Justin shook his head slowly.
“Didn’t think so,” said Lampert. “So what are they wearin’, Doc?”
“Well, leather, primarily. I have to admit, their attire is generally rather flamboyant.”
“Like I thought,” said the Old Man. “And they say that they rescued Dr. Poole? Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Ha!” barked Lampert. “Rescued my ass! Shit, Doc, I’ll lay ya two to one they chased the truck off the road themselves. The only reason they saved Poole was to see if he could lead ‘em to more goodies. Like this here fancy RV and the rest of your stuff.”
Justin frowned. “I have to admit, sir, that the thought had crossed my mind. But how can I determine if they’re telling the truth or not?”
“Tell ya what, Doc,” said Lampert, “you go out and take a real good look at these people. Look at their clothes, what they’re carrying, OK?”
“To what purpose?”
“Well, just this, dickweed: see if one or more of ‘em has something that came from Poole or the others. A lab coat would be pretty obvious, but it could be whatever, a stethoscope, some personal article, who knows? Just have a good long look.”
Justin frowned again and shrugged. “I didn’t see anything like that,” he said. “Certainly none of them was wearing a lab coat.”
“OK, great. But when they rolled up on ya, I betcha didn’t take a whole lotta time to check ‘em out, either, didya?”
“No, I suppose not,” said Justin. “To tell the truth, I was more concerned with Dr. Poole.”
“Uh huh. Now whataya say, Doc? Do ya maybe wanna go have a look?”
Justin chewed his lips for a moment and then nodded. “You make a good point, sir,” he finally said, grudgingly. “But if these people did attack the away team, do I necessarily want to walk out there and submit them to some kind of inspection? Wouldn’t that put them on their guard?”
“Heh,” said the Old Man, with a yellowing grin, “now you’re gettin’ the idea, Just In Case! Now you’re startin’ to think ahead just a little. Good for you!”
“Uh, thank you, sir,” said Justin. “And by the way, my name is pronounced Cays, as in a group of small islands. Yes? But I am still faced with the problem of inspecting these people.”
“Oh, just, you know, spy on ‘em,” Lampert said, waving one hand. “Check ‘em out when they don’t know you’re lookin’. You don’t have to fucking inspect ‘em, for shit’s sake. Just be casual, you know? Shit, can’t you just look out the window at ‘em?”
“Oh,” said Justin weakly. “Of course. Uh, I’ll do that…”
Leaving the Old Man to mutter curses about the general dearth of his beloved common sense and the orderly to his job, Justin left the room and went to the hallway, where a small latticed window looked out in the right direction. Carefully, he twitched the lattice open, about a quarter of an inch, raised his trinoculars, and carefully scanned the newcomers.
There were, he found, a great many things to look at: weapons of all kinds, from knives to swords to pistols, on up to rifles and shotguns. And though he was no expert, it looked to Justin like one guy was toting a rocket launcher. They seemed to favor leather, despite the heat, and sported a wide array of coats, jackets, pants, and boots of the stuff, colored primarily a dusty black and brown. Here and there he could spot a flak jacket, the old style that riot police used to wear, and even signs of body armor. Several wore helmets of one kind or another, one fellow in a bright red football model, and many had gloves or half-gloves on their hands.
Personal decoration seemed very popular, with tattoos a near constant, but there were also all kinds of little things stitched onto their clothing and hanging from their bodies: Bits of cloth, shiny pieces of metal, buttons and badges and pins of all kinds, as well as scraps of fur and teeth and bones, harvested from unknown creatures. All in all, a very flamboyant group indeed, but no more so than some he’d seen in New Atlanta. And, thankfully, there was no sign of anything that would have belonged to anyone on the away team. Feeling suddenly a bit better, he was about to lower the trinocs when something caught his eye and he came up short. What was that?
Holding his breath, he dialed in the trinocs to maximum and peered desperately into the display, but the object in question—a shining cross on a chain—was too small and the man wearing it moved around too much for him to accurately make it out. The trouble was that one of the away group, Richard Michaels, a med student, had worn a silver crucifix. He’d shown it to Justin one day when they’d both been bored and had said that it’d been a First Communion gift. But was this the same thing? Couldn’t this biker fellow simply own something similar? Maybe. But maybe not. He’d have to get closer to find out.
Finally expelling a pent-up breath, he turned from the window, chewed his lip for a moment, and then nodded once, firmly, and went out of the MedCenter. Outside, the heat was stifling, at least 90 degrees, and the sky was an absolutely clear bowl of light blue. Way up in the air, hundreds of feet above the baking landscape, a pair of birds—buzzards?—floated listlessly on the gentle winds.
As soon as he emerged, the other CDC people clustered around him, silent, but with varying expressions of anxiety on their faces. Trying to look confident and calm, Justin waved them back and, trying hard to look casual, strolled over to the motley gang. As before, the tall thin man called Sharp came to the fore as spokesperson. Justin did his best to focus on the man’s face, but his eyes kept straying to the man with the cross, a short, ugly little guy with a long beard, a shaved head, and an array of knives across his leather-clad chest.
“Greets, Doc-o,” said Sharp, smiling and waving. “How your friend, there, hey? Get him fixed up, didja?”
“He will be fine,” said Justin. “I… I suppose we owe you our thanks.”
“Ain’t none thing,” grinned Sharp, a bit wolfishly for Justin. “Just lucky we found him, heh?”
“Yes,” said Justin, now openly staring at the cross around the short man’s thick neck. “Just lucky.”
“Anything the matter, there, Doc-o?” asked Sharp, a steely tone creeping into his voice.
Hastily, Justin tore his gaze from the scowling short man and back up into Sharp’s thin countenance. “No, no,” he said, trying to smile. “Of course not! It’s just been a difficult experience, as one might expect.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Sharp, frowning slightly. “Seen some troubles, have ya, hey? Well, it’s a tough ol’ world, now, ain’t it? Since the Big Sick, I mean. Rough for ever’body.”
“Yes,” said Justin sadly. “Of course.”
There was an uncomfortable sort of pause. Around them, there were only the sounds of the wind, the scuffling of boot-shod feet, and the distant yelps of a wild dog. Justin was careful not to stare at the short man or the cross, but allowed himself a couple of quick glances, just enough to see that there could be no doubt. It was Michaels’ crucifix.
Which meant that the Old Man was probably right and that they hadn’t simply come across Poole and the others; they’d probably been the reason for the away team’s deplorable fate. They were survie Outlaws and would in all likelihood soon show their true colors by finally drawing all of those weapons and making so much ground meat out of Justin, the Old Man, and everyone else, preparatory to taking all of their vehicles and gear.
Suddenly his heart was hammering at his ribs, he was sweating in a way unrelated to the heat, and the world sort of wobbled around him as he struggled to maintain equilibrium. He tried his best to not let this show, of course, but it was no use. Sharp noticed his stricken mien almost at once.