Hands dripping water, Dean returned from the well and sat near his father. “Dad, what’s Front Royal like?” he asked, taking a harmonica from his shirt pocket and polishing it on his damp sleeve. He had looted it from one of the dead mercies, and after a good wash it seemed to work just fine.
Leaning against a truck tire, Ryan stretched out his legs. “Good fields, soil not that dead from the acid rains. Lots of deer and bear for food. Lots of cougar, too. Strange thingfor some reason, they like the taste of muties and help keep the area clear.”
“Mighty polite of the cats.” J.B. smiled, amused.
“I used to have a house cat,” Doc said softly, a distant look in his eyes. “Piewacket, an old English name, a brindle tabby. I must remember to feed her tonight before sending the children to bed.”
The others said nothing as the man closed his eyes and started talking softly to himself. Sometimes, Doc drifted off to another time in his life, reliving conversations with the dead.
Some folks thought the man touched in the head, but the companions knew that only a strong will could have survived everything he had gone through at the hands of the whitecoats of Operation Chronos. Besides, he came back sharp and fast if there was trouble. Doc was a valuable asset to the group, not a liability,
Tentatively, Dean blew on the harmonica and a smooth, pure flow of notes issued.
“That’s pretty good,” Ryan praised, a tiny flash of jealousy coming and going. His musical abilities were limited to bad singing.
“This plays the music I like,” J.B. scoffed, patting the Uzi lying next to him.
“Glad you have it along. This has been an odd trip,” Stephen said, chewing on a stick as he watched the pinkish meat cook. The excess fat dripped off the carcass into the fire, causing the flames to spurt, the greasy smoke disappearing toward the stars above.
“What do you mean?” Mildred asked, rewrapping her foot. Staying off her ankle for a whole day was making it feel much better, and the swelling was noticeably reduced.
“Lots of muties, but no coldhearts,” the fat man explained.
“Think I know the answer to that,” Ryan said, pouring a can of gas into the fuel tank of the second van. “There are no coldhearts attacking because we don’t have Phillipe and his crew with us.”
“Working both sides, eh?” J.B. grinned. “I wouldn’t be surprised to find these hills packed with their friends, but without the signal to attack, they might be spoiling a choice plan, so they have to wait. Might even let us leave unmolested.”
“You think?” Dean asked. “Mebbe,” he repeated. “But we’ll stay on triple red until we reach the ville. Only a couple more days.”
“Unless,” Stephen said, going pale and looking around fearfully, “the rad winds chilled them!”
“No hot spots around here to create those winds.” Nevertheless, Ryan lowered the container and checked the rad counter on his collar.
“Nominal,” he reported, screwing the cap back on the gas can. “We’re safe.”
Askance, Stephen stared at the device. “Is that really a rad counter?”
Ryan placed the can in the back of the Ford track. “Yeah.”
“I could really use one of those,” the fat man said, licking his lips eagerly. “What would you take for it?”
“Not for sale.” Ryan walked into the firelight.
“Everything’s for sale,” Stephen countered, then stopped talking as Ryan gave him a look that informed the man just how wrong he was.
“Hey, I j-just a-asking,” the man stammered. “And remember, I’m your boss for this trip.”
“You’re the caravan leader,” J.B. corrected, squirting a few drops of oil into his submachine gun and working the bolt. “Not our boss.”
“Big dif,” Jak said, drawing a knife and starting to whittle on a piece of wood from the pile.
A loud crack came from the dark forest, and everybody drew their weapons with blinding speed.
“Rifle shot?” Mildred asked, rising awkwardly on her crutch.
Whittling a new spoon out of the plank, Jak told her, “Tree branch.”
Relaxing his stance, J.B. lowered the Uzi. “Probably another opossum.”