The seven companions cautiously approached the perimeter of the settlement, not that one was clearly defined. A square wooden sign hung crookedly on a tall post. The words painted on it were nearly indecipherable due to long exposure to the harsh elements, but Mildred was able to read it.
“Fort Fubar,” she said. “Members Of Kiwanis And Rotary Clubs. Population Who Gives A Shit.”
Her teeth flashed in a grin. “Whoever lived here had a sense of humor, at least.”
“Fubar?” Dean repeated. “What kind of word is that?”
“Old acronym, dating back to World War II,” she answered. “Fucked Up Beyond All Repair.”
Everyone was too hot and tired to expend much energy on laughing. The sun was higher, and the heat increased with every passing minute. Under other circumstances, one or two of their party would enter the potential killzone for a recce. There was no time for that now. Sunstroke was a very real possibility, particularly for Jak.
Drawing his SIG-Sauer, Ryan cycled a round into the chamber. He was dismayed by the gritty, grating sound made by the slide mechanism. All of their blasters needed to be stripped and cleaned of sand before they were one hundred percent reliable again.
“Lock and load,” he said lowly. “Move in fast and quiet.”
The seven people fanned out in a V formation, Ryan taking the point of the wedge. They crept into the perimeter of the settlement, alert for any movement or sound. All they heard was the eerie hum of the wind, singing through the grains of sand.
The stillness was uncanny. Ryan repressed a shiver, despite the blazing heat, feeling the hairs on his arms and neck stir uneasily. It seemed to him that a silent host of invisible watchers regarded them curiously.
Glancing over at Krysty, he mouthed, “Anything?”
Her sun-reddened face was troubled, her green eyes darting back and forth. Although her head was swathed in a linen fold, Ryan saw the shifting motions of her hair beneath it.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Not danger to us, exactly. Fear. Curiosity. Someone lives here.”
He peered at the ground for some sign and saw nothing. “Search the houses. Stay on triple red.”
They spread out over the settlement, peering into shacks, checking outbuildings, no matter how small or ramshackle. Quite a few people had lived here at one time, but they had disappeared. All the structures were empty. The population of Fort Fubar was simply gone, all their tools and belongings and cooking utensils left where they had last been used, as if the people had only stepped away for a second and intended to return in the next second. Moreover, it appeared as if the people had vanished a long time ago, and any clues to their whereabouts had been erased by the merciless passage of years. Several of the huts and squats were strewed with rubbish, as though a single someone had lived in them until they were so full of trash he or she was forced to move on.
One of the buildings was larger than the others, which wasn’t saying much. Its long-ago construction crew had tried to make it two-storied and called it quits after propping up a sagging loft-type contrivance with crudely hewed square beams. Ryan pushed aside the square of canvas hanging in front of the doorway and made a quick visual circuit of the interior.
It had been designed as a storage facility. Crates, boxes and dirty cloth bundles were stacked to the ceiling. The loft was weighted down with cartons and junk of all sorts. Ryan stepped in, his nose leading his eye to a covered galvanized bucket in a corner. He didn’t have to lift the lid to check its contents. The stale air was redolent with the acrid odor of urine and excrement. On a makeshift table, he found a fat candle in a saucer. The melted wax collected at its base was fairly soft. An opened can of tuna lay on the ground. The little remaining in it didn’t smell ripe.
Ryan back-stepped out of the building and gestured for the others to join him. When they were clustered around him, he whispered, “Somebody’s living in here. J.B., you, Krysty and Jak come with me.”