“I ain’t so sure no more,” said Teresa, shaking her head. “All this ploop ‘bout old times an’ Before the Fall an’ all, it kinda makes my head hurt, hey?”
Lampert patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, kid,” he said softly. “That’s perfectly normal, just means you’re learning. Hell, wait’ll I tellya about Halloween! Now that’s a good one! But, for right now, could you be a pet and get me a little glass of water? And maybe a candy cane or two?”
Justin withdrew from sight just as Teresa, nodding and frowning and eager to please all at the same time, hopped to it, for all the world like an obsequious waiter. Justin shrugged, intrigued—and, he had to admit, a trifle jealous—at the Old Man’s growing influence, and then cleared his throat noisily to announce himself and went to give Lampert his afternoon exam.
Chapter Seventeen
It was another two days of hiking before they came to the outskirts of what was once the town of Vinita, Oklahoma and stopped in front of the sign. For Justin, this meant long hours of simply putting one foot before the other and trying to keep up the crushing pace set by their guide. The only good thing about the trek was that, by the third morning away from St. Alferd’s, he no longer woke up each morning feeling as if he’d been beaten. Muscles long unused—or never used—were becoming tight and strong, and the rest of his system, though deprived of real sustenance and subjected to undue strain, was beginning to adjust to this much more robust lifestyle. Oh, he was stinky, scratched-up, emaciated, and foot-sore, hungry, thirsty, and badly in need of a shave, but at least all of the exercise was paying off.
His companions, when they weren’t taking turns carrying Mr. Lampert, all seemed in as good spirits and health as could be expected, and Lampert himself, given the best food and never having to walk more than a few dozen steps, was likewise as healthy and cheerful (if it could be called that) as ever. And as for their guide/captor, Teresa never seemed, through all of it, to so much as notice the exertion; Justin never even saw her break a sweat.
Bowler, true to his word, made himself useful, both by carrying Lampert and, using a clever snare device of his own design, by providing an occasional jackrabbit. Spitted and roasted over a fire, these proved to be stringy and gamey-tasting, but, to their protein-starved systems anyway, seemed like the finest pheasant under glass.
The sign, which they encountered near a pair of burned-down strip malls on the edge of town, was quite remarkable. Surrounded by a double layer of barbed and razor wire, strung to about seven feet high, it had once been a billboard, advertising who knew what, of the typical sort seen throughout America. Now, however, the original message had been painted over and it was festooned with a whole array of antennae, cameras, and other, less identifiable, electronic devices, plus an assortment of lights. On the broad face of it were the following words, hand-painted in neat block characters at least six feet talclass="underline" Now Entering the Domain of Baron Zero.
“So, smart-pants,” said Teresa, staring at Justin, “what it say, anyhow?”
Justin told her, just as the sign was written, and she nodded wisely in response.
“See?” she said. “Told ya.”
“Yes,” nodded Justin, eyeing the sign. “But this seems somewhat foreboding. This Baron Zero person isn’t dangerous is he? That is, he’s not like the Brothers of St. Alferd?”
“Naw,” said Teresa. “Not like them C-heads. But dangerous? Well, yeah, I gotta say, he plenny dangerous, but only if ya fuck with ‘im. If ya follows his rules, you be OK. Anyways, it a lot easier to just showya. Now c’mon. I gotta talk to the sign.”
“What?” blinked Justin. “Talk to it? What do you mean?”
“I showya,” she said, beckoning him to follow. “They’s this box thing ya talk into an’ it talk back.”
“Ah, an intercom, then. But who’s on the other end? Who talks back to you?”
“Dunno. Somebody inside, I s’pose. Somebody who gleepin’ us through them cameras, right now.”
“I see,” said Justin, watching one of the lens-eyed gizmos track them as they approached. “Well, I suppose you know best. I take it you’ve been here before?”
“Once,” she said. “Long time ago. Now clam down, right? I gotta talk.”
Slowly and deliberately, hands raised to shoulder level, she walked up to the base of the sign, where an old metal-grilled speaker and microphone setup hung on a post just inside the wire. Cupping her hands, she shouted at the box:
“Hey! Anybody there?!”
At first nothing happened, but then there was a metallic crackle from the box and a voice, impossible to identify as male, female, young, or old, issued from the speaker:
“Who are you?” it asked imperiously, at quite a loud volume. “And what do you want?”
“Name’s Teresa,” she said evenly. “I been here before. Ask Eight-finger Bob.”
There was a pause, then the speaker said: “Eight-finger Bob is dead, my young friend. And you have a whole gang there with you. Who are they?”
Teresa swore under her breath. “They ain’t a gang,” she said. “I mean, jus’ look at ‘em! Ain’t none of ‘em even got guns!”
Again a short pause before the speaker crackled and said: “Who is the man with you? The tall one with dark hair?”
Teresa looked from the box to Justin and back again. “Oh, him? He a whitecoat! He how come I here, swear-tell the truth. Wanna see if Zero want him. Maybe make a trade, hey? Far as these others? Well, they on they own, kinda. So what the deal? Ya gonna let us come on, or should we turn back, or what?”
“Sure, come on,” said the speaker. “Keep going straight ahead for about a mile. Can’t miss it.”
And the speaker went silent. The cameras and other gear, though, kept right on tracking them, rotating on servos to watch them walk past. Giving Justin an inscrutable glance, Teresa led the way through the remains of the town.
“You know,” said Mr. Lampert, as Cass carried him through streets lined with burned-out buildings, “I do believe Miss Swails here was really on to somethin’. This really is like The Wizard of Oz, ain’t it? That intercom deal was just like the Wizard’s chamberlain. You know, the guy in the green suit who says how nobody gets in to see the wizard, not no way, not no how.”
“Hey, you’re right,” Swails mused. “I forgot about that part.”
“I fail to see,” said Justin irritably, “what possible significance the similarity could have to our present predicament.”
“Aw, lighten up, Just in Case,” said Lampert. “I was just makin’ small talk, OK? But this is just like The Wizard of Oz. Although, this don’t look much like the Emerald City, does it?”
“You can say that again,” said Cass. “But, if that’s the case, Mr. Lampert, and we’re in a similar situation, which one of us is Dorothy?”
“Heh,” grunted the Old Man. “That’s a good one, Cass.”
They all went quiet when the House—and, to Justin, it more than deserved the capital H—loomed into view. Surrounded by junk and piles of debris of all sorts, it sat in a huge clearing like an Old West fort or a medieval castle, rising to at least 100 feet above the rubble-strewn ground. Justin stopped as it came fully into his line of sight and, staring at the impressive mass, gave a low whistle.