“Indeed I do,” Doc replied, and slid off his mount to rummage in his backpack until he found a foil wrapped package and tossed it over. “What’s mine is yours, my dear Ryan.”
“Nuke me, but coffee sounds like the best idea I’ve heard in years,” J.B. said, compacting the scope to tuck it back into the canvas bag, nestled between a thick coil of homemade fuse and several jars of grainy black powder.
“Has to be cold,” Ryan said, fumbling with the envelope from the MRE pack. “Still too dark for a fire. Up here, we’d be seen for miles. Might as well shoot off a bastard flare.”
“They go sleep?” Jak asked.
“Makes sense that they’d sleep during the day,” Dean stated, breaking in two a granola bar from another MRE pack and eating one part while giving the other to his horse. “Sunlight on APC, be acing hot by noon.”
The huge animal gobbled down the tiny morsel in less than a second and impatiently shifted its hooves, hoping for more. The others whinnied and nickered for food, hungrily glancing at the weeds again.
“Lethally hot, you mean,” J.B. corrected, straightening his fedora. “I remember traveling with the Trader, we would sometimes find deaders sitting behind the controls of an armored wag, the stink of roasting flesh filling the air inside.”
“How delightful,” Doc said with a frown, revolving the cylinder of his LeMat to inspect the load in each chamber. “Thus the only question is who is in the infernal contraption chasing us, Gaza, or Hawk.”
As carefully as mixing explosives, Ryan poured the hundred year old coffee crystals into his partially filled canteen, then screwed the cap on tight and sloshed it about for a minute before taking a sip. It was cold and strong, but he could feel the caffeine wash away the fog from his mind, and after another swallow, Ryan passed the container around to the rest of the companions. Each took a measured swig, and the canteen was passed around twice before it was drained.
“Needed that,” Jak said, shifting his wounded arm inside his shirt, the dried blood making the material as stiff as old canvas.
“I really should look at that wound before it becomes infected,” Mildred said, opening the flap on her satchel and going to the teen.
“No time,” J.B. replied, gazing toward the eastern horizon. “We got to keep going. Too damn visible on top of this dune.”
The pinkish glow of true dawn was expanding across the sky. Soon, night would be over and the heat would really start to increase.
Wiping the crumbs of the granola bar off his face, Dean added, “Sunup will bring out the millipedes and scorpions.”
“We water the horses one last time and then ride,” Ryan ordered, a touch of his old strength back in his voice. Fatigue still weighed down his bones, but he felt good for another couple of miles. More than enough for them to find some shelter from the heat and the bugs. There were supposed to be some ruins to the southwest of there—those would do fine, if they weren’t too far away.
There was hard wisdom in his words, so the weary companions saw to the needs of their mounts with what supplies could be spared. Draining off the last of her canteen, Krysty refilled it from the big leather bag she had grabbed in the corral when they stole the horses. Cupping a hand, she pooled some water in the palm and offered it to the chestnut mare. Eagerly, the horse lapped it off her skin and nudged her for some more. But as she refilled her hand, the animal sharply inhaled, then trembled all over. As the horse suddenly fought for breath, blood began to trickle from its mouth, its eyes rolling upward until only the whites showed.
“Gaia!” Krysty cried in horror, dropping the canteen.
Weaving about as if drunk, the animal unexpectedly dropped limply to the ground and went into violent convulsions before going very still.
“It’s dead,” the woman said softly, then jerked her head to stare at her wet palm as a horrible realization filled her with gut wrenching dread.