And Hunaker.
Her cropped green stubble of hair gleamed in the overhead lights. Hun was marvelously athletic, with exceptional strength and agility. Her own Ingram 9 mm was on the floor, resting against the television. Ryan's eye was caught for a moment by the picture on the screen of a naked couple in bed a thin-faced man and a beautiful woman with long dark hair.
Making her move, Hun dived into a forward roll, then reached for the blaster. She was straightening when Rachel saw her. The crone hobbled a step sideways, screeched a warning to her husband-brother, then opened up with a burst of continuous fire that ripped into the crouching girl.
Hunaker was hit across the chest, the bullets unzipping her clothes and skin and flesh. She was thrown sideways onto her back. The gun fell from her fingers. She tried to get up again but fell forward in a crouch, her head between her knees, coughing up blood.
"Fuckin' bastard!" screamed Okie, moving toward the dying woman.
"Get back!" ordered Ryan, seeing that Okie would be cold meat for Rachel. But the harridan was too busy laughing at her success. She shouted to Quint, "Done the green bitch, Keeper! Done the..."
Ryan held the stamped steel pistol in his right hand, steadying his aim with his left. Engraved along the top of the barrel in tiny italic script were the words, Schweizerische Industrie-Gesellschaft, J.P. Sauer & Sohn, Eckenforde.
He aligned the leaf front sight with the vee of the back, centering it on the crowing old woman. He squeezed the trigger three times in rapid succession.
Blood appeared among the tatters of leather that hung about Rachel's body. Her cap with its tawdry glass beads went flying from her matted gray hair, rattling in a corner of the room. Her arms flung out as though she was trying to stop a runaway horse, and she took three tottering steps backward. She sat on a bed behind her, then rolled onto her side and remained still.
Kicking on the floor, hands to her face, Lori was screaming on a single monotonous note that grated at the nerves. J.B. and Hennings had both got hold of their guns and were opening up on Quint, keeping the malevolent old man cowering behind his makeshift metal barricade. Finnegan had also got hold of his blaster, and Okie had managed to reach her own bed, taking up the M-16A1 carbine.
There was no sign of Doc at all.
Hunaker was moaning only five paces from where Ryan crouched, his warm pistol in his hand, awaiting a chance to waste the Keeper. A lake of blood was spreading slowly from beneath the girl, seeping over the floor.
There was a momentary lull in the fighting. On the television, a kitten appeared for a moment, in a surreal flash from a century back. Hun's headphones still poured out the thin sound of a song about a dock on a bay.
"Ryan." Her voice was the faintest whisper.
"What is it?"
"I'm done, Ryan."
At least four bullets had hit her, dead center in her chest, and Ryan knew it. It would be absurd and dishonest to pretend she would be okay.
"Are you in pain?"
"Not bad. Numb. Mebbe I'll be gone 'fore it fuckin' starts."
"Could be."
Another burst of fire from the others ripped into the lockers and walls around Quint. There was no reply at all.
"Ryan, think you'll ever get to see Sukie again?" asked Hun.
It was a moment before he figured out who she was talking about. Then he remembered. Sukie was the pretty little girl who'd joined War Wag One from War Wag Three just before the shambles of Mocsin. He recalled that Hun had been paying some attention to her.
"If I see her, Hun, I'll tell her. Take it easy, now."
Hunaker was wearing her new black satin blouse with green leaves embroidered on it. The blood didn't show on it at all.
"Don't shoot no more. Keeper says to put up the blasters. Keeper says he'll yield."
Ryan Cawdor stayed where he was, shouting to the old man, "Gun first, Quint. Then you, hands high as you can get 'em."
Nothing happened for some seconds. Then: "Keeper says how can he trust you?"
"Do it. You have my word nobody'll ice you. But throw out the gun first."
There was a tiny sound from Hunaker, and Ryan looked back to where she was huddled.
"Hun? Hun, can you hear me?"
There was an unmistakable stillness to the green-headed girl, and Ryan knew she was gone.
Krysty was close behind him. "Dead?"
"Yeah."
"Don't like to think of her dyin' like that, kind of on her own."
Ryan looked around and saw there were tears glistening at the corners of the girl's eyes. "We all have to, you know."
"You swear you won't hurt Keeper? You done for poor, sweet Rachel and little Lori."
"That murderous old slut blasted the kid," shouted Henn.
"Didn't have to chill Rachel."
"Come out, old man," yelled Ryan, the pistol rock steady in his right fist.
"Swear I'm safe."
"You're safe, Quint. Come on, before we come and gun you out of there."
Now they were all standing, all pointing their blasters at where Quint was cowering. Even Doc had finally appeared, clutching the Le Mat cannon in both hands.
"Here's the gun," yelped Quint, tossing the Heckler & Koch on the floor. It skidded and bounced, finishing up a yard or two from Ryan's feet.
"Watch the bastard," warned J.B., who was right behind Ryan. "Could have a hider up his sleeve."
"Yeah. Watch him."
"Keeper's comin' out. Ally, ally oxen free. Don't shoot poor old Keeper. He had to do it. Rules is rules and the law's the fuckin' law, ain't it? You understand, don't ya?"
"Move it!" shouted Ryan, feeling his anger rising. He'd liked Hunaker. She'd been a friend for about three years.
"You promised the Keeper," mumbled Quint, cringing as he left his cover.
His sequinned jacket flashed, gaudy and cheap. The heel had broken on the woman's boot he wore, and he limped, his hands trembling in the air. A thread of spittle dangled from his thin lips, and he was shaking like an aspen in a hurricane.
"Promised Keeper," he repeated.
Ryan put a 9-mm bullet between the deep-set eyes, sending the old man crashing backward, arms flailing, mouth dropping open in shock.
Ryan bolstered his pistol, not even bothering to watch the death throes of the last Keeper of the Anchorage Redoubt. A man didn't get up when he'd been rained on with a 9 mm through the forehead at twenty paces.
"Turn off the vid and Hun's music," he ordered. "Drag those two stiffs out of here. J.B.?"
"Yeah?"
"We'll move out tomorrow. First light. Get all the maps you can. Take Finn and Okie and get some buggies serviced and fueled up. Henn, you and Krysty take charge of stocks of food, pyrotabs, spare snospex, ammo, grens, thermals," he said, ticking off items on his fingers as they occurred to him.
"What may I do to be of service, Mr. Cawdor?" asked Doc, struggling to force the big pistol into its holster.
"Check the gateway's exit and entrance codes. Might come back here for another jump if there's nothing much around. Look out for muties about the stockpile."
"What about her?" asked Okie, pointing contemptuously to where Lori was weeping on the floor, holding bloodied fingers to her face. "Shall I ice her?"
"We'd all be iced if she hadn't shouted," suggested J.B. "How bad is she hurt?"
The girl sat up then, looking around at the angry, tense faces. "Got bullet across head from Keeper." She showed the wound, a livid crease on her head among the blond hair. The wound was clotted with blood that was already drying. It didn't look too bad.
"What should I do with the gateway, Mr. Cawdor?" asked Doc, oblivious of the fact that the conversation had moved on.
"Just look it over. Make sure there's nothin' wrong with it. You know more about them than we fuckin' do, Doc, don't you?"
The old man shook his head in bewilderment. "I fear that my memory is rather like a train, Mr. Cawdor. The farther it pulls away, the smaller it gets."