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Jak glanced at him. "What supposed to mean, Doc?"
"It is from Shakespeare. I disremember which play or sonnet. I surmise the meaning is
simple as long as we still laugh, we have not met the worst."
Krysty shook her head. "I don't feel much like laughing."
"Me either," Jak said. "Feel more like breakfast." As they turned and trudged up the
street, Krysty whispered, "You get an eyeful, J.B.?"
"Yeah," he answered in a low voice, ducking his head. "One of the dune buggies looks to
be our best bet. Small, fast, maneuverable. Simple to hot-wire. Even if there's a plas-ex
theft deterrent connected to the ignition, it'll be a cinch to disarm."
As the four people walked toward the eatery, no one else ventured forth on the streets. As
early as it was, there should have been a few people, if only those staggering home from
an all-night drunk.
Doc shouldered his cane jauntily and murmured, "From the oppressive atmosphere, it
appears friend Ryan's assessment was correct."
No one responded. All of them had stayed awake most of the night, huddled in Krysty
and Ryan's room, talking in whispers, planning courses of action.
The question that never arose among them was, should they trust Lars Hellstrom to allow
them the run of Helskel during his absence?
They were, all of them, battle-hardened and scarred veterans of Deathlands. One reason
they were veterans and not victims was their almost instinctive distrust of anyone who
wielded power over others.
This distrust was similar to a code, as necessary to survival in the wastelands of post-
nukecaust America as food and water. So they had devised an escape plan, with Ryan
briefing them on the location of the armory where their blasters were stored and how
much opposition they could expect.
They had also settled on an escape route, using Hellstrom's map of Mount Rushmore and
the surrounding environs as a blueprint. For the plan to work, it was crucial that they all
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behave as if they suspected nothing, to maintain the facades of trusting souls, worrying
only about their loved ones, off on a mission in the service of Helskel.
They entered the eatery. The heavyset, wart-faced woman behind the counter glanced at
them with sullen eyes. She didn't greet them.
"Breakfast, my good woman!" Doc shouted good-humoredly, rapping the countertop with
his swordstick. "First and foremost, deliver to us a pot of your delectable coffee."
The four companions took seats around a table, and cups and a steaming pot were set
before them. The woman didn't look them in the eye.
They ordered their food. The woman didn't write down their requests, but her eyes
suddenly flickered, casting an anxious glance toward the doorway. Quickly she turned
and slipped into the kitchen.
The four sec men entered quietly, lining the counter, leaning against it lazily. A couple of
them stifled yawns. Phil seemed to be the leader of the quartet. He met Krysty's gaze and
grinned. "Got tired of breakfast in bed, little princess?"
She returned the grin. "No, I got tired of seeing your ugly face first thing every morning.
But as long as you're here, fetch us some bread and butter."
Phil stiffened, brows drawing low over his eyes. His hand strayed to the butt of his
blaster. "You mutie whore. I'll show you some fetchin'."
Jak was in the process of pouring coffee into his cup. As Phil's fingers brushed the Tec-
10, the pot and cup fell from his hands. Long before they struck the floor, a black leaf-
bladed throwing knife was in his right hand. He threw it, with a blurring snap of wrist and
forearm.
The blade pierced the back of Phil's hand, the razor point slicing through the palm and
pinioning it to his upper thigh. His splayed fingers contorted, like the fluttering wings of
a butterfly transfixed by a pin.
Before the three other sec men could react, Krysty, Jak, J.B. and Doc were on their feet,
overturning the table. They flipped it toward the counter, smashing it against the four
men, making a wooden sandwich with a human fill.
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One of the sec men managed to draw his blaster. His first few shots crashed through the
window and killed a drowsy, unsuspecting merchant who was opening his stall across the
street.
The sec man's breath had been driven out of him by the table edge, and he tried to adjust
his aim to find the proper range. Another knife appeared magically in Jak's fist. The blade
inscribed a short arc, and the sec man dropped his blaster, his jugular jetting blood.
J.B. scooped the Tec-10 from the floor, but the sagging weight of the throat-slashed man,
coupled with the force exerted by his three companions, flipped the table outward,
bottom edge first. The wooden disk slammed squarely against J.B.'s face. Still bent over,
the Armorer staggered sideways, glasses hanging askew, crimson gushing from his
nostrils.
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