I looked around. We were in what looked like a computer center. Dozens of workstations, supercomputers off to one side behind glass in a cooled room, and rows of file cabinets of various sizes.

“Spread out and search this place,” I said as Ghost crept down to stand beside me. He was quivering with nervous energy. “Jackpot, disconnect the computers from any power source, cable, or landline. Pappy and Donnie Darko, assess the tech and bag anything we need to take.”

“Too much to take,” said Bunny.

“Prioritize,” I told him.

There was a corridor leading off the room, and I thought I heard some muffled sounds coming from there. “Ghost and I will check that out,” I said.

Once I rounded the bend, I saw that the corridor ran forty feet to a big door on rails, like a barn door, and made out of oak planks. Very sturdy, and with a big industrial dead bolt lock. No way to tell if it was locked from the outside or inside. I had a blaster-plaster with me, but I didn’t want to injure anyone if there were prisoners or test subjects incarcerated there. However, there was a glass case inset into the wall near where I stood that had a red fire extinguisher bracketed in between a heavy flathead fire ax.

I paused to reload the Snellig, then used the butt of the pistol to smash the glass, then holstered the dart gun. I pulled the ax from the aluminum clips. Like the extinguisher, it was painted a vivid red to make it easier to see in smoky situations, with the blade coated in clear rust-resistant lacquer. It had a bright yellow thirty-six-inch fiberglass handle and felt solid and sturdy in my hands as I approached the door.

The muffled sounds I’d heard earlier were definitely coming from there. I leaned close, but the sounds were odd and indistinct. No screams, though. None of the Rage-infused mania.

“Get back,” I said to Ghost. “Watch.”

He walked backward fifteen feet and sat, eyes alert, ears swiveling, nose sniffing the air.

I braced my feet, grasped the neck of the handle a few inches below the ax’s head, with my palm facing away, making sure my grip was firm but not tense. Then, as I swung it down, using muscle, posture, and gravity to accelerate and gather force, my top hand slid down to meet the other, creating a nice fulcrum to deliver that power. The way my father had taught me to split logs on his brother’s farm. The farm where they all died. The blade bit deeply into the wood, and splinters flew into the air.