"Leave it at the desk. And that cannon of yours, Mr. Dix."
"Sure thing, Miss Petersen."
"Carla, please."
This time Ryan was absolutely certain. They were in the shade, but J.B.'s face definitely flushed.
"I'm J.B., short for John Barrymore. You can call me John, if you like, Carla."
"John!" Jak exploded, overhearing the conversation.
"Yeah, John! You want to make something out of this, kid?"
The Armorer stood, braced, his whole body fighting tense as he faced the boy. Ryan knew better than to interfere with J.B. on a matter of blood.
"You don't call me that," Jak said quietly, his right hand slithering toward the back of his belt, where he kept one of his throwing knives.
"Then button up about my name, Jak. Take my meaning? Just..."
The teenager grinned suddenly. "Sure, J.B., I understand. Real good."
"My goodness," Carla said. "That seemed to be rather a nasty moment."
"Just play," Krysty replied. "You get used to their ways."
Carla left them in the lobby of their small hotel, having made sure the rifles were checked in safely. Before going she'd called the seven friends around her for a last, urgent word.
"The baron is a beautiful old man, but his grip is not what it once was. There are those in Snakefish who whisper that he is too generous with the ville's gas. Too easy in trading with other villes in the area. He knows of the talk, but believes that his nephew will take over from him soon."
"What about the bikers?" Doc asked. "Those angels from hell?"
"They're the ville's sec patrol," she admitted, "but their hearts aren't with Edgar. They're allied with those who bring true power."
"The Mote family," Ryan asked.
"Yes." She dropped her voice even quieter, glancing around to ensure nobody could overhear. "Guard yourselves against the Motes, outlanders. And when you attend their service, take the greatest care. The greatest. If they perceive you as any sort of threat they can be quite ruthless."
"I don't suppose there's any chance of something to eat now, is there?" Rick asked plaintively. "I'm famished."
"Of course. Through that door into the eatery. Now I must go. Remember what I said. Take care with the Motes."
Chapter Seventeen
"You chosen?"
"Sorry?"
The thin lips parted for a moment, then snapped shut once the sentence had been hissed out. "You been saved?"
Ryan shook his head. "Don't think so. How would we know?"
The narrow face of Ruby Rainer, owner of the Rentaroom, broke into an approximation of a beatific smile. "I guess you'd know. You ever feel an inner heat?"
"No, not often. Except..." He looked across at Krysty, who struggled to conceal a giggle.
"I have," Rick said. "And I've seen light in the darkness. Warmth in the middle of winter. Floods during a drought. Manna in the wilderness. And salvation in the darkest night of the soul. Amen to that."
"Amen," Ruby added, clasping her bony hands to her even bonier bosom. "I'm well pleased to see that at least one of you outlanders has some spark of the Lord's blessings lighted within the lamp of his innermost heart."
"Hallelujah, sister," the freezie shouted, clapping his hands together. "And?.."
"Yes, brother?"
"Was there not some talk of a dessert to follow that admirable bowl of spiced stew?"
"Oh, oh, yes. Course. Pecan pie or some iced cream with strawberries."
She got orders for five pies and two helpings of the fruit with iced cream.
After the dessert Ruby served them some acorn coffee, ground fine, with added herbs. "Best y'ever tasted," she boasted as she poured each of them a brimming cup.
Rick sipped suspiciously at his, pulling an appalled face. Fortunately Mrs. Rainer had left the dining room and didn't see, or hear, him.
"She call this coffee?" he asked.
"Yeah," Ryan said. "I've tasted better, but I've surely tasted worse."
"I recall once eating in a restaurant in some place like Bucksnort, Idaho. They served me a soup that was their special delicacy. I learned afterward it was made from dogs' spleens, with mustard added. Up till now that was the most foul thing that I ever tasted. Up till now..." He gently replaced the cup on the table.
After the meal Rick said he'd like to just go up to his room and rest. The others agreed that they'd split up and walk around Snakefish, checking the place out.
There was a minor spat when Lori tried to insist that she be allowed to go on her own.
"I'm not a shit-assed girly! I'm older enough to go without you having to hold my hand all the hours, Doc."
Ryan settled the argument. "Listen, Lori. Right now you're behaving like a double-stupe snotnose! In a strange ville like this nobody walks these streets alone. Not Doc. Not you. Not me. Stick together in pairs. Safest. Meet back here for the evening meal around six."
"But I don't..." she began, stopping herself when she saw the look of flaring anger on Ryan's face.
They went in the usual pairings: Lori with Doc, the sunnier side of her nature reappearing; J.B. and Jak wandering off together, intent on a recce of the gas-processing plant. And Ryan with Krysty.
"Snakefish," she said. "Prettiest little ville in the west."
It was just like walking into one of the small towns that Ryan had seen in old mags and vids. The lack of nuke damage was staggering. The sidewalk was clean, the shop fronts mostly looked like they had been painted fresh in the last month or so.
Uniquely there were several wags parked along the side of the street. Four pickups, one ordinary passenger vehicle, a blue VW and a panel van with a badly painted picture of a leaping salmon on its side.
"That's what living on top of your own gas supply does for you," Ryan said. "That's why they all look so damned jack-heavy. Everyone wants gas. You got it and you name your own price in the trading stakes. Good place to be."
They browsed along the sidewalk, staring in at the windows of the stores, amazed at the variety and quality of the various goods offered.
There weren't too many folks out and about mainly women, with a few younger children. Everyone was polite and friendly in a distant, formal kind of way.
There was a sign in one window that read: Snakefish jack, one dollar to one dollar. Outsiders' jack, one-fifty to one Snakefish. Trade by agreement. Sorry, no credit. Don't even ask.
"Shows you how solid things are here," Ryan observed. "Two local dollars to three from outside the ville. Good trade rate."
Occasionally, if you found some isolated community that the nukes hadn't reached, you might find faded signs from before the big fires. In Snakefish it was different. The buildings were untouched, but everything they sold was new.
Practically everything. One establishment was retailing blasters. And most of those were rebuilds and recons from before sky-dark, like the handguns carried by the Angels.
The shop owner was a sharp-faced young man, and he came out to his doorway when he spotted them looking in his window.
"Hi there. You admiring the display? Some real good blasters there, huh?"
"No," Ryan replied, seeing no reason to lie about it.
"What? How d'you..."
"Cheap shit. Recons look like they'd blow your hand off first time you squeezed the trigger."
"I'll have you know that I engineered them myself and I..."
Ryan cut through the bluster. "Then you ought to try one out. Put the muzzle in your mouth and let the hammer down."
Krysty's fingers on his arm told Ryan that she thought he was going too far.
"They aren't that bad! Anyway, what are you carrying, stranger?"
Without speaking, Ryan unholstered the 9mm SIG-Sauer P-226 and showed it to the dealer.
"Hollow tooth! That's one... I could do you a real good trade on that, friend."
"I'm not trading, and I'm not your friend," Ryan replied.