Ryan shone the torch on his own face, the harsh beam highlighting the sharp contours of his cheeks and mouth. “Don’t you see my tongue hanging out? We’ll look round some, then meet up with the others. Bring a spare light with you.”
MANY OF THE DRAPES were still drawn, letting in only a murky, filtered sunlight. Here and there doors to rooms stood open, with sharp-edged bars of brightness thrown across the corridors.
“Why the dead not smell? Quint chilled the dead. Some days he did not, and the dead smell.” Lori wrinkled up her nose in disgust at the memory.
“Too long a time has passed, dearest,” replied Doc Tanner. “The flesh rots slowly, and mortifies. Gradually it all dries, and the maggots feed on it. After a few years slip by, there is nothing left for the maggots, and they too die and rot slowly and very quietly the corpse becomes sinew and bone. Nothing else remains. Nothing to smell anymore.”
“Guess for a few weeks West Lowellton sure must have fucking stank like a summer slaughterhouse,” added the sweating Finnegan.
J. B. Dix, hefting the Mini-Uzi, stepped into one of the rooms on the right of the corridor. The drapes were half open, and the waves of light illuminated countless motes of dust suspended in the air. Beyond the window, greenery was pressed against the glass. In a corner, termites had evidently worked their way in, destroying some wood at floor level.
He looked around. Two double beds, huge by comparison with all the other beds the Armorer had ever seen. It looked like neither of them had been used, the covers as tight and square as when they had last been made up in January 2001, probably by some Puerto Rican maid. There were lights mounted on the wall above each bed, and a painting of a cowboy riding a spirited Appaloosa stallion. A low bureau faced the beds, with a polished black vid set upon it. A round table with two chairs in dark plastic hide stood against the window in an ugly little grouping with a spidery lamp. J.B. walked over the carpet, breathing slow and easy, seeing his reflection approach a massive mirror screwed over a washbasin in pastel pink. Glancing around to make sure the others hadn’t followed him in, the Armorer winked at himself and tipped his fedora. There was a long pink bath and a pink toilet, sealed in some kind of clear plastic. A small label pasted to it read,
“Sanitized for your protection”. Beneath it the water was long gone.
Drinking glasses on the basin were also sealed tight. J.B. reached over and turned one of the chromed taps, not surprised to see that nothing happened. No leaking drops of rusty water. No hissing and gurgling in the pipes. No skittering insects.
“J.B., come look in here!”
Quick and light as a cat, the Armorer darted across the corridor. Finn was in the doorway of an identical room, with Lori and Doc at his elbow.
“What?”
“Couple of chills. In the bed.”
J.B. stepped past him, his eyes surveying the place. The thick shades were down almost to the bottom, letting in little light. But there was enough to see the two leering skeletons in the bed on the right. There were a couple of open valises on the floor and several empty bottles on the table, two glasses next to them.
Doc pushed past the Armorer, straight to the smaller table at the head of the bed. He picked up a white plastic container and shook it to show it was empty. Peering at the label, he replaced it where it was.
“What is it?” asked Lori.
“Morphine derivative. Very strong sleeping tablets. There were some fifty or so, I would hazard a guess. Now there are none.”
“They chilled themselves?”
“Yes.”
Finnegan whistled. “I can’t ever figure someone doing that.”
The old man patted him gently on the shoulder. “That is a sad comment on the times in which we live and the life that you must lead, my dear young friend. You must be aware that when civilization ended, it was not utterly unexpected. There was a time of warning for some. Only for some.”