“Sure as hell hope you’re right,” Ryan growled, glancing at his son, and then upward at the broken skylight four stories away. “Because it took the lot of us to barely chill one of these bastard things, and we have no hope in hell of stopping a swarm.”
THROWING EMBERS high into the sky, a roaring bonfire cast dancing shadows across the bare brick walls and iron gates of the ruins of the predark library. Just outside the circle of light, men patrolled with longblasters cradled in their arms, black scarves wrapped about their faces as protection from the evening chill and to mask their presence from any possible observers.
Laughing and talking, a group of men sat around the crackling fire, throwing in the occasional book to feed the flames. A massive aluminum pot hung suspended over the blaze, the contents bubbling steadily as the fat, bearded man opened another predark can of beef stew and added it to the mixture. He stirred the food carefully with a bayonet, now and then taking a lick.
Most of the men were dressed in bulky plain cloth jackets, more patches than original cloth. But each sported blue denim pants with the price tag still attached, the cuffs tucked into brand-new heavy work boots. Each man was armed with blasters in police holsters, a few with M-16 assault rifles or double-barreled shotguns.
Backpacks and bedrolls were scattered around, along with stacks of canned goods, some with labels, most without. Nearby was an orderly line of U.S. Army MRE packages, and a large stack of ammo boxes next to a huge tarp-covered stack of flat crates. Vehicles stood parked in a ragged line cutting off the street entrance to the library parking lot.
The cook took a sip of the watery contents in the pot, and nodded. “Supper’s on,” he announced.
“About freaking time,” Rev growled, taking a seat in a beach chair. He was a tall man with pale skin and jet-black hair cut in a military-style flattop. An old leather bandolier of clips encircled his waist like a belt, and a compact MAC-10 machine pistol was slung over a shoulder.
Twelve other men gathered around the fire and took seats on office chairs and park benches while the cook quickly served out steaming helpings of the stew onto tin plates. Slices of canned bread were freely distributed, and nobody talked while the food was being dispersed.
“Not bad,” Rev slurped between mouthfuls. “Not bad at all.”
The cook, Jimmy, beamed in pleasure. “Thanks.”
Spoon poised, Rev eyed the man. “I was talking to the grub. What the hell did you do but open some cans? Moron could have done that.”
Others echoed his sentiments as the men used the stale slices of predark bread to mop the plates clean of the thick gravy.
Red fury burned in the man’s face, but Jimmy went back to tending the fire, setting aside more cans to open in preparation to feed for the next shift of men when they came off guard duty. When nobody was looking directly his way, Jimmy flavored the stew with a healthy wad of spit. As his father always said, revenge came when you least expected.
“Damn, after nothing but coyote and lizard for the past month, even this shit tasted good,” Rev announced as he sucked a juicy morsel from his back teeth. The man loudly belched in satisfaction and tossed the plate in the darkness. A squeal came from the crash followed by tiny scurrying noises.
“Got yourself a lizard there, Rev,” said a burly man, wiping his mouth on a sleeve.
“Who gives a shit?” came the brusque reply.
An Oriental man in faded Army fatigues grinned widely as he filled a coffee cup with champagne from a dusty bottle and drank it like water. Best damn hooch he ever tasted. Raided lots of ruins, but never heard of Iron Horse before. Now he’d watch for the stuff. Age didn’t seem to affect some booze, occasionally made it taste even better. Damnedest thing.
“Hey, Samson,” Wu-Lang asked, refilling the mug. “What did that runaway we captured say the ville was called?”
“Alphaville,” the giant squeaked. Nobody laughed at the ridiculous contrast. Samson possessed the voice of a child, but the body of two men and a mind of solid ice. Not even Rev would challenge the big man directly. “Used to be run by some old baron till a new guy took over last winter.”