"Strange? Stra-a-a-a-ange?.." He drew out the syllable until it almost snapped.
"Caseless small bore. High impact. Never seen anything like them."
"This was near where the snow wolf lives?"
"Yeah."
"Are they to be allied 'gainst us, Mephisto? Is this the root of the tree? The kernel of the fruit? Will the two blades be forged as one?" He lay back, and his voice became thin and singsong. "Shall the sky and earth wed? Will water marry fire? Will the wolf cleave to the panther?"
He was silent for a long moment, then sat up and pointed at his sec boss.
"Go get that fucking ice-suit dirty. Track 'em and take 'em. That's all. No more words, or I'll reach into your flicking chest and part the ribs and tear out your lungs."
Mephisto carefully closed the door of the suite and stood in the narrow corridor, his eyes squeezed shut, trying to control himself. He nearly wiped his hands on his pants again. Licking his dry lips, he ran his fingers through his tight, pomaded curls.
"Mephisto, my brave and cunning friend," he whispered to himself. "Best find these strangers and bring 'em here."
He thought he heard the baron stepping toward the door inside the room, and he scampered away, set on his lethal mission.
Chapter Twelve
It was the middle of the morning.
They had walked only fifty paces into the development when they saw a large board, fixed to a triangle of steel scaffolding. It was covered in clear plastic and riveted to a wooden backing, the whole thing smeared and stained by the weather. J.B. went up to it and wiped his sleeve over the plastic, calling to the others, showing unusual excitement for such a taciturn man.
For once it would be absurdly easy for them to orient themselves.
"Come here! It's a map of where we are. A map from before the long winter!" He fumbled in one of his capacious pockets for one of his favorite long, thin cheroots, then let his hand drop as he remembered that he'd smoked the last one too many mornings and too many thousands of miles behind him.
The others gathered around, reading the notice. Doc read it aloud for Lori, rolling the prose style.
"Live Oak Crescent is a master-planned community of topclass condominiums and townhomes, set on the edges of the picturesque Atchafalaya Swamp. Affordability is our watchword. These homes are richly appointed, light, and surprisingly spacious. Each has a separate video and audio room, along with a relaxanasium in stripped afromosia teak veneer. Hot tubs are optional extras that you'll all want to add to your dream home."
"What a load of stinking shit," muttered Finnegan. "They look like little fucking boxes, right next to some more fucking little concrete boxes and some more right over there."
Doc continued on. "The community center at O'Brien and Stewart features Miami Beach styling with swimnasium, tennisarium, sun deck and crafted gabled shingled roofs. Live Oak Crescent is simply the state of the top art in living convenience. Realistically priced, beginning at $250,000."
"Is that a lot of jack, Doc?" asked J.B.
"Seems so to me," replied the old man. "Upon my soul, but this must have been going on just before the ultimate madness wiped away our world. Toward the end of the year 2000. Yes, Mr. Dix, I should have said a quarter of a million greenbacks was a lot of jack, even then."
Ryan was trying to make sense of three or four lines at the bottom of the notice, set in tiny print. He read the lines over to himself.
"Qualified buyers, based on 3.2% deposit... monthly P&I payments for years one thru fifteen of...low 1.8% loan fee. The APR is 17.35. Ask our salespersons for details of zoning, fees and state and federal association costings and taxes. Where applicable."
It might as well have been written in Russian for all the sense it made to him.
"You can see where we are and where the place stretches out. There's the center of the ville," said J.B., pointing to where the roads seemed to converge on something called the Senator Fitzgerald Hackensacker Memorial Shopping Mall.
Most of the main landmarks in West Lowellton were on the map: the Counselor Zak Robbins Playpark, near the narrow river that wound through the ville; the Charles C. Garrett Olympic Pool and Tennisarium; the Neal R. Langholm Golf Course, straddling the river. The main shopping area was shaded with a faded purple overlay, and the location of several motels was shown, including the Snowy Egret on the far side of town, near where West Lowellton oozed out from the edges of Lafayette. A Holiday Inn was only a half mile or so from the dramatic crimson arrow with the message: YOU ARE HERE.
"First time in years I've known where I am," commented Ryan Cawdor.
The houses around them were mainly single-story, stained green with mosses and lichen. Most of their windows and doors were still intact, though several of the roofs had collapsed where damp had seeped in and rotted the supporting timbers.
"Where do we go?" Lori asked.
"I figure that one of them motels could be our prime target," replied Doc. "From the excellent state of these buildings, it's reasonable to believe they might be more than adequate for shelter."
Ryan shook his head. "I just don't believe this place. Doc, you got knowledge like no man I ever met. I never seen houses all together like this from before the long cold time. How come it?.. How?"
"Neutron missiles, like we figured. They seed the land with them, and the physical structures aren't hardly touched. Within about ten days, ninety-eight percent of living creatures are on their way across the dark river from which there is no returning."
"You mean they fucking die, Doc?" said Finn.
"Yes, Mr. Finnegan. That is what I mean."
"Then what's happened to all the fucking bodies?"
As the bright, dry summery morning progressed, they saw them everywhere. Tumbled, scattered bones on the edges of the sidewalks. On porches. In gardens. Bits of ivory among the overwhelming shades of green. Here and there some creatures of the nearby wild had feasted on the bodies, ripping apart the skeletons. There might be a single long, straight femur, its end gnawed smooth. Or a skull, grinning emptily, yards from the skeleton it had once topped.
"It's a boneyard," said J.B,
"Yeah. I seen bodies, dried up like old leather, in some of the redoubts we found over the years with the Trader. You know?"
"Sure. Like husks. Lips peeled off yellow teeth. All of 'em grinning at us. I recall that. But this is just bones, white as snow."
It was an unusually long speech for the phlegmatic Armorer. But it was a sight to stir anyone's imagination.
A century ago, the whole town had been blasted away from above. Its streets and houses had been scoured clean of inhabitants. Families had been destroyed with the demonic breath of the neutron bombs. Russian submarines off the coast had lain still and patient and received the signal that told them this was no drill. No false alarm. No testing situation.
And the people had died and the houses remained. It was a cemetery, fifty miles wide and forty deep. Only in the swamps had people survived; many of their descendants were now muties. They avoided the ruins of the old villes, fearing the contamination they once harbored. The whole of West Lowellton was like some giant time capsule, frozen since that dread January day a hundred years ago.
Ryan was fascinated and wanted to investigate each home and shop they passed. But J.B. warned him of the need for food and shelter.
"That Baron Tourment's going to have patrols of sec men after us, Ryan."
"Sure."
"Look at 'em later."
"Yeah. Guess so."