WISPS OF STEAM rising all around her, Mildred stood in the kitchen, using a wooden spoon to stir the contents of a huge stainless-steel pot on the main military stove. The grayish fluid bubbled steadily and gave off a pleasant aroma.
“How’s it coming?” Dean asked hopefully. The boy dropped into a chair and tried not to drool at the prospect of eating.
“Pretty soon,” the physician replied, sprinkling some salt into the brew. No matter how well stripped a larder may be, there always seemed to be salt left behind. Nobody ever thought of talcing the big container. “This is purely survival food. It’ll keep us alive, but I can’t guarantee the flavor. However, it’s all we have at the present.”
Lugging a box full of empty whiskey bottles into the kitchen, Ryan set the crate on one of the score of tables that filled the room. It appeared that the base held a thousand soldiers and most of them could be fed at the same meal. “I’ll be damn. That’s beef of some kind,” he said, sniffing. “Where did you find it?”
“Almost beef,” Mildred said, taking a sip of the brew from the spoon. “It’s boot.”
Ryan frowned. “Army boot?”
“Good Lord no,” Mildred said, adding another handful of tiny brown squares to the pot. The material sank into the brew without a trace, then started to bob to the surface. “Combat boots are mostly plastic and rubber. No nourishment there. I found some dress shoes in the closets. The polish helped keep the leather intact. I scraped off the plastic, that’s what makes patent leather shoes so shiny, then cut them into strips, soaked the piece in salt water for a while to soften the material and leech out any lingering polish. Now it’s in the pot.”
“Boot,” Jak said with a grimace. Near the sloshing dishwasher, the teenager was using scissors to cut bedsheets into long strips. “Had worse.”
“Have you indeed?” Doc asked askance, placing a fistful of lint-covered cough drops on an empty plate. It was the only edible thing he had found. “I am sincerely sorry to hear it, my friend.”
“Not really,” the teenager snorted. “Being nice.”
Krysty entered the kitchen and put a cloth bag on the counter. “Got some roots here,” she said, untying the bag. Inside was a scraggly collection of withered brown things as thin as spaghetti.
“Roots? Where the hell did you find those?”
She took a knife from a wall rack and started to dice the roots into little pieces. “Every officer in the base had some sort of plant on his desk. I pulled out the dead flowers and dug through the soil. Isn’t much, but every little bit helps.”
Carrying the stringy material to the pot, Krysty sprinkled them into the soup and took a whiff. “Fish?” she asked hopefully.
“Boot,” Mildred said, adjusting the electric burner to a lower setting.
“Gaia, save us. Any rice or honey?” Krysty asked, randomly opening the cabinets. As long as rice was kept dry, it would last for centuries, and honey never went bad. Ever. It simply became a solid rock-hard mass, but once gently heated, the stuff softened to its usual form and was as delicious as ever.
“Not a frigging tea leaf,” Mildred retorted grumpily. She placed a lid on the pot and moved to the sink for a glass of water. She opened the tap, and brown water gushed out to slowly clear into something drinkable. “The larder was vacuumed clean. There wasn’t even an empty can in the garbage bin. Nothing but some salt and garlic cloves.”
“Like garlic,” Jak said with a smile. “Makes everything taste good.”
“It also goes rancid over time and will kill you,” the physician said. “Ptomaine poisoning. I threw it in the toilet.”
Just then, J.B. entered the room, maneuvering around the sea of tables as he carried a stack of boxes. “Damn, that smells good,” he beamed. “What’s for dinner, Millie?”
Mildred glanced over a shoulder. “Don’t ask.”
His smiled faded. “That bad, eh?”
“Never mind the food. Did you find any weapons or grens?” Ryan asked. “There was nothing in the armory, or anyplace else I searched.”