for her pistol that was crossed over with a broad leather belt that carried
three leaf-bladed throwing knives. A larger knife hung on her right hip with a
counter-draw holster for the automatic on the left side of the belt. The fiery
hair was bright and lustrous, tumbling nearly to her narrow waist. The top of
the overall was unbuttoned, showing the shadow of her breasts.
Ryan Cawdor found it increasingly difficult to conceal his desire for her.
Asking himself whether it was desire or whether it was lust. The word love never
entered his mind.
He followed her through the war wag, conscious of the click of the heels of her
polished high boots and the movement of her buttocks against her outfit.
Doc was leaning against a wall near the Trader’s cabin, his eyes hooded and far
away. As Ryan squeezed by him, Doc spoke quietly.
“After the missiles had fallen, and the forty-fourth President was up in the
767, how did he begin his message to the States?”
Ryan pursed his lips. What went on under that craggy brow? Madness, or hidden
intelligence?
“How did he begin his speech, Doc?”
“My fellow American! You understand it, Mr. Cawdor? In the singular. My fellow
American!”
The cackling laughter followed him as Ryan stooped to enter the Trader’s cramped
room. He was met with the sour smell of illness. By the side of the bunk was a
porcelain bowl splattered with blood and spittle. Torn rags, also stained
crimson, lay on the floor. The Trader had always been a man of the fiercest
pride, and now all that was done as his race neared its ending.
“Close the door, Ryan. I figure another two days at the most and we’ll be in the
Darks. I can taste the thin air. You know what to do?”
They had discussed the options, with J.B. sitting in, over the past three days,
trying to cover every eventuality. Now there was no more planning or talking to
do.
“It’s in hand,” replied Ryan.
The Trader’s face was like a frail old man’s, the skin taut as parchment over
the cheekbones. The rad cancer was racing through him, devouring living tissue,
eating up the hours.
“If there’s anythin’ after, then I’ll be seein’ ol’ Marsh Folsom real soon,
Ryan.”
“I know it. We all do.”
Trader nodded slowly. “Hear you told your name. Ryan Cawdor. Anyone recognize
it?”
“No. Though Doc said he might have heard it. But he can’t recall anything for
more than a minute or so.”
“Wish I had the time to chew over past days with him. Won’t happen.” Ryan
thought the Trader was going to be overwhelmed by one of his coughing fits, but
the moment passed. “Look ’round here, Ryan. What d’you see?”
“Spare clothes. Your Armalite. Handgun. Knives. Ammo. Grenades. Couple o’ maps.
Food you haven’t eaten. Pack of cigars.”
“That all?”
“Sure. What else should I see?”
“Get me a mouthful of water. Thanks. Nothin’. That’s what else you should see.
You listed it all, Ryan. It don’t add up to much for better’n fifty years of
livin’. Nothin’ to add up to the pain of the mother that birthed me.”
“What you’ve done isn’t here, Trader. It’s out yonder. Outside. You kept a lot
of folks breathin’ that would surely have been chilled.”
“I chilled me some.”
“Sure. They needed chilling. What you’ve done is to bring a little light to this
pile of shit. Deathlands! If it hadn’t been for you, then I’d have been dead. So
would J.B., and everyone else in this war wag. You know it, Trader.”
The two men remained silent, each locked into old memories. After some minutes
the Trader reached out with a wasted, birdlike hand, and Ryan took it. Feeling
the bones beneath the delicate skin, he held it gently, like a fledgling. As the
war wag rumbled steadily northwest, the two old friends sat together in silence.
They were interrupted by the voice of Hunaker, crackling over the intercom.
“Ryan. Ryan and J.B. Come to the driving console. Something you should see.”
Chapter Fourteen
AS HE MOVED FORWARD, Ryan felt the war wag judder to a halt, the engine out of