“Who were they?” Brandon demanded, breathing heavily. “Who the rad-blasted fuck were those guys!”
A sec man dropped the empty clip from his AK-47 and slammed in a fresh magazine. “Barbs,” he replied angrily. “I heard tell of them as a kid. Outlanders that ride the Kentucky plains, chilling everybody.”
“Cannies?” a private asked, a friend bandaging the wound in his shoulder.
The corporal scratched under his cloth cap. “Nope. They just ace you. Don’t take blasters or food. Don’t rape the women. Just kill folks, is all.”
Brandon stayed on the hilltop, watching the valley below for any signs of more barbs. “Why didn’t they use those blasters?” he demanded, puzzled. “Give them a better chance at least. They lost more men than they chilled.”
“Those are just trophies from aced foes,” the private explained slowly, as if in disbelief. “They never use the blasters. Just those spears. Or so I heard.”
“Guess it’s true,” another man stated, wrapping his bloody hand.
From the turret, Davies swung the cannon aside. “You mean they save blasters like we do ears and dicks?”
“Yep.”
“Outlanders,” the sergeant stated gruffly. Grabbing a lance, he yanked it loose from the soil. The weapon was over eight feet long, the barbed spearhead made of steel that shone like winter ice in the sunlight. “Fresh steel,” he muttered. “These crazies can make new steel and use spears?”
“Lances,” Brandon corrected, finally turning away from the forest. “That’s no spear.”
The sergeant inspected the weapon curiously. “What’s the difference, sir?”
Brandon took it from him and pointed. “A spear has a head. This wep is sharp from the grip to the tip. A lot more deadly.”
“Yeah, I saw that.”
After stripping the healer of his blaster, gun belt and boots, the sec men boarded the LAV-25 and drove away in silence. As the wag dwindled into the distance, a lone man rose from the tall grass near the still-warm corpse. He was breathing hard, and his muscular chest was coated with a sheen of sweat. With knife in hand, the outlander stared hatefully at the escaping iron box. But the barb wasn’t overly concerned, because he knew the ways of the fat norms. Confident in their own safety, they would stop at night and make a campfire to cook food. They would sleep in woven cloth, with only one or two inside the box with its chilling machine. The men inside would be the first to die, then all the rest.
Scooping up a handful of earth, he stuffed his mouth full and swallowed the rich dirt. Life renewed filled his body, and on foot the scarred warrior began to chase after the machine people. In his mind, he was already wearing their blasters.
RICH SMELLS of roasting meat permeated the kitchen of the Tennessee redoubt, four of the sixteen ovens radiating waves of heat. Wearing an apron, Krysty laid a platter full of fried mushrooms on the counter and Dean carried it to the table, snatching a couple with his bare fingers. Doc gave everybody a serving, and the companions dug in without talk.
“No more for me,” Ryan said, pushing away the plate of tiny bones. He wiped his mouth with an Army napkin and released a tremendous belch.
“In Arab countries that is a mark of appreciation,” J.B. said, then chuckled, slicing a small steak off a nondescript roast. He knew it was rat, but fresh meat was healthier than the predark foods, even if the MRE packs did taste better.
“Damn straight. Best rat I ever had.”
“I raided the MRE packs,” Krysty said from the kitchen. “Some salt and pepper, a little mint, and rat cooks just fine.”
“Mint?” Mildred asked, her fork paused before her face.
The redhead laughed. “Toothpaste.”
“Mushrooms best,” Dean mumbled, his mouth stuffed full as he shoveled in more roasted meat. He didn’t care what it was, as long as there was plenty. The more he ate, the hungrier he seemed to be.
Wisely, Doc used a spoon to ladle the growing boy another heaping portion of the mushrooms. “Don’t forget to take some vitamins from the MRE packs after dinner,” the man said. “Apparently, the blues had no idea what the tablets were.”