Heaped on the grate like a stack of cannonballs were the sizzling sources of the delicious aromas.
“Gome on, now, doan be shy,” the cook sang as the new arrivals approached. “I got plenty here. It’s real Jamaica jerk, an’ that’s no lie. Getcha good stuff while it’s hot!”
Even though Ryan wanted what was on that grill more than he’d ever wanted anything, he didn’t push. No one did. Everyone seemed to be in the same state.
Able to move, but rockily.
The detached part of him knew that things were very wrong. That he should have long since gone for the eighteen-inch panga sheathed below his knee, and started cutting chiller throats. That his companions should have been doing likewise. But the proximity of their mortal enemies no longer seemed to matter to any of them. The need for revenge and the need to stop the butchery had become irrelevant. They were possessed of only one desire: to eat what was being offered. For all the black smoke coming off the grate, and the folks standing in line in front of him, Ryan couldn’t even see what he was waiting for.
That didn’t matter, either.
The line slowly advanced. Dean reached the head of the line in front of Ryan. The boy shuffled off without a word, juggling between his hands a smoking, char-roasted glob that his father barely got a glimpse of.
It was big, though.
The size of a ripe melon.
Using the piece of firewood, the cook rolled another glob out of the flames, across the grate, this time in Ryan’s direction. It looked like a twenty-pound meteorite that had just crashed to Earth. “There you go, mon,” he said. “Best you’ll ever eat.”
Ryan grabbed it up with eager fingers. It burned him, but he wouldn’t let it drop. He, too, juggled the smoking glob and sat in the dirt beside his son. Dean was already tearing into his food, as was the little girl from Bullard. They were making animal noises of pleasure.
The first bite made Ryan groan. It was roast beef. And more succulent than any he had ever eaten. The outer part was crispy and tasted as if it had been rubbed with spices. The charred flesh came off in juicy shreds under Ryan’s teeth. Inside, the roast was so tender it melted in his mouth.
The more he ate of it, the more he wanted. The thought that mebbe it was too much to consume in one sitting, of mebbe saving some for later didn’t even enter his mind. Ryan ate the whole thing and when he was done he licked the sweet grease from his fingers. Stomach bulging, he lay back on his elbows. Dean curled up on his side, unable to budge after packing so much into his gut. Everyone else was on the ground, too. Most were flat on their backs with their eyes closed.
Ryan was no longer hungry, but he was getting sleepy. In a disinterested way he took in the immediate surroundings. The only building of note was the low concrete blockhouse across the square, which was obviously predark. The rest of the ville was a shit heap of ramshackle, dirt-floored lean-tos barely tall enough to crawl into. Clouds of black flies swarmed over the open latrines and trench sewer.
In a corner of the square stood a predark metal chair. It had straps looped around both arms, and on the chair back was a dark, broad stain that looked like dried blood. Flies hovered over it, and over the long piece of iron pipe that leaned against it.
Ryan dozed off to the seesaw, droning buzz. He was awakened with a start a few minutes later by a sound that he couldn’t place. He sat up and looked around; others were stirring, as well.
He realized that the noise was coming from a wag engine when he saw the approaching Baja Bug. To him it sounded as if it were underwater. And it had a strange, shimmering halo, or aura around it, a purple-and-rose glow that had nothing to do with its flat gray paint job. When the Bug stopped beside the square and the driver got out, Ryan’s jaw dropped in astonishment. He opened his mouth to speak, but words failed him. He thought he’d never see Trader again.