Thunder Road by James Axler Page B

at the end of the chain that it seemed absurd between his scarred and calloused knuckle joints.
    Krysty had given him this locket when she had found that he was alive. It had been given to her, in turn, by a man who had helped her in her quest.
    He fervently hoped that he would be able to give it back to her, yet again in turn, when they found her alive. She would know they would come looking for her if they could. That he would. But could she assume that they would be able to do this?
    He just hoped to hell that she wasn’t going to rely solely on them.
     
    T HE RUINED RANCH HOUSE showed no indication of being anything other than that. The rider circled it, almost as if giving her the chance to scout the territory. Parts of the walls had collapsed, the interior floors and ceilings were patchwork constructions, sometimes held together by only one surviving beam. And original decoration and furnishing had long since been stripped bare or reduced to wormwood. A couple of metal objects, corroded and covered by debris until they bore no resemblance to anything she could name, stood out from the sea of trash that littered the ground floor. A staircase stood, half demolished, leading to nowhere. The bottom section seemed to have suffered little damage, suggesting reinforcement. There was a door set into the staircase. Stripped of its wooden facade by time, she could see that this bottom section had survived as it had a concrete surround, the inset door being of steel, showing signs of wear but no corrosion. No ordinary household metal.
    It was the briefest of glimpses through a tumbledown wall, but it was enough for her to realize that her suspicions had been correct. There was more to this site than just a ruined predark dwelling like so many that had housed farms and ranches before skydark.
    So they had arrived at the place the mystery rider called home. She had been aware, over the roar of the engine and the rush of the wind, that he had been intermittently speaking to someone on a headset. The extraneous noise had precluded her making out the nature of these brief communications, but now that he had eased the throttle, and their decreased speed cut out the roar of onrushing air, she was able to half grasp what he said.
    “…approach…research file. The gas…prepare for entry…”
    She knew that she was about to find out the extent of the rider’s resources. Part of her was glad. Now she could start planning for her escape. Part of her was terrified. What if the odds were overwhelming, especially as she still felt weak?
    Determined to note every detail, she kept herself focused as the man guided his vehicle around the rear of the ranch house and toward what had to have been a barn. It was little more than a few sticks of wood marking out an area of dust slightly different in hue to the land around.
    She was impressed, but not perhaps as surprised as he would have liked, if he but knew, when a section of soil and sand raised up slowly on hydraulics. It rose at an angle until it was standing about six feet off the surface of the ground. The topsoil remained, only some dust falling from the edges, running backward. Perhaps sheer weight kept it in place, as the ascent had been measured. Perhaps it was secured in some way. Whatever, she could see that something kept it in place so that the hydraulic platform would descend with no indication that this piece of land had ever been moved.
    Beneath the platform, a concrete slope led down into the earth. Lights were inset in the walls, providing an illumination that was less than the sun, but still more than enough by which to see your way.
    The rider guided the bike down the slope and into a tunnel. She immediately felt the coolness of an air conditioner hit her, something she had not felt outside the redoubts they had visited. There was something about the quality of the air in these places: a kind of dryness, a lack of any scent or musk that was natural, that maybe the regular