The howling shifted gear, downward, into a roar of agony. The man kicked clear, rolling in the dirt, right across the fire, scattering ashes, flame and burned meat everywhere. The knife dropped from the pain-racked fingers, and the man came up in a crouch.
Ryan didn’t hesitate. Following up the advantage, he was already back on his feet. For a moment his hand went to the taped hilt of the eighteen-inch steel panga. But he winced from the thought of the rabid blood smearing the clean blade, and he left it sheathed on his hip.
Stepping in, perfectly balanced, he kicked out with the steel-tipped combat boot, the point of the toe catching the kneeling man at the angle of the jaw on the left side. There was a snap like a dry branch under the heel, and the head slumped loose on the broken neck. After a moment’s pause the dying man went down and rolled on his side, lying still.
“Son of a bitch,” Ryan said, backing away, picking up the fallen blaster, automatically reloading before checking himself to make sure he hadn’t taken any unnoticed scratches or wounds in the tussle.
But he was clean. Shaken and bruised, but unharmed. It had been a lucky break.
The canteens had tangled themselves around his upper arm and one had emptied itself in the dry dirt, leaving a black patch in the moonlight.
Some of the embers from the fire were smoldering in the fringes of stubbly grass under the trees, setting them smoking. Ryan trod them out carefully before leaving the scene of death, his nostrils filled with the stink of the blackened meat and the two corpses.
HE WAS KNEELING by the pool, the background noises of the woods returning again after the mortal fight, when he caught a sound just behind him.
“It’s me, Ryan,” he whispered.
“J.B., Jak and Krysty,” came the reply. “Heard the shots. All right?”
“Sure. Met those neighbors we talked about, and they turned out hostile.”
“They still hostile?” the Armorer asked.
“No,” said Ryan. “Not anymore.”
The others filled their canteens at the sweet pool and when they were all back at their own campsite, he gave them a brief account of the encounter with the rabid couple.
“Sure you didn’t get even a scratch, Ryan?” Mildred asked worriedly. “Not really a good enough light now to check you over. Best do it first thing in the morning.”
“I’m fine.”
Krysty squeezed his hand. “In any case, Mildred, nothing you could do for him if they’d wounded him. Just a matter of waiting and seeing.”
“Guess so. Least we can clean it thoroughly. Cuts down on the odds.”
“Think we should post a watch?”
Ryan shook his head at J.B. “No.”
“Sure? There might easy be other sicko freaks around in the woods.”
“Before they died, they said that they were the last survivors of a small community of dirt-poor folk. Something brought in rabies. Bats, mebbe? There were some in the trees. All of the others had died.”
The Armorer nodded. “Sure. Night’s passing. Best try and catch up on some more sleep.”
“We go on to Memphis?” Jak asked.
“Tomorrow. Don’t know how far.” Ryan looked again at his oldest friend. “Couple hundred?”
J.B. thought about it, pushing back the fedora from his high forehead. “Easy. Long way. Sure we want to take the trouble to go there?”
Mildred slapped him on the arm. “You know I want to see if Graceland is still standing, John. You promised. We can find a highway and pick a lift.”
“All right, all right. I don’t recall ever hitting old Memphis, Ryan.”
They’d been so many places over the riding years with the Trader, that names and villes all blurred, like the faces of the dead, mostly forgotten.
“Can’t recall it, J.B., must admit. Anyway, let’s all go get us some sleep and start fresh in the morning.”
Doc put on a saccharine-sweet Southern voice. “Why not? Then tomorrow can be another day, and I shall still be relyin’ on the kindness of strangers.” He looked at the blank faces around him, only Mildred grinning knowingly. “But let it pass, my trusty companions. Let it pass.”