Terminator Salvation: From the Ashes by Timothy Zahn

minutes,” he said. “Maybe less. They were moving pretty fast.”
    “Were they, now,” Orozco said. “Interesting.”
    “Why?” Kyle asked.
    “Because quick movement attracts the eye, which is something to Be avoided these days,”
    Orozco said. “Besides that, peddlers and traders working a neighborhood don’t generally want to rush through it. Not without a really good reason.”
    He shifted his M16 to his left hand and drew his Beretta.
    36
    “Here,” he said, reversing the pistol and handing it to Kyle. “You and Star take backup position around the right side of the fountain. I’ll hold my rifle either across my chest or else pointed at the visitors. If everything’s okay, I’ll lift the muzzle to point at the ceiling.”
    “And we should come out then?”
    “Or you can stay hidden,” Orozco said. “Your choice. If I instead lower the muzzle to point at the floor, start shooting. Remember to take out the ones with weapons first.”
    “Right.” Kyle took the gun, checking the safety, the clip, and the chamber the way Orozco had taught him. Then, heart pounding, he gestured to Star and headed across the lobby to the fountain.
    Orozco counted out seven minutes before he heard the sound of shuffling feet and clattering hooves coming along the street from the south.
    That alone was unusual. A short block and a half south of the building’s archway, lying on its side across the street, was an old city bus that had probably been sitting there rusting since Judgment Day. The bus’ body was in remarkably solid condition, though, which made it an ideal spot from which to launch an ambush. Orozco had occasionally toyed with the idea of using it as an observation post, but had concluded that the lines of communication back to the building were too iffy for it to be safe for any of his young sentries.
    But strangers had no way of knowing the bus was harmless, which was why those approaching Moldering Lost Ashes usually avoided the whole questionable situation by coming in from the north. Either this new group was strong enough not to care about possible traps, or else there was someone—or something—to the north that they were even more anxious to avoid.
    Whichever it was, this could end up being a very unpleasant morning. Lifting the M16 to ready position across his chest, Orozco mentally prepared himself for combat.
    If it was a raid, though, the bandits were playing it cool. The first man to come into view was wearing a holstered sidearm, but both hands were busy with the leads of two of the burros Kyle had mentioned. His face was turned upward as he walked, his oriental eyes clearly searching for something on the wall above the archway.
    Orozco let him get three more steps, then cleared his throat.
    “Afternoon,” he called.
    The man jerked and came to an instant halt, his eyes snapping from his survey of the building to Orozco and his rifle.
    “Afternoon,” he said cautiously. His voice carried a slight accent, just enough to show that English probably wasn’t his first language. “Excuse the intrusion. I’m looking for the Moldavia Los Angeles.”
    “I’ve heard of the place,” Orozco said, nodding. “Luxury condos in the heart of greater Los Angeles, starting in the low 80Os.”
    The other man drew back a little, probably wondering if the man with the military-issue rifle also had a radiation-scrambled brain.
    “Uh…” he began.
    “Long gone, of course,” Orozco continued, watching the man’s face closely. “However, if you’re interested in Moldering Lost Ashes, where the rooms are a lot cheaper, that’s a different story.”
    The other’s forehead wrinkled even harder. Then, suddenly, it cleared.
    “Oh, I see,” he said, visibly relaxing. “You’ve changed the name.” He frowned again.
    “Moldering Lost Ashes?”
    Orozco shrugged. A second and third man had now entered the field of fire, both also armed, both with their hands also visible and safely occupied with burro