“Could be.”
Ryan considered the possibilities. “As there’s already a redoubt in the park, I don’t see why the government wouldn’t have built a secret military hospital here, as well. But I don’t see any real danger to us. No threats at all.”
“How about the mutilated dead man?” Abe asked.
“And those weird dogs, Dad? Something sort of real creepy-chucky about that.”
“True, Dean. We know the dogs came from here. But they never mentioned looking for the poor bastard with the scars. Might have nothing to do with them. I remember seeing in old predark mags that hospitals and research places used millions of animals in their experiments.”
Mildred nodded. “That’s right. Making beagles smoke hundreds of cigarettes and putting shampoo in the eyes of rabbits. Taking the tops off the skulls of monkeys to see what effect electric shocks had direct to the brain.”
“Indeed all of that is true.” Doc cleared his throat. “I confess that I am sometimes exercised by considering whether Deathlands is truly more barbaric than the great civilization of the twentieth century.”
Trader had been leaning against the wall, cradling the Armalite. “Want to know what I think? Well, I don’t mind if you want to know or not. Because I’ll fuckin’ tell you. What you just said, Doc, is the straightest ace on the line I heard. Living as long as I have in Deathlands means I’ve seen more chilling and violence and brute behavior than you can imagine. But it’s mostly prompted by a wish to live longer or have a capful more jack or fuck another woman or get more land. Personal, know what I mean?”
“You’re right there, Trader,” Abe said. “I always thought that, too.”
“Shut it, Abe. Personal, I said. But all I heard about the best of times before skydark and the long wintersit sounds like a few had it great. Cream so thick you could cut it with a razor. The rest had shit. And the violence was impersonal. Whitecoats pressing buttons and mixing germs. I figure we’re better where we are.”
Nobody spoke for a few moments, then Krysty slowly clapped her hands. “Good, Trader, good.”
THEY HAD BEEN GIVEN some excellent coffee sub and some honey biscuits when they arrived, though Krysty was still too weak to take any interest in any sustenance. It had kept them going into the afternoon, and Buford had reappeared briefly to tell them that they would meet with the senior men and women of the institute over supper at six.
He had stared at the sleeping figure of Krysty. “When will she be well enough to get up?”
“Mebbe tomorrow,” Ryan replied.
“And when could she give us another demonstration of her amazing powers?”
Ryan had turned at that, feeling a flicker of anger at the scientist’s bland assumption that Krysty was some sort of performing windup doll.
“You saw how ill it made her, Buford. You think she’s going to go through that hell again just to entertain you and some of your friends?”
The eyes behind the glasses widened with shock, and the little cupid’s-bow mouth pursed in disapproval. “Not entertain , Cawdor. Most certainly not. Our needs, I should say, our interest in Krysty is purely scientific.”
Doc snorted. “When I hear a whitecoat talk about ‘scientific,’ then I have this extraordinary tendency to want to reach for my revolver.”
Buford had muttered an apology and quickly left the suite that they’d been given, saying that he’d see them all again at six o’clock.
Mildred had said that each of the rooms would probably have been a small ward on its own. Some had two beds and others three. Ryan and Krysty had the first along the corridor. J.B. and Mildred had poached the next one. Trader had taken the third of them, choosing to share with Abe, leaving the end three-bed room for Doc, Dean and Jak.
They were on the second floor of one of the two surviving wings of the institute, with a view out of the side windows across the river and up toward the impressive sheer face of the nearest mountain.
Each room had its own cupboards and shelves, along with a large sink with long-handled chrome taps for hot and cold water. Everything was spotlessly clean and hygienic.