The raven-haired savior of Front Royal had no desire to rule a ville. He merely wanted his name cleared and his father’s memory respectfully restored. With the diseased darkness of Harvey Cawdor vanquished, both of the one-eyed warrior’s wishes were now a reality.
His fingertips traced the deep scar that lined the right side of his face as he walked through the hallways of the hidden hospital complex. Every time he looked in the mirror at his rugged features, Harvey’s handiwork was there, twin disfigurements looking back at him: one stretching from forehead to cheek, and the other hidden away-a ruin of an eye socket still open and raw, which Ryan kept covered with a scuffed leather patch.
The final encounter with Harvey and his madness seemed as recent as yesterday, Ryan mused as he shrugged his broad shoulders. The movement made the long white scarf around his neck shift, and he reached up automatically to adjust it. Both ends of the scarf were weighted-a simple measure of extra security that had saved his life numerous times when opponents believed him to be weaponless.
The last time the companions had been at this particular juncture of the Deathlands, there had been some concern among the group about heading north across land on foot. They were close to the old state-line boundary, and could pass through the forests of Virginia to the state’s western cousin to personally check up on the status of the surviving members of the House of Cawdor.
Ryan had been privy to rumors that the status quo he’d left behind years ago was no longer in place. He honestly wasn’t sure why he even cared, since he’d chosen to reject his heritage of wealth and finery to find his own individual path.
Still, ammunition was at an all-time low for the group’s array of blasters, and most of their jack had been previously exhausted in Freedom. While they’d been able to replenish some hardware along the way since then, their scavenging there hadn’t been nearly enough. No, a long road trip across two states was the last thing wanted or needed. Front Royal would have to wait until they’d found a secure spot to rest up in, and he already knew this stretch of Carolina with the high mutant population wasn’t going to be their safe haven.
Chapter Two
The odor came wafting in like a runaway pack of screamwings as the group stepped out in the hall that led to the stairwell. The strong smell of the fire mu-ties had lighted in a previous attack became stronger, along with the rancid smell of the corpses Ryan and his friends had chilled days earlier. The stench of the hallway of death where the dead stickies were scattered was foul, making them all glad they weren’t staying in the secret complex.
As they walked, J.B. took out a small drawstring pouch from one of the many pockets that lined the inside of his well-worn leather jacket. From the denim blue sack came a long thin black cheroot, crudely rolled. The Armorer took a moment to sniff the tobacco stick with a deep sigh.
“Where in the hell did you get that?” the African-American woman following J.B. demanded.
“What?”
Mildred Wyeth gave an exaggerated point with her right index finger at the cheroot J.B. was holding. “That.”
“Had them tucked away. I forgot about picking up a sack at the tobacco shop in the Freedom Mall,” the Armorer replied after sticking the cigar into the corner of his mouth. “Kind of funny. Us being back here jogged my memory. North Carolina’s tobacco country, remember?”
“I’ve tried to forget,” she retorted. “Smoking’s a filthy habit. Public smoking was banned in many places during the 1990s. One of the few good things to come out of that final era.”
“That was a long time ago. Lot’s changed since then,” J.B. replied as he took out a silver-plated Zippo lighter and flicked it open with a quick flip of the wrist. He held the bright yellow flame to the tip of the cheroot and sucked in the smoke deeply with a contented moan.
“Haven’t seen you puffing on one of those in a long while,” Ryan said, glad the smoke from the cheroot was behind him, blowing in the opposite direction.