A day of taxiing the hyperkinetic and irrepressible Bronwean about on her admittedly-useful-but-decidedly-tedious legwork had left Al more exhausted than any firefight or faceoff with Elder Terrors could have, and he was relieved to get the call from Ulrich that the elaborately-rationalizing Satanist was finally ready to get to work.

“Looks like showtime, ace,” he called to the stupefyingly striking jailbait fiddling with her guns again in the back of the Gov. He sent out a call to the team to see if anyone else needed a pick-up and headed out.

When they arrived at the rendezvous point, he looked about the same as he always did, aside from a Remington shotgun in his hand and a hunting rifle of the same make on his back. His tool bags hung a little heavier. And he had a SOTA respirator hanging around his neck. He wouldn’t wear it unless the air actually got toxic and it looked like it would stay that way longer than his internal supply would last. As for the German’s other recommendations, they in no way approached passing the cool test, and would be uncomfortable. He’d been dirty before. And since finally fully recovering from his ordeal in the Pacific all those years ago, he pretty much never got sick.