up ramps to climb to the car park’s higher levels. In doing so, they followed in the dusty footprints of team number two, and on the open top floor all six men came together.
Dan Coulter and Peder Halbstein were at the walled rim, and team two closing with them. It seemed safe enough under thickening cloud cover, so Singer and Garth hurried to join the others. As they did so there sounded gunfire.
“Aha!” said Singer as he reached the wall, leaned on it, and gazed down across a heap of rubble—once a block of buildings—at the half-ruined church beyond. “And what have we here?”
More gunfire sounded, and out from the gaping wounds of the church three bundles of fluttering rags came leaping, drifting, skinny arms reaching; while yawning mouths issued hissing, near-silent shrieks! Fly-by-nights, pursued by men with blazing weapons! But their guns were scarcely necessary, for the clouds had parted where sunlight came slanting from the east.
Even so, it seemed to take too many long moments before the sun’s rays took effect. Time enough for the leading creature to go wafting toward a trundle, reach it and float part way up the open side…only to be fired upon by someone in side, and sent sprawling back into the sunlight. And there, mewling thinly, it coiled itself up like a crippled insect and visibly shrank, its ragged clothing smoking, while the thing itself began disintegrating in the rays of the risen sun. The others lasted a moment or two longer but fared no better; having taken multiple hits from the raging gunfire, they staggered and fell, seething into smoke in the uncaring sunlight.
Finally a fourth and last fly-by-night came bursting out of the church. Clambering after it and armed with a roaring flamethrower, a man of the clan caught the thing in a withering gout of liquid fire. Wreathed in flames, the monster threw up its oh-so-long arms and crumbled to ashes in the dust and debris.
And at last it was over.
Whistles sounded…weary people started to disembark from trundles and other vehicles…a rauper with a bulldozer blade rumbled into view, began thrusting aside the rubble in front of the church; soon it would knock holes in the walls of that holy place large enough to grant access to many of the half-convoy’s vehicles.
By which time the car park was shuddering to the weight and the sound of the other half-convoy, as its vehicles escaped the lethal light and found refuge within. At which Ned Singer said: “Time to get out of the sunlight, lads, before it starts eating into our bones, too…”
On their way down the ramps and within Garth’s hearing, Singer spoke to Dan Coulter and Peder Halbstein: “What do you reckon, you fellows? On the way in through the ruins I saw a sign said: ‘Supermarket.’ We sometimes did pretty well out of such places down South. The place I saw: it was pretty much blown apart and open to the skies, but who knows what we’ll find under all that rubble? It’s only a block or two away, but if we’re going to do it at all it’ll have to be now, before Big Jon finds other work for us. Me, I reckon we’ve done enough for one day. And anyway, I’ve something of a thirst on.” He winked knowingly.
“Wines, do you mean?” Peder Halbstein answered him.
“Hell no!” said Singer. “In ten years they’re vinegar, most of ’em. And in a century and a half? I’m talking about the hard stuff, stuff that keeps its sting forever. Back in the Southern Refuge I rescued three whole cases of the stuff—brandy! With a quarter bottle of that in you you’ll truly enjoy a good day’s sleep, believe me!”
“Very well then, we’re in,” said Coulter, licking his lips, and Halbstein nodded an eager affirmation.
“Good!” said Singer. “Okay, grab whatever you need from the trundle, get into your radiation suits quick like, and I’ll see you at the entrance ramp in ten minutes.”
Down on the second level, Garth spotted the familiar figure of his Old
Dan Coulter and Peder Halbstein were at the walled rim, and team two closing with them. It seemed safe enough under thickening cloud cover, so Singer and Garth hurried to join the others. As they did so there sounded gunfire.
“Aha!” said Singer as he reached the wall, leaned on it, and gazed down across a heap of rubble—once a block of buildings—at the half-ruined church beyond. “And what have we here?”
More gunfire sounded, and out from the gaping wounds of the church three bundles of fluttering rags came leaping, drifting, skinny arms reaching; while yawning mouths issued hissing, near-silent shrieks! Fly-by-nights, pursued by men with blazing weapons! But their guns were scarcely necessary, for the clouds had parted where sunlight came slanting from the east.
Even so, it seemed to take too many long moments before the sun’s rays took effect. Time enough for the leading creature to go wafting toward a trundle, reach it and float part way up the open side…only to be fired upon by someone in side, and sent sprawling back into the sunlight. And there, mewling thinly, it coiled itself up like a crippled insect and visibly shrank, its ragged clothing smoking, while the thing itself began disintegrating in the rays of the risen sun. The others lasted a moment or two longer but fared no better; having taken multiple hits from the raging gunfire, they staggered and fell, seething into smoke in the uncaring sunlight.
Finally a fourth and last fly-by-night came bursting out of the church. Clambering after it and armed with a roaring flamethrower, a man of the clan caught the thing in a withering gout of liquid fire. Wreathed in flames, the monster threw up its oh-so-long arms and crumbled to ashes in the dust and debris.
And at last it was over.
Whistles sounded…weary people started to disembark from trundles and other vehicles…a rauper with a bulldozer blade rumbled into view, began thrusting aside the rubble in front of the church; soon it would knock holes in the walls of that holy place large enough to grant access to many of the half-convoy’s vehicles.
By which time the car park was shuddering to the weight and the sound of the other half-convoy, as its vehicles escaped the lethal light and found refuge within. At which Ned Singer said: “Time to get out of the sunlight, lads, before it starts eating into our bones, too…”
On their way down the ramps and within Garth’s hearing, Singer spoke to Dan Coulter and Peder Halbstein: “What do you reckon, you fellows? On the way in through the ruins I saw a sign said: ‘Supermarket.’ We sometimes did pretty well out of such places down South. The place I saw: it was pretty much blown apart and open to the skies, but who knows what we’ll find under all that rubble? It’s only a block or two away, but if we’re going to do it at all it’ll have to be now, before Big Jon finds other work for us. Me, I reckon we’ve done enough for one day. And anyway, I’ve something of a thirst on.” He winked knowingly.
“Wines, do you mean?” Peder Halbstein answered him.
“Hell no!” said Singer. “In ten years they’re vinegar, most of ’em. And in a century and a half? I’m talking about the hard stuff, stuff that keeps its sting forever. Back in the Southern Refuge I rescued three whole cases of the stuff—brandy! With a quarter bottle of that in you you’ll truly enjoy a good day’s sleep, believe me!”
“Very well then, we’re in,” said Coulter, licking his lips, and Halbstein nodded an eager affirmation.
“Good!” said Singer. “Okay, grab whatever you need from the trundle, get into your radiation suits quick like, and I’ll see you at the entrance ramp in ten minutes.”
Down on the second level, Garth spotted the familiar figure of his Old
Similar Books
