He was about to turn and walk away when the veiled eyes opened and looked at him, and a croaking, feathery voice spoke.
“Never used to walk easy away from me, Ryan.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Oh, fireblast! Jenny? Jenny Bolam, is it you?”
Jenny Bolam had been nav officer on War Wag Two when Ryan had joined Trader. She had been no more than four or five years older than him, which would make her half the age of the animated skull lying in the bed.
“Changed a bit, have I?”
Ryan found his mouth had gone as dry as desert sand, and he cleared his throat, finding that he couldn’t set his mind to any lie that would have any point.
“Some, Jenny, some.”
“Silver-tongued bastard! Like always.”
“Where did you hear I was around?”
“Lincoln Inn. Clinkerscales has been a good friend. Didn’t know of my connection with Trader. And you. Gave me a bed to die in. Then there was the shooting, and he told me about a one-eyed son of a bitch with black curly hair and a chilling way to him. Knew it could only be one man in all Deathlands.”
It was terminal rad cancer. The signs under the pitiless overhead light were unmistakable.
Jenny Bolam had been plump and blond, with eyes as bright and blue as a summer sky in Montana, full-breasted with muscular thighs and firm buttocks.
Ryan had known and loved every inch of that fabulous body, and Jenny had encouraged him, showing him things and teaching him ways that he’d never known before. Never even dreamed of. Offered herself as an instructor, making him aware that “wham, bam, thank you, ma’am,” wasn’t good enough, and that sex was a two-way street.
“Thinking back, are you, Ryan?” She made a feeble sound that might have been a laugh. “Times past, not worth forgetting.”
“You were marrying, Jenny. Ville we traded for some mortar shells.”
The head nodded slowly. The woman was almost completely bald, with just a few strands of fine silvery hair hanging limp over the ears.
“Hanging Tree, in old Tennessee. You always had a good memory, Ryan.”
“What happened?”
The eyes closed and opened again. “Pour us a drink of water, will you, lad?”
Ryan went to the side of the bed, struggling to hide his revulsion at the overwhelming stink of racing decay that seeped from Jenny.
There was a thick glass tumbler and a jug of water with a circle of beaded muslin draped over it to keep away the insects. Ryan half filled the glass and offered it to Jenny, who smiled, showing the stumps of yellowed teeth between ulcerated gums. “Can’t hold things steady anymore. If you could.”
“Sure.”
He leaned over the woman and put one arm behind her shoulders, feeling the frail sharpness of bone beneath the taut skin, easing her upright and holding the drink for her.
His face must have showed the shock at how unbelievably frail she had become.
After three or four sips she gestured for him to take the water away. “Lost some weight, haven’t I, Ryan? Well, you always said I had a few ounces too much meat on my bones. Now that’s all I am. Just bones.”
“What happened?”
“Big question. I married. Good man. Made shoes and boots. We had four children. One died at birth. Another went to cholera. My husband was helping in a harvest and a tractor went over on him. Crushed his ribs and lungs, and he drowned on his own blood. Third child, sweet little Billy, was sickly. Left him a fire to keep warm while I went out to. to bring in some jack. House went like a torch. Just me and my firstborn. His name was Ryan, too. Can’t think why.”
She was breathing hard, the sheet across her shrunken breasts rising and falling quickly. “Don’t talk, Jenny. Save your strength. We can-”
She held up a frail, clawed hand. “No shit between us, lad. Never was. Too late for it now. Ryan was stabbed to death in a gaudy brawl. Went there as a bully-minder. Fifteen, he was, but a big strong boy. Been a downhill blacktop since then, lad.”