“Would you look at this!” she whispered. “All in less than a minute.”
“I know those kind of men aren’t the sort of clientele you’d normally want to have in such a fine eating establishment as Tuckey’s,” Ryan said. “Am I right about that?”
“Y-yeah,” she said, but didn’t sound too certain. “But I’m the one who’s stuck having to mop up after these stiffs.”
J.B. and Mildred finished a joint examination of the four dead men, the Armorer for any usable ammunition or jack, Mildred to see if any were still alive.
However, she already knew before attempting to find a pulse that she was wasting her time.
So was the Armorer. The blasters were passable, but had little or no ammo. Worthless when compared to the weight they would entail for a weary traveler looking for a place to sell them. He found a little jack and some tiny precious stones and bits of metal, which he stuck in an inner pocket of his leather jacket.
The cook finally made his way from the kitchen, carrying a pump-action scattergun. A pear-shaped black man, he was working bare chested under a dirty apron and work trousers.
“Need any help?” he asked in a voice full of bravado.
“No thanks, chef,” Ryan said as he paid the bill. He took an extra octagonal-shaped golden coin from the secure pouch beneath his shirt and dropped it on the counter near the old cash register. ‘ ‘We can handle it from here. Why don’t you put away the firepower and get back to your stove? You look like a man more comfortable with a spoon in his hand than a blaster.”
“I was busy,” the cook said lamely.
“Of course. A chef is always obsessed when at work in the kitchen crafting his culinary delights,” Doc said in a knowing voice.
“Sorry about the mess,” Ryan said to the waitress. “Once he’s got his pots and pans under control, get the big guy to help you dump the stiffs behind back, and mebbe you can have things cleaned up in time for the supper rush. And you might want to think about anteing up for a halfway decent sec man to watch the door of this place. Pay him in food. There’s men who’d be glad to do whatever you told them to for less.”
OUTSIDE, KRYSTY HAD TAKEN temporary shelter beneath the overhang of the arched roof. A torrent of water poured down the rusted broken drainpipe near her legs as she leaned against the boarded-up side wall of the eatery. Ryan and the others came out of the building and walked past the flame-haired beauty without any comment.
Ryan hung back, letting Jak take the point as the group began the march back up to the main highway.
“Let’s go,” he said softly, extending a gloved hand.
“I just get tired, Ryan. Tired of killing,” Krysty said.
“I know. We all do. Each of us just have different ways of dealing with it.”
Krysty reached out and took her man’s hand, gripping it tightly and intertwining her fingers with his.
“I love you, Ryan,” she said. “Nothing will ever change that.”
He didn’t reply, but held her hand even tighter, as if he would never let go. They would have to pry away his cold, dead fingers first.
Chapter Ten
Many days had passed without incident, other than a battle of wits between a hungry Jak and a hungrier J.B. for the last piece of bread from Tuckey’s. Mildred had averted any overt displays of bad temper between the pair by declaring she was going to eat the final helping, and she did so with a smile that openly dared either of the men to say otherwise.
There had been some small game along the way, and thanks to the endless rainfall, plenty of water to drink. Dean took a bad tumble when a piece of the crumbling old asphalt gave way and he slid down a muddy embankment on his butt, whooping all the way. Luckily the only real injury seemed to have been to his pride and to his clothing. Soon after the mud began to dry, his jeans were extra stiff and able to stand up by themselves.