Deathlands 02 Red Holocaust by James Axler

Author:James Axler [Axler, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-03-28T20:22:01+00:00

Okie kept her M-16A1 carbine with the collapsed stock, adding to it an IMI

Mini-Uzi submachine gun. It weighed just over six pounds and was less than

fifteen inches in length.

Krysty liked the clean, silvered finish on a Heckler & Koch P-7A 13 pistol,

which fired a 9 mm bullet out of a thirteen-round magazine. Because of the large

number of rounds it held, there was a special insulating block in front of the

trigger to absorb heat from the gas that retarded the slide opening. J.B. nodded

his approval of her choice.

Finnegan and Hennings both went for the fifteen-round model 92 Beretta pistol

with frame-mounted safety, firing a 9 mm round.

They both liked a whole rack of dull gray Heckler & Koch submachine guns with

built-in silencers and fifty-round drum magazines; they fired single, triple or

continuous bursts of 9 mm bullets. The card said it was a development of the

famous HK-54A2 model of the 1990s.

Ryan watched J.B., strolling around the rooms of new guns, hands behind his

back, lips moving as though he was silently praying. But he wasn't. He was

simply comparing the various qualities of the blasters ranged all around him.

"Can't do much better than what I've got," he finally said, watching the others

carry armfuls of ammo down to their dormitory.

He pulled out his Steyr AUG 5.6 mm. "Nice Browning Hi-Power over there. Might

take a Mini-Uzi like Okie got. Useful if we meet a mess of muties. And a new

knife or two. Mebbe stock up on grens, huh?"

There was a polite cough from behind. The men spun, each dropping instinctively

into a fighter's crouch.

"My apologies, gentlemen, if I caused a shimmer of nervousness to trickle

through your bodies."

"Just fuck off, Doc," said J.B., relaxing, pushing back the brim of his crumpled

fedora, fumbling in his pocket for one of his favored cheroots.

"I have taken the liberty of arming myself, if you have no objection, so I can

be less of a weight for you to bear on our little jaunts."

"Jaunts?" exclaimed Ryan. "What kind a blasters you got?"

"An uncle of mine, a dear, sweet man, once owned a handgun of some rarity. A

weapon for the connoisseur. Also, in the right hands, one to blast off the balls

of a demented stickie, if I may be excused a lapse into the vernacular."

"You may, Doc. You fuckin' may," said Ryan, smiling.

"I have taken this to aid me in my striding over the difficult terrain we seem

to encounter."

He held a long ebony walking stick in his right hand. As he tossed it in the air

and caught it, the glittering silver pommel was revealed. It was a beautiful

carving of the head of some ferocious animal with great teeth and a mane of

hair.

"Handsome, Doc," said J.B. admiringly.

"More than that, my dear Mr. Dix. Voila!" With a twist of the hand he loosened

the head, drawing out a snaking rapier of polished steel from within the ebony

shell. "From the plant of elegance, I pluck the flower of mortality."

"What about a blaster, Doc? Nice sword, though."

"Grudging praise from you, Mr. Dix, is better than the most fulsome flattery

from the lips of lesser mortals.

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