“What’s that mean?”
“Means that ‘north’ isn’t all that much of a peg to hang an expedition onto.”
“If it’s a sort of base, then it shouldn’t be that difficult.”
Kyle persisted, very gently. “How far north is north, Jeff?”
“Well, how the fuck should I know that? I don’t know.”
“Right. Fifty miles?”
“I said I don’t know. But…”
“Hundred miles? Five hundred? Thousand miles north, Jeff?”
“Can’t be that far! Where’s a thousand miles going to put us?”
“Around about the Canadian border,” said Jim. “That right, Kyle?”
“Yeah. Alaska is north, Jeff. That’s another couple of thousand miles away from us. Be a good place for a secret base, after Earthblood, wouldn’t it? Fancy trying Alaska.”
“They didn’t even say what ‘north’ really means, Jefferson, my dear boy.” Nanci smiled at him as she spooned up the last of her soup.
“North means north. Come on, what the fuck else can it mean?”
“Hey, just tone the language down,” warned Jim. “Got two young ones here.”
Jeff’s face was flushing with anger. His lips seemed to grow thicker and looser, and he’d begun to sweat. “Sure. Your precious little girl and that great dummy we got…”
Steve Romero was across and grabbing him by the neck before he could finish the sentence. “You want that nose broken again, Jeff?” he hissed.
“I didn’t mean…”
Steve Romero was a good ten pounds lighter than the younger man, but he was about eight inches taller. He loomed over the journalist, face pressed close, his voice a threatening whisper.
“Sly isn’t a dummy, you useless bastard! He’s got Down’s syndrome. Means he has some weaknesses. Also means that the boy’s got some amazing strengths.”
“All right, all right.” Though Jeff Thomas’s face was turning purple, nobody had stepped in to interfere.
Steve let him go and went and sat down, patting Sly reassuringly on the shoulder.
“You were talking about going north, Jeff,” prompted Carrie.
Kyle interrupted. “Not likely they really meant absolutely hundred percent true north. North and west? North-northeast? We don’t know. Chicago’s north. Salt Lake City. New York. Vancouver. Bucksnort, Idaho.”
Jeff was rubbing his throat. “Yeah, I get it. All right. You don’t have to…” he mumbled, allowing the sentence to trail away.
Jim saw the look of hatred the ex-journalist darted at Steve Romero. And he wondered again what had really happened when Jed Herne had met his death in Jeff’s company.
“Made your point, grease-ass.” Jeff looked around at the others. “So, we don’t know where we’re going. So, what do we do?”
It seemed as if everyone started talking at once. Jim banged his spoon on the edge of his dish. “Hey, keep it down! One at a time, guys. Just one at a time, please.”
Carrie raised a hand. He gave her a nod to carry on. “Thanks. Seems to me that we got a couple of choices. We can stay here, or someplace nearby, whatever suits us, and try and set up a commune.”
“Like the peace-and-love hippies from last century.” Jeff grinned. “Too much loving’s far out of sight.”
“That’s really funny, Jeff,” said Steve Romero. “I’m laughing so much it hurts.”
Carrie ignored the interruptions. “Set up a community, if that’s a better word. But we’ve all seen the sickness and madness that exists out there,” she said, pointing vaguely toward the charnel house that had once been Los Angeles.
Nanci Simms cleared her throat as though she was about to speak, then she caught Jim’s eye and changed her mind.
He stood up. “Carrie’s right. That’s one option. Try and find us our own little secure spot. But there’s only eight of us. I doubt that’ll be enough—” he hesitated as he looked for the word he wanted. “—enough force, as things get tougher outside.”
“You think we ought to try and find this place Aurora, Skipper?” Kyle Lynch shook his head. “I don’t know. Means some blind traveling. Could be a hell of a lot more dangerous.”
“Could be. But at least we know it’s there. Zelig wants us, as well. Wanted us here. Sent us that doomed message in the chopper.” Jim looked around. “We stay or we go? Which?”