“Lost many?” Ryan asked.
“These three. Wouldn’t leave and come inside the ville for safety. Paid the blood-and-fire price to the fuckers. Had two women chilled in the first night, before we knew the muties were around.”
“Any chance of food and water?” Ryan asked, sensing that the initial moment of tension was passed.
“Why not? Don’t have much to spare, but you’re welcome to what we got. And if we run into the stickies, those blasters you got could be right useful.”
J.B. slapped the butt of the Uzi. “Wouldn’t be the first time this beauty’s cut down stickies.”
THERE WAS ANOTHER SIGN, telling them that they were now approaching the Paul Burgess Art Center.
“Who was he?” J.B. asked.
“Famous artist, predark. Bought up a big warehouse on the edge of the old ville, way before the nuking. Also took some of the stores and houses. Set up to show all his art and stuff.”
There was a bitter note in the man’s voice that Ryan picked up on.
“Not popular?”
The man spit in the dirt. “Could say that. Turned folks from homes.”
“But they reckon he brought a lot of visitors, Ephraim,” one of the younger men said.
“Yeah, back then, for a while. All of that ended with skydark and the long winters.”
“The art still here?” Ryan asked.
“Sure is. Useless garbage. You can see it after we’ve given you some passage food. Nobody bothers much these days.”
Ryan weighed up the settlement as they walked into it. There was a main drag, with a number of tumbled houses and stores and a church whose spire had toppled down some time in the past hundred years, the shingles spilling from it over the neat gravestones in the adjoining cemetery.
As far as he could judge, it looked as if about twenty of the homes were still in reasonable repair, holding around fifty men, women and children, most of whom came out to peer suspiciously at the pair of heavily armed outlanders.
Two side streets opened up to show allotments and cultivated fields. Corrals pinned close to the backs of the houses held a few scrawny cows and some half-wild hogs.
The leader of the group who had found Ryan and J.B., and had introduced himself as Ephraim Schwarz, pointed out a large building on the edge of the township. “There’s Burgess’s art stuff,” he said. “Building’s held together better than most. Likely on account of having more jack spent on it in the first place. Take a look later if you want.”
THE FOOD WAS AS POOR and scanty as Schwarz had warned them, thin gruel with bits of fatty pork floating in the transparent depths, with some gritty bread and saltless butter, followed by some bruised windfall apples and a beaker of cloudy moonshine that bit like a cottonmouth.
But Ryan and J.B. forced down as much as they could, thanking their silent, watchful hosts for the meal.
A glance at his chron showed Ryan that it was three parts of the hour past one in the afternoon.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stood suddenly, seeing out of the corner of his eye that one of the younger men had been working his way toward the Steyr rifle, hand creeping out toward the walnut stock. Ryan chose to ignore the attempt, seeing that J.B. had also spotted the movement.
“Go and take a look at the art building, then we’ll move on,” he said.
Ephraim nodded. “Want any of us to come along with you? Show you the way? Keep the stickies out of your path?”
“Reckon we can find it. Thanks again for the grub. Take care now.”
None of the villagers showed much expression, no handshakes or waves or smiles, merely the same surly, watchful resentfulness and suspicion.
A COUPLE OF MANGY DOGS followed the two men along the street. The sun had broken through, and the damp was rising in clouds of fetid steam from the rank puddles. Ryan glanced behind them, but nobody was following.
“Classic frontier pesthole,” J.B. commented, easing the strap of the scattergun on his shoulder.
“Not many dumps like this have predark art galleries. Might be interesting. Fine paintings and stuff. Never heard of this Burgess guy, though.”