scent of death. Finn suggested that they move to another of the linked
dormitories for the last night, but everyone felt too tired to bother.
Ryan and J.B. had agreed on what they’d do. The maps showed a large town called
Anchorage on the coast. Seemed worth a careful recon to see what remained.
All the maps were loaded; also food, heating supplies, ammo and all the blasters
they wanted. Lori’s cut had been wiped and disinfected, and she was in good
shape, talking excitedly about leaving the stockpile for the first time. Okie
was the only one who made her dislike felt. The others simply accepted Lori as
one of their own.
The buggies were juiced and ready to roll.
Doc had been unable to open the door to the chambers where they thought bodies
might be frozen and stored, so the corpses of Hunaker, Quint and Rachel had been
placed outside the door. “Won’t hurt Hun now,” Ryan had said. Doc had also
carefully noted the current reentry code and each of them had it written down
and memorized. It was the numbers one, zero, eight, followed by the letter J.
Each ice buggy held three or four people, with plenty of storage room for extra
gas and supplies. Ryan was to drive the lead vehicle with Krysty; J.B. would
take the second with Lori and Finnegan; Hennings would share the third with Okie
and Doc.
The vehicles were already heavily armed with mortars and machine guns. Judging
from his encounter with the local muties, Ryan figured they should be more than
able to wipe out any opposition.
At the suggestion of J. B. Dix, everyone went to bed early that night to be
ready for a dawn start.
Krysty came to Ryan, in the night, whispering that they should go to the next
dormitory, where the beds were clean and the smell of death was missing, and
where they could make love without being overheard.
They found a bed in the other dorm, and she held him tight, her long hair
brushing against his shoulders. “How do you feel about Hun?” she asked.
“Like I lost my blaster,” he replied.
“No feeling?”
He shook his head. “No. Hun was good. But she got iced. Maybe you tomorrow, me
the next day. Start feelin’ sorry and it doesn’t never stop.”
“Doesn’t ever stop,” she corrected him, feeling a tremor from his chest as he
laughed at her.
“Sure.”
“If it had been me?”
He leaned over her, his single eye glittering in the dim light. “You’re
different, Krysty. You know that.”
“You’re sort of special, too.”
Before dawn they fell asleep, tangled in each other’s arms, having made love
three times.
AFTER THEY’D DRIVEN the buggies onto the small gale-swept plateau beside the
redoubt, they gathered for a last word from Ryan.
“We’ve got radios, so let’s keep in touch. We’re Buggy One. J.B.’s Two and
Henn’s Three. Use the radio only if you have to. Should be able to keep in
visual touch. J.B.’s got the maps. We’re heading toward where the town of
Anchorage was. Should get close by evening.”
As he spoke, the ground trembled under their feet and some powdery snow came
cascading from the cliff above the redoubt’s entrance. “Only a little quake,”
said J.B. “Plenty of those mothers where you’ve got volcanoes. Taste the sulfur
on your tongue.”
The gale was gathering force, and Doc nearly lost his tall stovepipe hat; he
secured it with an elastic beneath his chin. “This hurricane puts me in mind of
a jest I was once told,” he said, half-shouting to be heard above the wind.
“A jest? You mean a joke?” asked Krysty. “I recall Peter Maritza back in Harmony
using that word for somethin’ funny. Said it was a word his grandfather used and
he kind of remembered it.”
Doc nodded, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “This damned wind! It
appears that many, many years ago, back in Kansas, there was a herd of longhorn
cattle.”
“Was longhorns some sort of muties?” asked Finnegan, curiously.
“Not really, young man. They were grazing out on the open grasslands when a
dreadful gale arose. A positive typhoon, it was. And it began to blow ever more