Chapter Six

 

 

As Doc strode away, much of his mind was preoccupied with the thought of having some good hot water to luxuriate in and the possibility of a night's rest in a decent bed. Though his memory was erratic, he remembered all too vividly a redoubt, not all that long ago, when the comfort of hot water had been overlaid with instant horror.

 

Another part of his mind was flirting with a recollection of his dear wife, Emily. They had visited some caves down in the desert Southwest, with dark passages and the smell of dank air. The corridor with its broken lights brought back something of that timehis wife's small hand in his, and himself glimpsing out of the corner of his eye, the cameo locket she often wore around her throat as they stepped cautiously over the sandstone floor.

 

And another bit of his brain was considering what John Barrymore Dix had just been saying about the possibility of booby traps. How odd it was that they rarely encountered them in evacuated redoubts.

 

"Odd indeed," he mumbled as he stepped along in the gloom.

 

He felt the taut wire brush against his knees and knew instantly what it was and reacted with, for him, astounding speed.

 

Doc dived sideways and down, hands stretched to break his fall, letting go of the ebony swordstick so that it clattered on the cold stone floor. As he went down, Doc was aware of a whispering noise just above his head and he felt something tug lightly at his silvery hair as it sliced by.

 

He landed awkwardly on his knees, yelling out in shock and pain, hearing Ryan's voice from behind him as he called out an urgent warning.

 

"Rather too little and rather too late, my dear old companion," he tried to say. But something seemed to have happened to his normally rich, deep voice, forcing it up a couple of squeaking octaves so he sounded like a rather irritable bat. So Doc contented himself with lying still on the concrete until his senses returned.

 

He could hear the others, shouting to him and to one another in a hubbub of confused noise, until Ryan's voice rose above the others, calling for silence.

 

"Doc?"

 

"Yes." He cleared his throat and tried again. "Yes, Ryan, my dear fellow. I am here."

 

"Stay dead still, Doc. Don't try and move at all until we know what the fuck's happened."

 

"I believe that John Barrymore's supposition has come true. I touched a wire and then, as I dived for safety, something swung by above my head."

 

"What?"

 

"I have no idea, my dear friend. But it felt like the pendulum in Mr. Poe's enchanting Gothic tale. Missed me by somewhat less than a whisker." He put his hand up and touched a loose hank of hair and a warm wetness that had to be blood. "Indeed, it actually has scratched me but I am well enough." Still he felt very much like rolling on his hands and knees to be sick. His breath fluttered in his chest, and he could feel himself trembling from shock.

 

"Just stay still. I've got a self-light. I'll come slow and easy to try and find out what happened."

 

"Be careful," Doc whispered.

 

He heard Krysty's voice, echoing his own warning to her lover.

 

"Be fine," Ryan said reassuringly. "Rest of you stay back here."

 

Doc found that his eyes were quickly becoming accustomed to the dark around him and he could see Ryan and the others silhouetted against the overhead lights farther back down the corridor.

 

He turned his head and stared directly above him, toward the invisible ceiling. He screwed up his eyes, calling to Ryan. "I believe I can see the trap. My jest about the pendulum now seems less droll. There is some sort of ax suspended from wires that I triggered as I walked by."

 

"Think I can see it, Doc. Wait a There, that's better." He heard a scratching sound and saw the flare of gold from a self-light held in the one-eyed man's right hand.

 

"By the Three Kennedys!" The tiny match gave enough light for Doc to be able to see clearly what hung above him, still swinging silently to and fro.

 

It was a large ax-blade, with a half-dozen needle-sharp bayonets strapped to it for extra weight and malice, strung onto a narrow leather strap that was fixed to a ringbolt in the ceiling. A thin length of wire glittered down the wall to where Doc had broken it as he walked past.

 

"I see it, Doc. Reckon it's safe enough for you to get up. Keep clear of the edge."

 

"A very sword of Damocles," Doc said, standing and steadying himself for a moment with a hand on the rough concrete wall. He stooped again to pick up his fallen swordstick, feeling oddly wobbly and dizzy.

 

"You all right, Doc? Got a little blood coming down the side of your head, above your left ear."

 

"A mere nick, Ryan." The self-light went out, and they were in darkness again. "A nick in time saved nine, as my dear old mother used to say."

 

 

 

THERE DIDN'T SEEM to be any further malevolent booby traps left behind by the fleeing occupants of the redoubt, but everyone moved more slowly and with more care.

 

The sec door into the section for living accommodations stood open.

 

"That bit with label for ART is close to us," Jak said. "Could go find out what is."

 

"Alternate Reality Technology," Mildred guessed.

 

"Hey, that sounds possible." Krysty glanced at Ryan. "What do you reckon, lover?"

 

"I think we put first things into first place. Let's sort out what we've got here."

 

It was a typical layout that they'd come across several times before, only on a slightly larger scale than usual.

 

There was a number of linked dormitories, each holding either, six or twelve beds, each bed with its own plastic-covered mattress and pile of blankets. The material had become frail with age, but the temperature inside the complex was a steady sixty-eight degrees, so warmth wasn't a problem.

 

There were no external windows in any of the rooms, though the map had shown that they were now close to the surface levels.

 

This section was cleaner than some of the other passages had been, with no litter or discarded clothes.

 

"Bathrooms are here," Jak called.

 

The others followed him across a corridor into the vast washing facilities. They were divided into male and female, and both had toilet cubicles, as well as showers and bathtubs. There was also a long row in each bathroom of immaculate washers and dryers.

 

"Soap?" Mildred asked.

 

"There." Krysty pointed to an open-fronted set of shelves that carried sealed packs of hand soap, detergents, shampoos and gels.

 

"But is there any hot water?" Ryan answered his own question, walking to the nearest shower stall and turning the chrome handle from blue to red, from off to on.

 

"I fear that we are doomed to suffer a drought," Doc said as nothing happened. "If only I could recall the precise wording and steps of the Hopi rain dance that I was once privileged to learn. But that was in another country...."

 

There was a faint hissing sound, and Ryan took a few cautious steps backward.

 

The hissing stopped, and a few drops of sticky, rusty liquid seeped from the shower head.

 

"We're going to get real clean with that," Mildred said, shaking her head.

 

"Hasn't finished." Krysty stood closer, listening intently. "I can hear something."

 

The hissing resumed, accompanied by a metallic clunking sound, and water gushed from the shower. Ryan put his hand under it, wincing at the chill.

 

"Take it a little time to warm up after all these years," he commented.

 

But within moments there was a visible steam, wreathing from the faucet and condensing on the white tiles.

 

Doc beamed, showing his unusually excellent set of white teeth. "Upon my soul! I had never thought that hot water could have seemed so welcome. Manna from heaven does not get within a country mile of it."

 

Ryan turned the handle again, and the flood slowed to a trickle.

 

"I'll go close that sec door," he said. "Make sure we're secure. Mebbe I'll wait while you all have your baths and showers. Just in case."

 

"I'll take a bath-check too, lover," Krysty said. "That way we can all relax."

 

 

 

IT TOOK THE BETTER PART of an hour for J.B., Doc, Jak and Mildred to finish bathing themselves, then wash and dry their filthy, stained clothes.

 

Ryan and Krysty used the time to get beds ready. Mildred and the Armorer shared one room, while Doc and Jak had a small dormitory. The one-eyed man and his lover pushed two single beds together for themselves.

 

The air was filled with the scent of the soaps, carried on waves of warm steam, which triggered the air-conditioning into humming action.

 

"Looking forward to our turn with the baths, lover?" Krysty asked.

 

"Does a bear? I just hope that they haven't taken all the hot water."

 

 

 

THEY HADN'T. He and Krysty took a bath together in the men's section, Krysty having slipped the sec bolt across to make sure they didn't get interrupted.

 

"Going to be that sort of a bath, lover?" Ryan grinned, sitting on the floor to kick off his combat boots.

 

"Long as you can rise to the occasion."

 

"Not normally a problem."

 

"Sure you aren't getting too old for it?" She was already down to her bra and silken bikini panties, her red hair tumbling free over her shoulders.

 

"You'll be the first to know," he grunted, struggling to slide his trousers over a tent-pole erection.

 

"Looking good, lover," she said, stepping through the tendrils of steam to turn off the taps in the bathtub, checking it with a toe. "Just right."

 

Ryan stood and stretched, smiling down at her, admiring her breasts, the nipples already hardening with her ready excitement. Krysty was sitting in the water, which reached her armpits, the rippling surface disguising the fiery splash of color at the junction of her thighs.

 

"Bring something to wash with, lover," she said.

 

"Sure." He walked to the shelves. "There's all flavors. More like cocktails than soaps. Mango and black currant. Kiwi and peppermint. Passion fruit and mandarin. Ylang-ylang and marjoram. Contents of a herbalist."

 

"Anything," she said, watching Ryan as he stood on the far side of the bathroom. Krysty felt a surge of love for the tall, lean figure, seeing again the countless scars that seamed his body, puckering the flesh across his chest and the small of his back. Knife and bullet. Once, in the early days of their relationship, Krysty had asked Ryan to tell her how he'd received all the wounds.

 

He'd shrugged. "Not enough time, and most of them I don't recall," had been his reply. "Things way past, not worth the forgetting."

 

His curly black hair was flattened by the damp atmosphere, and she was struck by a sudden resemblance between Ryan and his absent son, Dean.

 

Ryan's right eye, a chillingly pale blue, stared at her. "Like what you see?" he said quietly.

 

"Always have done," she replied. "Now I'd like to feel it, as well."

 

"First we wash. Then"

 

 

 

SOMEHOW THE WASHING TURNED FLUIDLY and effortlessly into lovemaking.

 

The bath was so big that they could both stretch out in it, taking turns soaping each other, rubbing the warm oils into responsive flesh, luxuriating in the rare pleasure.

 

Krysty waited until Ryan was half lying, half sitting, then moved to straddle him, lowering herself on top. She reached with cupped fingers to take his strength and guide it inside her, moaning softly at the sensation.

 

"Good" she sighed.

 

"Yeah" Ryan lowered his head to kiss her on the side of her throat, tasting the delicate oils, touching the tip of his tongue to Krysty's ear. He reached out and clasped her face between his strong hands, brushing his lips against hers, closing his eye as she responded, her tongue probing between his parted lips.

 

Now she was rising and falling, sending small waves lapping across the bubble-filled bath.

 

Once he nearly slipped out as the pace grew faster, feeling himself sliding with the smooth oils, but she felt the danger and responded in time, trapping him safely deep inside her. "Close one, lover," she panted.

 

"Your fault."

 

"How's that?" she asked in mock outrage.

 

"You keep giving two ups to my one down."

 

They had made love so often that they could sense each other's responses. Ryan knew that Krysty's breathing suddenly slowed as she began to concentrate on the speeding orgasm, and he became quieter, focusing on their joint needs.

 

The rush was as good as ever, leaving them both drained, clinging to each other, nuzzling while their pulses returned to normal.

 

"Nice," she whispered.

 

"Better than nice."

 

"How much better?"

 

He held his hands wide apart. "Least that much."

 

"Not that much?" She held her hands wider.

 

"Mebbe."

 

She reached under the floral-scented water and touched him, grinning at the instant response, holding her left hand in front of his face, finger and thumb a scant inch apart. "Feels like only that much, lover," she teased.

 

"Yeah, but I'm a growing boy."

 

 

 

THE PILED TOWELS had once been thick and fluffy, but time had taken its toll and what remained was thin and delicate, like antique lace, liable to disintegrate in your hands.

 

But there were enough of them to get Ryan and Krysty dry.

 

The washing machines did a fine job on their clothes, though Ryan contented himself with wiping the worst smears off his beloved coat.

 

In less than an hour both they and their garments were clean and crisp.

 

"All we got to do now is get some sleep," Ryan said, ducking his head to drink some cold water from the palms of his hands.

 

"And mebbe make some more love," she responded.

 

 

"No," Ryan said.

 

 

"Yes," Krysty stated, and eventually got her way.