"Axler, James - Deathlands 050 - Pandora's Reboubt - Nick Pollotta" - читать интересную книгу автора (Axler James)

"Mayhap. And more importantly, very difficult for an outsider to forge," Doc noted. "Good way to identify your own people."
"Not exactly a photo ID," Mildred added, inspecting the lividity of the flesh, "but efficient."
"Exactly."
"ID means more than two," J.B. stated, glancing about.
"Yes, there could be a lot," Krysty agreed. Holding her S&W in a steady grip, she dumped the spent cartridges, trained hands pocketing the spent brass and sliding in fresh rounds.
"Wonder if the others had similar marks," Ryan mused, scratching his chin. "If not, they were probably invaders fighting for turf. If so, it was a mutiny."
Doc sighed. "Internecine, the most uncivil of wars." Gently he prodded the corpse with his swordstick, a few more pieces coming off from the movement. "However, it would be rather valuable data to know if we are facing two gangs, or just one."
"I can check," Mildred offered, puffing a flashlight from her med kit. There was a click and a brilliant cone of white light leaped from the device in her hands, illuminating the corridor with unforgiving clarity.
"Go," Ryan commanded.
Mildred nodded. "Be right back." As she hurried away, the circle of light on the hallway walls bobbed until it angled to the right and disappeared. With the departure of the flash, the darkness seemed even more pronounced than before.
"How'd she get batteries?" Dean asked.
"Doesn't need any," Krysty replied. "When you were at school, Mildred saved the life of the captain of a steamboat. He gave her the flash as payment. It doesn't use batteries. Recharges in sunlight."
"Wow."
"Here," Jak said, passing the boy his own candle. "Hold high."
Dean did as requested, and the albino teen carefully rummaged through the pockets of the dead man. There was some twine knotted into a garrote, a big gold coin embossed with an American eagle on one side and a Nazi swastika on the back, a few 5.7 mm cartridges, a Swiss army knife and a plastic butane lighter, the clear plastic reservoir half full of fuel. He pocketed the lighter and offered the rest to the others. Even though they were the wrong caliber for his Browning, Dean took the cartridges and stuffed them into his already bulging vest. He could extract the powder and primer later for his own bullets. Doc accepted the knife. Nobody took the gold.
"Amazing little thing," Doc said, opening and closing the many small blades. "My daughter would have loved this. She so liked gadgets and such." He glanced about, his voice taking on a gentler, slightly confused tone. "My, I wonder where she, Jolyon and her mother are? It has been hours since I saw them last."
Ryan looked at Krysty, and she moved closer to the old man. "They'll be along soon," the redhead said soothingly. "You wait here."
"Yes, of course," he said amiably, pocketing the knife. "I would not want to miss them. We are going for a picnic down by the river."
Just then, a faint light appeared down the corridor.
"Heads up," Ryan said, snapping his rifle into a combat position. The rest assumed a half circle, blasters ready. As if awakening from a long dream,
Doc put his back to the wall and drew the LeMat, the fog of memories clearing from his face.
"Same marks," Mildred announced, switching off her flash when she reached them. "Knife and sun."
His face masked by the moving candle shadows, Ryan frowned deeply. "So it seems that a gang somehow gained entrance into the redoubt and fought each other to the death." He glanced about. "But why? Over what?"
"Armory," Jak said as if that settled the matter. J.B. agreed. Blasters were life in the Deathlands. "I don't think so," Ryan disagreed. "These boys have old weapons, nothing new from military storage."
"Reasonable," Doc said, biting a lip. "I would not be surprised to find out there's nothing here of value."
"Yet they fought to the death over something," Dean pointed out.
"Mebbe it was for the redoubt itself," Krysty suggested. "It's a natural fort that no present-day marauders could ever breach by force."
"Which raises the question, how did they get in?" Mildred asked pointedly. "The front door is nuke-proof and locked with a code."
"Let's go find out," said Ryan, clearing the action of his SSG-70. The long blaster made smooth noises of polished steel moving easily over oiled grooves. "Shoot anything that moves, but try and wound if you can."
"Right. We want these assholes alive for questioning."
As the seven moved to the end of the corridor, the candles revealed the elevator was totally destroyed, its metal frame twisted in wild shapes. The ceiling was bare struts and wiring, the tiles gone, and the terrazzo floor was cracked like hot glass dropped into cold water.
The doors to the stairwell were torn apart, but the metal steps on the other side were still intact. Ryan pointed at J.B., Doc and Jak to go down. Then he tapped his bare wrist, flashed five fingers three times and pointed upward. Next he pointed at Krysty, himself, Dean and Mildred. They nodded and the group split apart, three heading downward, four going up as quietly as possible.
Moving along the stairs, Ryan and his people kept to the side of the steps where the metal would be the strongest and least likely to make noise. Old wood might occasionally creak by itself, just adjusting to temperature and moisture. But old metal was silent, until you stepped where age and rust had weakened it; then steel would squeal louder than pigs getting butchered by an amateur.
Pausing at the first landing, they listened intently, but no sounds disturbed the graveyard peace of the redoubt. Satisfied, they moved on. The doorway to the next level stood gaping open, faint light spilling from the hallway beyond. In a two-on-two rotation formation, they proceeded in, Krysty stepping to one side past the door to allow Ryan to pass her. As he went to the wall, Dean came in fast and crouched low on the floor. Mildred centered last and replaced Krysty at the door, covering their rear, as the redheaded glided past Dean. Staying alert, watching one another's backs, they covered the entire floor, prepared for another trap or ambush. This level of the redoubt proved to be the barracks, every door bearing an empty slot for a nameplate. Each small room was equipped with a single bed, closet, desk, sink, shower and rotting corpse. Some were lying in the middle of the floor with bullet wounds in their foreheads, some with arrows through their chests. A body was found in the closet gut-stabbed. Another was sprawled in the hallway, his body almost cut in two by a shotgun blast. But most of the slain were lying peacefully in bed, their throats slashed, the blankets stiff with dried brown blood.
"Nightcreeps," J.B. growled. "Shoes on the floor, blasters under their pillows. These boys were caught by surprise."
"Mostly," Krysty corrected him. "Remember that guy in the hallway."
"Same tattoos," Dean announced, letting a blanket drop back into place. "These were part of the same group."
"Heads up," Ryan said, easing open a closet with the tip of his rifle. Instantly, there was a twang and out shot an arrow. It streaked across the room to slam into the dead man in the bunk. The corpse jerked at the impact, and the Navy SEAL knife in his withered hand dropped to the floor.
"And it seems as if a few knew something was happening," Dean said, "but most didn't."
"The leaders?" Mildred suggested, eyeing the knife without interest. She already had a Green Beret blade.
Grunting assent, Ryan briefly inspected the contents of the closet. Hanging neatly on racks were blue and gold military uniforms, the creases as sharp as razors, the buttons gleaming with polish. "These are Air Force dress uniforms."
Cradling her S&W .38 on a crooked elbow, Krysty furrowed her brow. "But the last couple of rooms held green Army fatigues."
"A combined military base?"
"Never heard of that before, but why not?"
Ryan made no reply, keeping his own counsel.
"Strange there are no women," Dean said.
"Maybe the leaders did the killing," Mildred replied. "It's happened before."
A metallic noise from the hallway made everybody drop behind furniture, and they waited quietly until two sharp short whistles sounded. Leveling his longblaster at the partially closed door, Ryan whistled once long and low. A few seconds later, his call was repeated exactly. They relaxed and stood as J.B., Jak and Doc entered the room.
"Anything? Ryan asked, shouldering the rifle.
"We found the fifth level burned to the walls," J.B. stated. "The sort of damage done by bathtub Molotov cocktails. Very crude stuff, gasoline and soapflakes. The sixth held the armory and storage. That was full of corpses and more traps. I had to cope with two on the stairwell, a trip wire at the door, a gren attached to a light switch and a crossbow hidden in the-"