Nightfall at Ground Zero found all of the companions seated around a corner of the propane burner, taking turns cooking their dinners over the leaping rows of flames. The sizzling flesh and smoking droplets of fat filled the air with a gamy perfume.
Krysty was right, Ryan thought as he looked around. Hell had definitely changed for the better.
The thieves who had made their living by preying on the weak or sick were nowhere near the burner. They kept to the shadows along the edge of the ring of klieg lights, leaving the honest slaves to complete their meager meals in peace. Even the most hardened robbers were going to go hungry this night. Those who had attempted to steal food from their usual targets had been soundly beaten by their fellow prisoners, and turned away. An unspoken mutual defense policy was in effect. The slaves would no longer permit individuals to be isolated and victimized.
As Dean cooked his rat shish kebab, three skinned, headless bodies threaded nose to butt on a long piece of wire, he said, “You know, these things may be kind of greasy tasting, but the crispy parts are real good. I especially like the crunchy little feet.”
“Not a lot of food on these critters,” J.B. commented, “but it sure sticks to your ribs.”
“One rat goes a long way,” Ryan agreed.
Doc belched discreetly into his fist, then said, “I find it helps to try to imagine it as roast squab.”
“That takes one hell of an imagination,” Mildred said. She stared dismally at the charred carcass on the end of her wire spit, a single bite missing from the backstop. Mildred was having trouble choking down her meal; in fact, she couldn’t even raise it to her lips.
“Same sort of dark, oleaginous meat,” Doc stated.
“The metallic aftertaste is what gags me,” Mildred said. “Like I’ve swallowed a bullet.”
“A robust burgundy would certainly help to wash it all down,” Doc admitted.
“If we had a robust burgundy, we could forget the fucking rat,” the Armorer offered.
Jak didn’t need to pretend the meal was anything but what it was. The mutie albino had lived wild and free his entire life, gladly accepting whatever Deathlands had to give. For him, protein was protein, whether it flew, walked, swam, slithered or crawled. He held a roast rat by the tail and chewed the head and shoulders noisily, using his back molars to pulverize both flesh and fine, fragile bones.
“What happened to your new friend?” Mildred asked Doc. “The guy who helped us load up our sledge. I figured he was going to eat with us, but I haven’t seen him since we came out of the mine.”
“That gentleman seems to have vanished, I am afraid,” Doc replied. “And just when I was about to introduce him to Ryan and Krysty. I am sure he’ll turn up later.”
“If you’re not going to eat any more of that rat,” Ryan said to Mildred, “let me give it to Gabhart. See if he can keep it down.”
“I’ll come along with you,” she said. “It’s time to check on him again, anyway.”
Downwind of the blue and yellow flames of the heater, Gabhart lay curled in a tight ball. He shivered violently, though he was sandwiched between insulating layers of rags they had stripped from the dead thieves.
Mildred gently touched his forehead. “Fever’s a whole lot worse.”
“Is he conscious?” Ryan asked.
“Colonel?” Mildred said, giving him a little shake. “Colonel, come on, wake up.”
There was no response.
“Is this the total collapse you were telling me about?” Ryan said.
“No, he hasn’t sloughed off his lung or intestinal tissue, yet. I’m afraid this is just the prelim.”
“Bad way to go,” said J.B., who had joined them.
“He could still come to?” Ryan asked.
“Anything’s possible,” Mildred admitted. “Miracles do happen, occasionally. It’s a whole lot more likely that he’ll slip into the terminal stage of the sickness without ever regaining consciousness. That would be the kindest thing for him.”
Ryan turned to the Armorer. “Tell me again what he said about the manacles. Tell me everything.”
J.B. repeated the story he had already related, almost word for word.