Rooting about in the cabinets, Mildred had made a lucky find of a few staples lost amid the petrified breakfast cereals and dust-filled plastic wrappers of granola bars: tea, honey and rice, items that didn’t go bad with age if kept away from dampness. Keep rice dry, and it lasted forever. Not a lot of nourishment, but it would bulk up their meager meal of beans. The group needed fresh food supplies quick, or else they really would be reduced to eating their leather goods. After which, she didn’t care to think about.
Lowering the heat of an electric grill under a small saucepan, Mildred placed the open jar of honey on a folded cloth lying at the bottom of the softly boiling water.
“Can’t believe that stuff is still good after a hundred years,” J.B. said from his work table.
The table nearest the stove was covered with full water pitchers, napkins, disposable plates and cups for the evening meal. Spread out before the Armorer at the next table over were several pairs of Army boots, and he was meticulously removing the laces from one to insert in another. His own battered boots were lying on the floor, the soles worn paper thin in spots, the leather badly cracked. His feet were wrapped in brand-new woolen socks taken from the base PX. He wiggled his toes at the sensation, savoring the feeling.
“Honey doesn’t ever go bad,” she informed him, lifting the lid on the pot full of rice and stirring the contents with a long fork. “Over a few years, honey crystallizes as solid as a rock, but low heat will melt it again. I caught on TV once how honey from Egyptian times had been recovered and found to be edible, and that was a hell of a lot longer than the big blow.”
“Hot tea, with honey for desert,” Doc observed, sitting patiently before the chugging dishwasher. “What a delightful treat. What kind is it, madam? Orange pekoe?”
“U.S. Army-issue food stuff. Classification—tea, for drinking.”
“Oh.” His face fell, then rose. “Still, better than naught.”
“Sorry there aren’t any scones,” she joked, adding some water to the stew. The delicious smell was a knife in her belly, and the physician had to restrain herself from tasting it constantly. At least with the rice, they would all be able to eat their fill.
“Scones and jelly.” Doc sighed. “How I miss that.”
“Bananas,” Mildred said after a moment. “Hurts to think I might never have another banana.”
“Vids,” J.B. added, finishing the first boot and starting on the next. “Back in Alaska, we found a redoubt once with a working vid player and a ton of vids.”
“Denzel Washington.” Mildred sighed, then stole a glance at J.B. and winked. He returned it with emphasis.
“Jeremy Brett,” Doc said. “A superlative thespian, compounded by the fact that we look so similar.”
“Even if you sound like James Earl Jones.”
“Who?”
The dishwasher musically chimed and stopped working.
“Ah, at last,” Doc cried. Opening the door, he moved aside to avoid the outpouring of steam. Using his handkerchief with the blue swallow design, he retrieved his LeMat from the drying rack and laid it on the table to cool.
“Never seen anybody clean a blaster that way.” J.B. laughed, his hands weaving laces in and out. “That’d wreck my Uzi.”
“Dissolve the nylon bushings, yes,” Doc said, carefully replacing the wooden handle on the bare metal frame of the handcannon. “But I recall reading how J. E. B. Stuart used to boil his once a week to clean away the oily residue, while General George S. Patton soaked his in whiskey.”
“Would have thought that would be Ulysses S. Grant.”
“General Grant waste whiskey on a gun?”
J.B. chuckled. “I stand corrected.”
“So, it’s good for the LeMat?” Mildred asked, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“Mandatory!” Doc exclaimed, juggling the hot blaster from hand to hand. “Absolutely mandatory. I seal the loading holes with grease to prevent a cross-firing. The old girl needs to be scrubbed every now and then, or else the works clog.”
Scowling, J.B. opened his mouth to speak, then shut it. Doc was never going to upgrade to a decent blaster, and that was the end of the matter.