in sharp, chiseled silver, seemed like lethal weapons. The heels were no higher
than ordinary combat boots, and like the pair that Okie had chosen, Krysty’s
boots were made by someone called Tony Lama. As Krysty bent to try them on, her
scarlet hair spread out in a brilliant wave over the dark calfskin of the boots.
Then she stood up, feeling the snugness of the fit.
“They’re just wonderful, Lori. Thanks a lot.”
A shadow crossed the girl’s face, as though someone had walked over her grave,
but it vanished so quickly that Krysty wondered if she’d imagined it. But she
knew that she hadn’t.
“RIPENED IN THE SUN of Kansas and sweetened by the rain of Kansas,” said
Finnegan, tearing open a waxed pack of breakfast cereal. “What the fuck is
Kansas?”
“It was a place, stupe,” replied J. B. Dix. “In the east of Deathlands.”
Ryan grinned. It was a little after noon and he was preparing to leave the
redoubt. He’d hinted to the doddering Quint that he was thinking about it, and
the old man had thrown a fit, spraying spittle as he gesticulated angrily.
“Keeper says not go. Those as goes is dead. Those as stays is the lucky ones.
Don’t try it. Many gone over the years, says the Keeper. Only us left. Lori got
to have us a babe. Be next Keeper. Not Rachel, she’s too fuckin’ old for babes.”
Cawdor hadn’t argued with him. There was no point in rocking the boat. He and
J.B. had discussed it and agreed that they should move on soon. In the redoubt
the only thing you got was soft.
HUN, OKIE AND HENNINGS had become fascinated with some ancient vid and audio
equipment they’d found in one of the cavernous stores. There were collections of
films and TV programs as well as thousands of comp discs. Ryan had discovered
similar stocks in other warehouses, but nothing on this massive scale. They
could have played them for ten years and never have heard or seen the same thing
twice,
Hun had taken a liking to a record called Robert Zimmerman Meets Again with the
Boys from the Band, It seemed to be some sort of reunion concert from the year
2000, in some long-gone ville called Hibbing, Minnesota. She kept on playing it
through a pocket quad with lightweight cans.
Okie watched endless programs on one of the TVs and was amazed by the amount of
violence. A series based on a unit of sec men was her favorite and she bored the
others with her enthusiasm.
“Listen, this little bastard called Belker is the greatest blaster you ever
seen. Bites the shit out of the scum. But he don’t kill as many as he should,
probably to make him seem weak an interestin’. He’s got some real old
guns—thirty-eights and Magnums.” She turned suddenly and pointed at Ryan. “Do
you feel lucky, punk?” she said, laughing hysterically.
Nobody else laughed. Nobody else understood what on the blasted earth she was
laughing at.
DOC WALKED WITH RYAN down through the levels toward the exit. Not sharing an
interest with the others in the old techno toys, Ryan contented himself with
finding a library of crumbling paperback books—more than he had seen in his
life, all gathered in one large room, with ladders to the high shelves and a
balcony.
“Had you the time, my dear Ryan,” said Doc, “then you would find the answer to
every riddle known to man in this one library.”
“The secret of who you are and how come you know so much about what happened
before the Chill?”
“I like to speak to a man who likes to speak his mind. Indeed I do, sir. I would
often tell Wilbur that.”
“Wilbur? Who’s Wilbur?”
Doc looked puzzled. “I have no recollection, I fear. Did I say Wilbur? Ah well…
As to my past, Ryan, I fear it must remain locked away awhile longer.”
“But one day, huh?”
“Perhaps, my dear Mr. Cawdor. Perhaps. Ah, here comes the delightful Miss Lori,
teetering along so prettily. It is peculiar, don’t you think, that she is so
much younger than Quint and the harridan? An enigma shrouded in mystery, that.”