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Authors: Nick Pollotta
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combat armor walked by in exaggerated slowness, the distortion due to our accelerated speed. Telepathically, Jess asked what they were doing and a man mentally replied they were going to establish a sandbag redoubt on the roof. Other folks were moving like molasses in the building, closing and locking doors, setting traps and erecting machine-gun nests. Faintly from outside, I could hear the thrum of helicopters rotors overhead.
Easing a clip into her NATO 10mm Falcon, Mrs. Cunningham sluggishly suggested parking cars outside the doorways as additional protection. But I vetoed that idea. It would designate this location as someplace special, and that we did not want to do at any cost. The boojums couldn't attack if they did not know we were here.
At max velocity, Mindy began loading our missile pod with the six Amsterdam Mark IV rockets. In the past, we normally only traveled with them on a combat assignment. But after an embarrassing incident in upstate New York, we don't drive to the local grocery store without those babies on board. Sure were a big help in getting a parking spot on those busy holiday weekends.
Meanwhile, Raul had used his wand to tack-weld every window shutter closed, and our trapster supreme, George was rigging a Claymore mine to the external door. Base Command was starting to resemble a posh hotel in downtown Beirut.
I debated working on the elevator, but according to Cunningham it was already such a deathtrap I couldn't think of anything more to add to its lethal array.
From the weapons cache of the building, Jessica and I primed a M-1A flamethrower and stacked a pile of HE shells next to a 75mm recoilless rifle. A delightful find was a case of plastic spray seltzer bottles filled with Holy Water. Neat! An arbalest would have been nice, but we only found the six-foot long arrows. There was no sign of the giant crossbow. If I survived this thing, there was going to be a nasty letter sent to Supply & Requisition.
Pausing a moment to rest, I saw Raul tearfully unleash Amigo, our pet lizard who lived in the RV, and dispatch him to guard the basement. With a flick of his tiny forked tongue, the magical collar around his neck glowed with power and Amigo was gone. I wished him luck. Sure hoped I would see the little suitcase again.
At about this point, the speed pills wore off and reality blurred, then clarified, as we returned to normal. Ugh. My head hurt, my mouth was dry and I was starving. With Father Donaher on vacation, Jessica took over as medic and distributed canteens of water, cold sandwiches, Strength potions, Healing potions and antacids. Nothing worse on the mind and body than life in the fast lane. Except visiting my in-laws. They were such noisy people.
Exiting the van, Raul was armed for warfare with a bulging pouch draped over both shoulders, a copper bracelet on both wrists, a necklace and two glowing earrings. I could only hope those were all weapons. Either that or he had more in the closet than just a pile of bones named McCoy.
Seeing to my own weapons, I loaded both of my .357 Magnums, took a 9mm Uzi sub-machine gun and a bag of mixed grenades. Small and squat, the Uzi was no big-punch weapon, nor did it have excessive range or penetration. However, it was almost 100% reliable. I once saw a demonstration where a sergeant opened the weapon, poured in a full bottle of pancake syrup, closed the breech, slapped in a magazine and fire off the full clip without a single misfire. It wouldn't jam, no pun intended. That nifty factor alone was often more important in saving your butt than caliber, distance or foot-pounds combined.
Also, I slid sweatbands on my wrists. There wasn't anything more embarrassing that dying because you dropped a weapon in the middle of a firefight. Or so I had been sheepishly told by several clumsy ghosts.
Waddling into view, George had on so much stuff strapped to his body, I could barley see him under everything. Mindy naturally had her sword, but also a
Easing a clip into her NATO 10mm Falcon, Mrs. Cunningham sluggishly suggested parking cars outside the doorways as additional protection. But I vetoed that idea. It would designate this location as someplace special, and that we did not want to do at any cost. The boojums couldn't attack if they did not know we were here.
At max velocity, Mindy began loading our missile pod with the six Amsterdam Mark IV rockets. In the past, we normally only traveled with them on a combat assignment. But after an embarrassing incident in upstate New York, we don't drive to the local grocery store without those babies on board. Sure were a big help in getting a parking spot on those busy holiday weekends.
Meanwhile, Raul had used his wand to tack-weld every window shutter closed, and our trapster supreme, George was rigging a Claymore mine to the external door. Base Command was starting to resemble a posh hotel in downtown Beirut.
I debated working on the elevator, but according to Cunningham it was already such a deathtrap I couldn't think of anything more to add to its lethal array.
From the weapons cache of the building, Jessica and I primed a M-1A flamethrower and stacked a pile of HE shells next to a 75mm recoilless rifle. A delightful find was a case of plastic spray seltzer bottles filled with Holy Water. Neat! An arbalest would have been nice, but we only found the six-foot long arrows. There was no sign of the giant crossbow. If I survived this thing, there was going to be a nasty letter sent to Supply & Requisition.
Pausing a moment to rest, I saw Raul tearfully unleash Amigo, our pet lizard who lived in the RV, and dispatch him to guard the basement. With a flick of his tiny forked tongue, the magical collar around his neck glowed with power and Amigo was gone. I wished him luck. Sure hoped I would see the little suitcase again.
At about this point, the speed pills wore off and reality blurred, then clarified, as we returned to normal. Ugh. My head hurt, my mouth was dry and I was starving. With Father Donaher on vacation, Jessica took over as medic and distributed canteens of water, cold sandwiches, Strength potions, Healing potions and antacids. Nothing worse on the mind and body than life in the fast lane. Except visiting my in-laws. They were such noisy people.
Exiting the van, Raul was armed for warfare with a bulging pouch draped over both shoulders, a copper bracelet on both wrists, a necklace and two glowing earrings. I could only hope those were all weapons. Either that or he had more in the closet than just a pile of bones named McCoy.
Seeing to my own weapons, I loaded both of my .357 Magnums, took a 9mm Uzi sub-machine gun and a bag of mixed grenades. Small and squat, the Uzi was no big-punch weapon, nor did it have excessive range or penetration. However, it was almost 100% reliable. I once saw a demonstration where a sergeant opened the weapon, poured in a full bottle of pancake syrup, closed the breech, slapped in a magazine and fire off the full clip without a single misfire. It wouldn't jam, no pun intended. That nifty factor alone was often more important in saving your butt than caliber, distance or foot-pounds combined.
Also, I slid sweatbands on my wrists. There wasn't anything more embarrassing that dying because you dropped a weapon in the middle of a firefight. Or so I had been sheepishly told by several clumsy ghosts.
Waddling into view, George had on so much stuff strapped to his body, I could barley see him under everything. Mindy naturally had her sword, but also a
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