They were the best-preserved maps that any of them had ever seen. Though they
were frail and tended to crack when they were unfolded, their colors were
unfaded. Since Quint wasn’t around, J.B. took several and stuffed them in his
pack.
One map, which was pinned to a corkboard, showed the area around the redoubt in
considerable detail, and Ryan and J.B. studied it with interest.
“Alaska,” said the Armorer.
“Yeah,” agreed Ryan. “That’s where Fairbanks was. And Anchorage. That’s the
strait. Heard some talk years ago that it was all frozen over here. The winter
never moved after the Chill. And there, on the left side, a few miles west…”
“Russia,” said J.B., nodding.
“Close,” said Ryan.
MEMBERS OF THE GROUP spent time in ways that interested them, sometimes alone,
sometimes in pairs or threes.
Ryan was with J.B. a lot, and with Krysty Wroth the rest of the time. In the
hectic days since they’d first made love, it seemed as if an eternity had come
and gone. Now, at last, they found some hours to be alone together.
There was a whole suite of rooms filled with weights, rowing equipment, a small
swimming pool, exercise cycles and a whirlpool bath with the name Jacuzzi on it.
Green metal lockers held clothes, towels, leotards, trunks and wraps. Krysty
peeled off her stained overalls and pulled on a tight red leotard with white
flashes down the arms. Ryan smiled at her enthusiasm.
“Get stripped for action,” she called, sitting astride the white saddle of a
stationary bike, tucking her bare feet under the straps and beginning to pedal.
The temperature throughout the redoubt and stockpile was sixty degrees. Monitors
on a small console in the living quarters showed that outside it was an average
of minus forty during the day and minus ninety during the night. A driving
northerly wind that sometimes exceeded a hundred miles an hour made it likely
that an unprotected human would freeze to death within minutes. Even with the
best thermals on, at night or when the wind rose, life would be precarious after
more than a couple of hours in the open.
Ryan peeled off his favorite long coat, with its white fur trim, and put it
carefully on the padded floor. The SIG-Sauer P-226 9 mm and the three spare ammo
packs followed; then the LAPA 5.56 mm and the heavy steel panga, its
eighteen-inch blade sheathed in soft, oiled leather. Finally he took his white
scarf of fine silk from around his neck and put it neatly by the weapons. It
made a soft clunking sound. Hearing the noise, Krysty looked curiously at him.
“What’s in that, Ryan?”
“In the scarf?”
“Yeah.”
“Couple of bits of lead.”
She paused in her frantic pedaling. “What’s that for, Ryan?”
He shook his head. “Mebbe one day I’ll tell you. Mebbe one day I’ll show you.”
He peeled his coveralls and his thermal vest and pants, laying them by the
weapons. Stripped, he was aware of his own stink.
“Fireblast!” he exclaimed.
“What?”
“I smell like a stickie’s armpit. Got to have a bath and clean up. Never noticed
it.”
“Use that bath. Looks good. There’s instructions on the side.”
“Pity those that can’t read,” he said, moving to the large oval tub. Krysty
watched him, admiring the lean body, with the ridged walls of muscles across the
stomach, the tightness of the thighs and the hardness of the chest and
shoulders.
“You need a shave as well,” she said.
“Mebbe later.”
“You know that Quint can’t read.”
“What?” he straightened up, unable to hide his surprise. “He’s the Keeper.”
“Yeah.” She stopped pedaling and leaned forward, breathing hard. “This bastard
machine’s not up to some real action. It’s fallin’ apart.”
“Not that amazin’, love. It must be as old as everythin’ else in this redoubt.”
Following the printed instructions, Ryan turned on the Jacuzzi and started
filling it with hot water. “You sure Quint can’t read?” he asked.
“Certain.”
“How?”
“He told me.”
“When?”
“Turn that tap farther. The water’s not coming fast enough.”
Ryan did as she suggested. As he knelt, he was aware of Krysty moving behind
him. He didn’t turn his head, knowing that she was on his blind side.