“Yeah, we see,” Mildred said, pouring some water from an earthenware jug into a chipped goblet of colored glass, which she handed to Doc.
“Thank you, madam.” He took several deep gulps, spilling some down his chest. “Ah, that is so much better. I confess that I feel a few notches below my usual effervescent best. Perhaps a little rest would be of benefit?”
“Sure.” Ryan was checking his blaster, sitting cross-legged on his bed. Jak reappeared in the doorway, empty-handed. “Anything to help?”
The teenager shook his head, the strands of snowy hair clinging limply to his etched cheeks. “Found him in big house. Think drunk. Eyes like poached eggs. Red cheeks. Said regretted that ville didn’t have medical skills or drugs. Hoped Doc got better quick. Ready for testing. Tomorrow.”
Ryan bit his lip. “Yeah, I haven’t forgotten. Fireblast! Surely they won’t expect a sick old man to have to take part in this testing.”
“Think will,” Jak said, huddled under a mottled gray blanket while he shook off his wet clothes. “Yeah. Afraid that think will.”
“Mebbe he’ll be okay by then and be able to take part,” Dean suggested.
“Doubt he’ll be in much shape to take part in anything for a couple of days,” Mildred said. “Children of the Rock can’t be that insensitive, can they?”
None of the others answered her.
SUPPER WAS BROUGHT around to their hut by a brace of the younger women, one of whom had a vile cancer disfiguring her face, a rotting hole of fringed flesh, where what remained of her nose joined her mouth. The upper lip was already consumed, showing the line of her rotting teeth.
She tried hard to keep her head turned away from the gentle golden light of the two oil lamps that smoked on the table by the side window, concealing the worst of her hideous scarring from the outlanders.
There were bowls of thick soup, with chunks of carrot and parsnips floating in it, followed by some tough mutton chops, with whipped potatoes that had been grievously undercooked, leaving hard lumps. The bread was good, fresh-baked rolls, with a dish of salted butter. Mugs of frothing, creamy milk completed the meal.
“Soup tasted bitter,” Krysty commented. “Recognized some of the herbs in it but I don’t know what it was that gave it that sour aftertaste.”
Mildred drained her drink, wiping a white mustache from her upper lip. “Didn’t notice. Potatoes were lumpy enough to match the tough mutton. Mustard took away the worst of the flavor from that.”
Doc had been awakened and had sipped at the soup, but hadn’t felt like facing the meat, drinking the milk and asking for more to combat the dryness of his sore throat.
Within minutes he was fast asleep again.
RYAN YAWNED. “Dropping off,” he said, puzzled at how his voice seemed to be coming from a vast distance away, echoing inside his skull.
“Could go for a walk, lover. Fresh air do us good. It’s real muggy inside here.”
Ryan opened the door of their cabin, looking out into the late evening. The rain had almost ceased, still dripping noisily from the overhanging branches of the towering trees. The cloud cover was being lashed away in the rising wind, showing an occasional glimpse of a sliver of moonlight.
No signs of life were visible outside the buildings of Hopeville, though all the huts showed lights through the slitted shutters. There was a burst of laughter from the big house where Brother Joshua Wolfe lived, and the sound of someone playing a piano, loudly and badly.
“Someone’s having a good time,” Krysty said, joining him, her warm body pressed against his.
He glanced behind them. Doc was snoring loudly, mouth gaping open. Dean and Jak were lying on their beds, folly dressed again, as they all were. The youths’ eyes were closed tight and their chests were moving rhythmically.
J.B. and Mildred were locked in each other’s arms on a double bed that they’d contrived by pushing two of the singles together. They also looked like they were asleep.
“Only us chickens awake,” Ryan said. Krysty yawned, leaning up against him. “And it’s only a matter of time before…” The rest of the sentence muffled by another massive yawn.