tells me that the Keeper never knew about the gateway. Said that Special Ops MT
ran them. I asked him what that meant and he didn’t have any idea at all. The
man is simply a gibbering parrot with no brain of his own.”
“So we have a choice—stay here in Alaska, try and find transport back to
Deathlands or risk the gateway again.”
“Man gives birth astride a grave, Mr. Cawdor. What choice is that?”
Doc turned on his heel and quickly walked out, heading back toward their
quarters. Ryan watched him, then decided that some food might be a good idea. He
knew that eventually he had to get outside, away from the concrete walls and
strip lights or risk losing part of his own sanity.
“YUMMY, YUMMY, it’s the best for your tummy.”
Finnegan threw the empty package on the table. The pizza it had contained was
already cooking in one of the gray microwaves along the kitchen wall.
“Momma Maria says it’s the best America makes,” he continued, examining the
bright wrapping, on which a stout, beaming, garishly made-up elderly woman held
a skillet with a huge pizza on it while a brace of wide-eyed bambinos looked on
hungrily.
Hunaker was waiting for her double beanburger to finish. “Free for
fiber-fighters—Double discount vouchers at your local grocery,” it said on the
package, and in much smaller print, “Subject to availability. Offer closes June
1, 2001.”
“By the time their offer closed, the whole world had closed as well,” Hunaker
observed.
All of them had taken advantage of the unbelievable range of clothes and
supplies to dress and equip themselves better. But most of them had also kept
some of their old gear. Doc kept his hat, frock coat and battered boots, but
gave up his faded cream shirt for a new one in faded denim. Ryan kept his long
coat, but took some new thermals, dark gray breeches, a brown shirt and a new
pair of combat boots with high lacings to replace the old pair with a bite from
a rabid mongrel on the right toe.
Finnegan and Hennings each picked similar outfits: high-necked jumpers in dark
blue, with matching pants and black combat boots with steel toe caps. Okie kept
her coveralls, choosing a sweater in light green for over the top. She also took
a pair of low-heeled tan leather riding boots with the name Tony Lama inside.
Hunaker picked an exotic blouse in black satin with a pattern of leaves in green
that matched her hair, gray cord trousers and gray ankle boots.
J.B. changed only his pants, which had been torn in a fight in the Darks. He
searched the echoing hangar of the clothes store until he found a pair as nearly
identical as possible.
Krysty found a new pair of coveralls, in her usual khaki. One problem they had
was that clothes in unsealed or inadequately sealed boxes tended to fray and
fall apart within hours of being worn. A pair of black leather trousers that
Hennings had donned began to disintegrate almost instantly, resembling midnight
lace within minutes after the air attacked them.
Krysty’s one indulgence was in footwear. Lori went with her, tottering on her
absurd high-heeled, thigh-length boots, the silver spurs jingling behind her.
She took Krysty by the arm and led her to a section labeled Fashion & Working
Boots—Top Names.
There they found row upon row of large white cardboard boxes arranged by size
and by maker: Tex Robin, Dave Little, Henry Leopold, Larry Mahan and, the one
she liked best, J. E. Turnipseede.
Miming her enthusiasm, Lori pulled down box after box, ripping out the contents
of each to reveal a cascade of dazzling colors, and patterns and leathers. Lori
rummaged through the piles, looking for one she thought Krysty might like. Her
first choice had a heel nearly as high as her own boots, and Krysty waved them
away, smiling and trying to make the mute girl understand that she would fall
over in them.
“Those,” she said, pointing to a pair in dark blue leather that had silver
falcons with spread wings on the front. The tips of the pointed toes, finished