Once an office building of maybe ten stories, the structure had been added to and altered so that the once-sleek glass and steel box was now bulging with roofs, cupolas, dormers, balconies, and other protuberances to the point that the original lines were all but lost. Beyond that, the building was remarkable for the profusion of antennae and satellite dishes and other do-dads that sprouted like plants, here, there, and everywhere on the edges and roofs. Looking closer, Justin saw that not all of the electronics were so benign; some looked like rockets, some like guns, and others, unfamiliar to him, were simply menacing. Slowly, he sidled over to Teresa.
“Teresa?” he said softly.
“Yeh?”
“What are all those things? I recognize the antennas and dishes, some of the sensors and whatnot, cameras and lights… but what are all those others? That big red thing that looks like a rocket, for example.”
“That?” she said, smiling wickedly at him. “That is a rocket. You right the first time! And the rest? Hoolie smoke, he got all kinda crazy weapons on there. Wavers, machine guns, lase-a-rays, screechers, slug-throwers. I heard he gotta plasma gun. Like I tol’ ya, ya don’ wanna fuck with ‘im.”
“I guess not,” said Justin, suddenly feeling the accumulated electronic eyes and eager muzzles focused on them.
“Now c’mon,” said Teresa. “We ain’t gonna stand aroun’ here all day.”
They’d closed to within fifty yards of the House when a big garage-style metal door suddenly ground open in one wall and a group of four armed and angry-looking people issued forth. Instantly, Justin raised his hands in surrender (as did the others, save Lampert), but Teresa whipped out her shotgun in one slick movement and, falling into a combat crouch, waved it back and forth at the strangers.
The apparent leader of the group, a tall, thin black man dressed in drab coveralls and loosely toting an impressive-looking rifle, was the first to speak:
“Hey, now,” he said to Teresa, “just take it easy, alright? Don’t get excited. Just hand over the gun, OK?”
Teresa said nothing and only scowled. The black man’s companions, two women and another man, all of early to late middle age and similarly attired and armed, kept their guns trained squarely on her. Their grim expressions spoke of a willingness to use them.
“Teresa, please,” said Justin desperately. “Do what they say!”
“I ain’t givin’ up my boomstick,” she hissed from one corner of her mouth. “Took me forever to get it, an’ I ain’t gonna lose it.”
“You won’t lose it,” said the black man. “We have a secure gun bin, right inside, where you can leave it. And you can pick it up when you go.”
“That sounds reasonable,” said Justin. “Doesn’t it?”
Teresa snarled something nasty under her breath but did finally lower the gun. With a resigned shrug of her shoulders, she turned the weapon around and offered the stock end to the black man.
“Here ya go,” she said crustily. “Jus’ make sure nothin’ happen to it, hey?”
The man took the gun and tucked it under one arm. “You got it,” he said, grinning slightly. “And don’t worry. Nothing’s gonna happen to it. I promise.”
“Oh, yeh?” said Teresa insolently. “An’ jus’ who the clack are you?”
“Name’s Cornell,” said the man amiably. He nodded at his companions, who seemed to have relaxed a fraction. “This here is Buffalo Steve, Karen, and Vivian. We’re sort of like the police here. Make sure everybody works and plays well with each other, eh? And, we screen all of the visitors that the Baron gets. And at the moment? That means you.”
“Ah, of course,” said Justin, nodding. “That also seems reasonable, doesn’t it, Teresa?”
She shrugged again. “S’pose so.” She looked to Cornell. “What next, dude? What the plan?”
“Well, come on inside,” Cornell said. “We just wanna ask a few questions, and then the Baron’ll wanna talk to you. After that? Well, you’ll have to see how it goes. Sound OK?”
“Sure,” said Teresa grudgingly. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Eighteen
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They were led by Cornell and the woman called Vivian, an intense, thin lady with short, spiky blonde hair and a thin, sharp-featured visage, first through an extensive garage, complete with hydraulic lifts and full tool kits, where a couple of vehicles were being worked on by a greasy crew of mechanics, and then into a long hallway with many doors lit by infrequent ceiling bulbs. At the end of the dim, sterile-smelling hall was a thick metal door marked Security, which Cornell opened and ushered them through. Within were a desk, some folding metal chairs, and an antique television set mounted to one wall. They all piled into the room (Lampert on his own two feet and Teresa warily, like an animal sniffing a trap), and Cornell closed the door behind them.
“Well, have a seat, folks,” he said pleasantly. “Though I’m afraid we don’t have chairs for everyone.” Once they’d all settled down, he picked up a clipboard and a pen and said: “OK, well, I just have a few standard questions. First, what are your names? Not necessarily your real names, if you know them, just what you’d like to be called, OK?”
Justin took the lead and offered his full name and title, and Barbara Cass and Erin Swails did the same. Bowler provided his moniker, not specifying whether it was a first or last name, and Teresa followed suit as Cornell jotted down their responses. That just left the Old Man, who was sitting, arms and legs crossed, on a chair, head down and apparently asleep.
“And who is this gentleman?” asked Cornell.
“Lampert,” grunted the Old Man, raising his head. “Howard Patrick Lampert. Blood donor.”
“How’s that?” said Cornell, cocking his head. “Blood donor?”
“Oh,” said Justin, interposing, “that’s just Mr. Lampert’s sense of humor. He’s actually a retired salesman.”
“Is that right, sir?” Cornell asked the Old Man.
“Yeah, whatever,” said Lampert irascibly. “For all I care, you can call me Daffy Duck and say that I’m a fuckin’ astronaut.”
“Ah, yes,” said Cornell, making a note. “And where are you all from?”
“Well,” said Justin, nodding at Cass and Swails, “these two are from New Atlanta, as am I. Mr. Lampert is from Minneapolis.”
“Me,” said Bowler, “I’m from Ocala. Florida, that is.”
There was a pause as they all waited for Teresa to speak up, but she didn’t say anything. Justin looked over at her and saw that she was both scowling and blushing.
“Teresa?” he said gently. “Is anything wrong?”
Defiantly, she straightened up and shook her head.
“Naw,” she said. “Just that I don’ know where I was borned, hey? Probl’y Houston, but I ain’t sure. I just a baby then, hey?”
Cornell smiled at her. “That’s OK,” he said, making another note. “You’re not the only one in that situation, believe me! Besides, it’s not that important. Alright then, let’s see… last question: Is any of you a physician? You say that Ms. Cass here is a nurse and you, Mr. Case, say that you’re a doctor. You’re not an MD, by any chance, are you?”