where. Some might be found in the gaudy houses. It was often the case that a
dispirited miner, after a week-long search of the town, in his misery, his need
for some kind of affection, even if high priced, would turn to the brothels and
discover his missing wife there, all dressed up and no place else to go. Some
really had vanished, possibly into Strasser’s dungeons, possibly into his
perverted half world where they became tormented playthings in the strange and
vicious “games” he and his goons initiated. Faced with this kind of horror on
top of everything else, the miner would drink himself into insensibility and
continue thus until it was time to hop aboard the convoy and head back to the
mines once more, care of Jordan Teague. Some went on a smash, a bender, a
rampage, and that was as good as committing suicide. And for those who survived,
after one bout of heartache and horror, after one “rest period” in which you
discovered that your entire world had been destroyed, nothing much signified —
so you went back to the mines, worked like a dog for six weeks and returned to
Mocsin for another two-week furlough. Only this time you didn’t piss around
trying to find your nonexistent wife and kids, you went straight to the brothels
or the bars or the gambling houses. And that was that.
Yet Ryan frowned as he took the buggy down the long street. He was suddenly
aware of J.B. breathing heavily almost into his right ear,
“Funny,” J.B. said. Then he said, “Worrying.”
The gaudy stretch of lights, both sides, that they both remembered from the last
visit was distinctly far apart. Most of the places here had run on generators,
and as the street was one long procession of bars and gaudy houses, there had
been no night here at all during the hours of darkness, only brilliant
illumination, false day.
But now most of the bars were dark, boarded up, and what lights there were that
shone on the road were flickering candles or hissing kerosene lamps. Ryan judged
that maybe one in three bars remained open.
“They running out of booze or something?” said Hunaker, brushing a hand through
her hair again. The other hand firmly held one of the M-60 grips. She said with
a chuckle, “Rot-gut shit, anyway. I had the runs forever last time I was in this
toilet of a town,” but the chuckle was halfhearted.
“You see Charlie’s?” said J.B., craning his neck.
“That’s what I’m looking for,” grunted Ryan. Then he said, “Yeah. Still there.”
Charlie’s was on the left, way down. In between it and its nearest lighted
neighbor up the street were maybe seven closed and boarded-up bars. The next one
down the street was near the end of the block. The two wide windows, on each
side of the entrance to Charlie’s, were tightly shuttered. Above the closed door
was a long panel window, and behind the glass was neon strip lettering spelling
out the words Charlie’s Bar. The neon was dead. The lettering was lit by five
guttering candles, one of which was a mere stub on the point of extinction,
“Hell,” muttered Hunaker. “What we gonna find in there?”
“You’re not going to find anything in there,” said Ryan, pulling over to the
sidewalk beside an old rusted post on which was sat something, as he’d
discovered some years back somewhere else, that had once been known as a parking
meter. A coin in its mouth gave you an hour of parking. Absurd and redundant.
“You’re sitting here, looking after the store.”
“Hellfire,” complained Hunaker. “I never get to have any fun when I’m out with
you, Ryan.”
“You keep your eyes skinned,” advised Ryan. “I have a feeling we might be in for
plenty of fun before the night’s out.”
“Do I get to kill one of Teague’s sec men? Aw, nuke-blast it, Ryan, please tell
me I can do that.”
Ryan braked, shifted in his seat. He turned and stared around. There was Hovac,
Rintoul—whose boots could be seen but nothing else because he was up in the roof
blister—and the three spares: Koll, a tall, bony blonde with an oddly thick