Moonfeast. James Axler

them in pitiful shape despite the inert gas that had filled the redoubt. The civilian wags were the worst with flat tires that had deflated over the years, and many were situated over dark puddles that might once have been engine oil, but now was closer in consistency to tar. Those vehicles were ignored and the companions concentrated on the mil wags, each choosing something different.

      Reaching the working elevator, Ryan rammed his panga into the rubber seal between the two doors and managed to force them apart by sheer strength. Instantly the cage stopped moving. That bought them a few moments, and every second counted now.

      Scrambling to the workbench, J.B. grabbed a welding torch and wheeled it over to the stairwell door. It took him a few tries to get the equipment working, then the rod gushed out flame. Narrowing that into a white-hot stiletto, J.B. expertly moved the torch along the edge of the metal door, feeding in a melting iron rod to try to create an air-tight seal.

      Risking a glance down the shaft, Ryan heard nothing moving inside the cage, but then caught a faint twinkling of reflected light through the ventilation grille. Fireblast, it was a cloud, all right. Mebbe even several of them, or even all six. The weight of the implo gren in his pocket was sorely tempting, and he thrust in a hand to touch the charge, but then decided to save it for an emergency. The cloud seemed to have stopped for the moment, but the man knew that it could simply float to the shaft if it wanted, so there was no sense clearing a direct path for it that lead directly to the companions.

      Lying sideways inside the cab of a Mack truck, Jak tried to hot-wire the engine. It struggled to start, then coughed hard and roared into life, only to immediately bang and stop cold. Hot rads, it blew a rod!

      Extracting himself from the wiring, the albino teen yanked open the rear door of an APC to try for better luck there. Kicking the skeletons of the sailors out of the way, Jak headed straight for the driver’s seat and started flipping switches.

      Turning away from an ambulance in disgust, Mildred next yanked out a grinning skeleton from behind the wheel of a Hummer. The physician desperately longed to raid the medical supplies stored in the back of the ambulance, but that was impossible right now, so she forced those thoughts from her mind. Run away, and stay alive, was her mantra for today.

      Leaning dangerously far into the shaft, Ryan used the curved blade of his panga to slash at the control wires until he was satisfied that the cage would never work again without extensive repairs. Then he stepped back and let the door close again. When nothing happened, Ryan grunted in satisfaction and went directly to the next elevator to repeat the process.

      “John Barrymore, please extinguish that cigar!” Doc barked, dragging a pair of sloshing cans across the garage, the nozzle of the fuel pump dripping slightly onto the floor. “How are we going to detect the dulcet smell of ozone with you puffing on that reeking cheroot?”

      Accepting the logic of that, J.B. spit out the precious cheroot and crushed it under a boot, but his hands never stopped in their desperate work. Sweat was running off the man from the staggering heat of the acetylene torch, but J.B. was more than halfway done, the door nearly welded shut. Whether that would stop a Cerberus cloud he had no idea, but it was the best plan he had.

      There came a whirring sound and an engine sputtered into operation, then settled into a steady roar of power. Whistling sharply for everybody’s attention, Krysty waved from inside the tiny pilothouse of a LARC amphibian transport. Resembling a flat-bottom boat with wheels, it looked about as speedy as a wheelbarrow, but this was the first wag they found that worked, and that was good enough for today. Checking over the small control board, Krysty saw that both of the fuel tanks read empty, and she quickly killed the V8 diesel engine to save what gas was still lingering in the ancient fuel lines.

      Finished with the elevator bank, Ryan turned just in time to snarl a curse at the sight of twinkling lights coming from a wall vent. The bastard clouds were inside the ventilation system! Now pulling out the implo gren, the man backed away to a safe distance, ripping off the duct tape and curling a finger into the arming pin. Ryan would only get one chance at a chill, and he couldn’t miss.

      Tossing the spare gas canister over the gunwale of the LARC, Doc went to the rear fuel port and used the butt of his LeMat to hammer off the rusty gas cap. With no concern for his own safety, the man simply turned the canister upside down, to quickly pour as much as possible into the amphibious transport. A lot of the fluid splashed onto the sloping side of the vehicle, staining his pants and shoes, but Doc never slowed for an instant in his task. Clothing could be replaced, but not that elusive state of existence colloquially known as life.

      With a dry mouth, Ryan watched as the Cerberus cloud flowed from the grille of the wall vent, growing ever larger. Released from its jar, the thing was twenty feet across, the sharp smell of ozone filling the garage.

      Rushing over to the LARC, Mildred tossed in an M-60 machine gun yanked from a Hummer, and Jak heaved two more gas canisters into the middle span. Then everybody yanked out an implo gren and clawed off the strip of duct tape.

      “Done!” J.B. announced, stepping back triumphantly.

      But then he cursed as he saw a tiny glowing spot in the middle of the door. That wasn’t his work, he had been nowhere near the center. As J.B. watched, the spot got a little bigger as it changed color from a dull red, to bright cherry red rapidly escalating to orange, then yellow and finally white. Then the door would melt, and the cloud on the other side would flow through. He had spent ten minutes welding the fragging door shut, and the Cerberus cloud would get through in only a few moments. Not knowing what else to do, J.B. shoved the welding torch at the orange splotch. The white-hot flame instantly cut through the softened metal and there came a sound from the other side, almost as if the cloud had experienced pain.

      Trying to keep his hand steady and pointed at the same location, J.B. watched for the formation of any other burns, knowing that he was now trapped. If he dropped the welding torch, the cloud would pour though the hole like escaping steam. The implo gren was in the pocket of his leather jacket, the tape removed and ready to go. But that might as well be on the moon for all the good it would do him right now. There were more iron rods on the workbench, but by the time he got back, the cloud would be through. Not that any of that really mattered, because the pressure gauge on the acetylene tank was rapidly approaching zero. Suddenly the man was filled with the overwhelming urge for a smoke.

      Gunning the diesel of the LARC, Krysty wheeled the long vehicle around to point toward the exit tunnel. She reached for the horn, but like most military vehicles, the amphibious transport didn’t have one, rush-hour traffic being one of the few problems for sailors storming an enemy beach.

      “Time to go!” she yelled, the muscles standing up on her back from the sheer force of the cry.

      Wheeling over a tool chest, Doc set it directly in front of the door, and J.B. arranged the welding torch into position, then used a heavy wrench to hold it there. Releasing his grip, the man stepped back to check the work, then turned and bolted for the waiting half-track with Doc close behind, the tail of his frock coat flapping behind him.

      As the cloud started to move away from the wall, Ryan yanked the pin and gently rolled the gren along the floor, then turned and raced away. Reaching an APC, he grabbed onto a stanchion set into the armored hull and held on for dear life. His skin began to prickle from the close proximity of the Cerberus cloud, then there came a musical ting and the gren activated.

      Instantly the garage was effused with a blinding white light, the Cerberus cloud emitted an inhuman noise that might have been a scream, and then a violent wind filled the inside of the underground garage as the gravitational vortex began dragging every loose item toward its epicenter. Dust streamed toward the powerful implosion, papers went flying, bones rattled across the floor, and small tools pelted Ryan as they hurtled by. The ceiling lights swayed, a motorcycle toppled over, an empty jumpsuit sailed through the turbulent atmosphere like a kamikaze ghost—then the wind stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

      Releasing his hold on the APC, Ryan glanced at the circular crater where the air vent had existed. Yards wide, a huge section of the floor and wall were gone, vanished, compressed into an allotropic state beyond comprehension. Shuffling toward the LARC, Ryan could