James Axler – Starfall

“And there ain’t no meat to speak of on them,” Sandy interjected. “Tough, worthless fuckers, you ask me.”

Ryan finished gutting the turkey, then took the next one Krysty handed over. He glanced up at the dark clouds scud­ding across the pinched face of the waning moon. “Could rain again tonight. Let’s get those tarps up, as well.” He glanced at Krysty, seeing how pale she was and how her hands shook as she pulled feathers from the third turkey. He bitterly cursed the ill fortune that had found them, then pushed it away. They were doing all they could do. He just hoped it was enough.

Chapter Seventeen

Doc wandered back into camp less than an hour later, loaded down with vegetables and fruits he’d scavenged from the surrounding terrain. “Happily, my good friends,” he said in a tired voice, “this hallowed ground does offer up a veritable cornucopia of victuals and refreshments. And you left the scent of yon fine birds basting in nature’s juices over a slow fire to mark my way home.” He made a pro­duction out of drawing in a deep breath through his nose, then sighed contentedly.

“What the hell’s he saying?” Bud demanded.

“He’s saying he found a lot of stuff and that the turkey smells good,” Dean translated.

“Then why the fuck didn’t he just say so?”

“He did,” Dean said.

“And you understood him?”

“I’ve had some schooling.” Dean said.

“You’ve had schooling?” Elmore asked from the other side of the fire.

“Sure,” Dean replied. “Why?”

Elmore shrugged. “Just surprising is all.”

“Heard of Nicholas Brody?” Dean asked.

“Seems like I have. Got a place down Colorado way.”

“Went to school there for a while,” Dean said. “Mebbe I’ll go back some day.”

Ryan swapped looks with Krysty, noting the thin smile that filled her pale face. It was the first time the boy had ever said that.

“Schooling can be a good thing,” Elmore stated. “Pro­vided that ain’t all a man puts in his head.”

“Schooling’s for pussies,” Bud said derisively.

“Waste of fucking time,” Sandy added.

Dean swiveled his gaze toward the brothers. “You know how to do anything more than read and write your names?”

“Don’t know how to do that,” Sandy said.

“Don’t see how we’re going to need to,” Bud replied.

“Least you could make sure somebody spelled it right on your marker you do something stupe that gets you chilled,” Dean told them. Color touched his cheeks, and Ryan knew his son was a little embarrassed to have taken pride in something the other boys were determined to rid­icule.

“For pussies,” Bud repeated.

Sandy flipped Dean off, shoving his middle finger defi­antly into the air.

The turquoise-handled knife appeared like magic in Dean’s hands. “Be glad to trim that finger off for you if you can’t control it,” he stated in a low, cold voice. “And shove it up your ass for you if you want to keep it as a souvenir.”

Morse glanced at Ryan, as if expecting him to back Dean off. Ryan returned the man’s gaze without expression. Dean was old enough to start picking the fights he was going to stand up in, and to choose the things he was going to be willing to fight over.

Bud and Sandy suddenly didn’t look so sure of them­selves when no adults took a hand in the brimming argu­ment.

Obviously angry over the turn of events, Morse stood and walked over to his sons. He slapped each of them on the head with quick hands. “You fuckers stop acting so stupe and shut your damn mouths.”

“He started—” Bud said.

Before the boy could say another word, Morse back­handed him to the ground. Blood trickled from a split lip.

“Don’t make your last mistake, boy,” Morse snarled.

Bud pushed himself back into a sitting position but didn’t say anything. Morse continued on to the campfire and poured a fresh cup of coffee sub and returned to his place.

Ryan ignored the exchange, but realized that Morse was more afraid of them than the man let on. The sailor also resented it, not being a man used to fear.

J.B. got another coffee refill, as well, squatting close to Ryan and speaking only so they could hear. “Made your­self an enemy,” the Armorer commented.