“Yes,” said Justin. “And they want to keep us a secret. From other gangs, ostensibly.”
“There’s a gang called the Church?” Swails asked dubiously.
“I don’t know. I’ve certainly heard of stranger names for Outlaw gangs. Remember the ones back in New Atlanta? The Bozo Nightmares? The Jack Draculas? Or what was that other one, the Transex-Hitlers? A name like the Church wouldn’t be out of the question.”
“I guess,” she said. “A gang’s a gang. No matter what crazy thing they call themselves.”
“A rose by any other name…”
“But what about that stash they mentioned?” asked Swails. “You heard that part, right? They said they had a stash. Near us. A stash of what?”
“Who can say? But they certainly did not want us to find it, did they?”
“No,” said Swails, “and that means it’s something good. Hell, maybe there’s fuel! Maybe water and food!”
“Maybe,” Justin nodded. “I certainly can’t think what else they might stash. Weapons and ammunition, perhaps?”
“Maybe all of the above!” Swails said eagerly. “Doc, we gotta find that stash!”
“It would appear so,” he said. “And the sooner the better.”
“But we’re being watched. If we go looking for the stash…”
“Hmm, yes,” Justin frowned. “There is that. Well, I’ll need a little time to think about this. Thanks for the heads-up, Erin.”
“My job,” she said, with a slight lift of her shoulders. “Let’s just hope it amounts to something.”
“Indeed.”
Leaving Erin Swails to her digital wizardry, most of which he didn’t fully understand, Justin was very tempted to go immediately to the clean room to wake the Old Man. It was plain that they were in a tough spot (again) and surely Lampert would know what to do. But then he stopped, shook his head, and went back to his own mini-lab. Why should he, a highly educated and not altogether dim-witted individual, ask nasty, cynical old Mr. Lampert what to do? He was capable of dealing with it all on his own. He could figure this out.
But turning the problem this way and that, Justin could see no real solution. If they tried to retrieve the stash—whatever it contained—they would be seen and the Bloodclaws would come for them. And burn them out. And if they didn’t look for the stash, or at least some other source of fuel, they were as good as dead. Either way, the mission would be a failure.
Hours ticked by as he wracked his brain, but lack of sleep and proper nutrition made it laborious work and finally, as the sun was just peeking over the burnt landscape, he conceded defeat; he just didn’t have a clue as to what their next move should be. But he did know someone who would. Swallowing his pride, he went to collect Lampert’s breakfast from the galley.
“So what?” said the Old Man, spitting food. “Whatta ya tellin’ me for?”
Justin, having explained the overheard conversation, sighed and gave Lampert what he hoped was a beseeching look.
“I would value your opinion, sir,” he said. “Your advice.”
“Oh yeah?” snorted Lampert. “Well, that’s real flattering, Doc. But what makes ya think that I wanna help?”
Justin thought about that for a moment and then shrugged.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “Maybe for the same reason that you helped us get rid of the Bloodclaws?”
“Uh huh. And why do you think I did that?”
Justin frowned. “Self-preservation?”
“What, like I’m afraid to die? Oh, hell no! If I thought those screwy kids woulda put me outta my misery, I’da told ‘em the whole stupid truth! Naw, I got my reasons. But anyhow, the fact of the matter is that I’ve kinda come to like you eggheads. Sure you’re dopey as shit when it comes to some real basic things, and you all behave like the stick up your ass has a stick up its ass, but you’re really not so bad.”
“Yes, well,” Justin blinked. “I’ll take that as a compliment. But will you help us? There has to be some way of retrieving this stash, whatever it is.”
“Aw, shit that’s easy,” said Lampert glibly. “Just cause a distraction. Get whoever’s watchin’ ya to look the other way while somebody slips out to look for the stash. But here’s the problem, Doc: You don’t know where it is, exactly. After all, “nearby” to these Road Freaks might be a hundred yards or ten miles! And in which direction?”
“Hmm, yes,” said Justin soberly. “That’s a good point. But what can we do about it?”
“Well, not a lot,” said the Old Man. “The only pragmatic sorta thing to do would be to go out and grab onea these kids and get ‘em to talk. Make ‘em tell ya where the stash is. But then, you’re all doctors and shit, so that’s probably out, huh?”
“You’re speaking of torture?” Justin asked, eyebrows raised.
“More or less.”
“Then yes, that is most definitely out. No torture.”
“Figured,” said Lampert disgustedly and paused as if in thought. Then: “Well, the only other thing I can think of is to just go out and look. Do the ever-widening circle kinda thing.”
“But the watchers—”
“Will notice,” finished Lampert. “Yeah, that’s right. Even if you went out and crept around in the dark, they’d see you eventually. So that is a puzzler. Hmm. I might need a little time to think this over, Just In Case. Not an easy nut to crack.”
“I see…” said Justin, a bit deflated. “Well, I will leave you to think then.”
“No, no!” said Lampert. “Don’t go. C’mon, siddown and talk with me. It uh… helps me think. Really.”
“If you say so,” Justin said reluctantly, thinking that his time might be better spent. But then he shrugged and took a seat. “So what would you like to talk about, sir?”
And so Lampert set in again, another long-winded batch of nostalgia, most of which seemed to center on an extinct professional sport called NFL. Justin sat patiently and listened, but he’d never heard of any of the people Lampert was talking about and he had little or no enthusiasm for sports in general and none whatsoever in “football”, so it was with some difficulty that he stayed focused. After maybe ten minutes of hearing all about a lot of dead men who used to play a dead sport, he was starting to zone out. Lampert, ever perceptive, did not fail to notice.
“Whasamatter, Doc?” he said abruptly. “Ya bored? Got somewhere to be or somethin’?”
“No, of course not,” said Justin, trying not to sound patronizing. “It’s just that this football and its players are foreign to me. One might say it was before my time.”
“Shit, ya got that right,” said Lampert. “You wouldna even been born when most o’ these guys played! Well, I guess that would be kinda boring for ya. Sorry.”
“Not at all,” said Justin. “It’s just that I have a lot on mind.”
“I bet you do,” said the Old Man. “And by the way, do you eggheads have a metal detector in all this gear? By any chance?”
“I think so,” said Justin, trying to recall if they did or not. “But what would… Ah! We could use it to search for the stash. Is that what you were thinking?”
“Maybe,” grunted Lampert. “Just thinkin’. And those fancy binoculars you got. What’s up with that extra do-dad on the top?”
“Well, they’re actually called trinoculars, and the thing on the top is the IR/UV sensor.”
“Huh,” said Lampert. “So you can see in the dark. Neat.”
Justin was going to ask why he wanted to know about the trinocs, but the Old Man effectively cut him off by lying back in bed and closing his eyes. His meal, a half-can of Pampered Pooch dog food and some miso-flavored Krillo-chips, sat half-eaten on a tray on his lap. For a moment Justin eyed the remains, his stomach growling at the smell of meat, however debased, but he controlled the urge to grab it and wolf it down; the Old Man needed the nutrition a whole lot more than he did. Still, he couldn’t help feeling a little put out. After a long moment he finally had to say something.