mounted them as well on the back of the bike.
Storage for ammunition, tent, med supplies, and spare clothes. After spending nearly the whole day on the project, he stood
back and looked. It was definitely one of the weirder gasoline vehicles ever to roll along the planet earth. Even the dog,
when he came snooping around from its floor mopping, made a sucked-in face and let out a howl of derision, like “You expect
me to ride on that hunk of shit?”
But when Stone lowered the completely assembled motorcycle back down to the ground and sat atop the thing trying it out—testing
the feel of the bars, the give of the seat—the pit bull jumped on behind him and began sniffing around, snarling and biting
at the thick leather as if he wasn’t sure if it was enemy or friend.
SEVEN
With the bike assembled, Stone headed to the kitchen to see what the dog had wrought. It had licked clean the entire floor.
The animal was a junkie, an addict of anything that didn’t make him puke. And he had eaten a few
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