Teresa sulked a little, pouting so sexily that he almost changed his mind, but then she shrugged nonchalantly and smiled back.
“Yeah, you right,” she said. “That ol’ man o’ yours ain’t gettin’ any younger, hey?”
“That he is not,” sighed Justin, going to let the others back into the room. “That he most certainly is not.”
The final preparations for their departure were a sort of dull blur to him after that and he left most of it to Cass, who was more than up to the job, and just floated through the effort. He did check on his patients in the infirmary, of course, but they all seemed pretty much the same, recovery-wise, so he gave Nurse Denny a few more pieces of advice—mainly to watch out for post-operative infections—and then quietly made himself scarce.
Then there was the packing, including loading everything into the car, plus a long session with Baron Zero, some maps, and the scouts who’d been out on reconnaissance, but nothing about this seemed too dire—or even all that important—and, deciding that he’d like to just plain leave now and get it over with, he merely nodded along and tried to look interested until it was over. Internally, he felt as if his emotions had been scoured by steel wool, but he managed to at least seem like he was listening and so they were finally given more thanks and praise and last-minute gifts—all of which he didn’t really register—and it was about time to shove off.
He saw her one more time, just as they were about to leave. A fair number of residents, maybe thirty or forty of them, plus Zero and his staff, all turned out to see them off that morning and Teresa was with them. Justin, sitting in the passenger seat of the car, searched the crowd of faces until he found her and, even at a distance and among all of the distraction, their eyes locked. Then, giving a slight, sexy scowl, she parted from the crowd and, dashing forward, ran up to the car window, grabbed him in an awkward hug, and gave him a deep, passionate kiss that brought Oohs from the assembled throng and a feeling like hot lava to Justin’s chest. Ignoring the hooting crowd, they looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment, and then she said: “Bye for now, Justin Case. Take care o’ yerself, and stay lucky, hey?”
“Goodbye, Teresa,” he said, blushing like mad and not caring a whit. “Good luck to you, as well. I will never forget you.”
And then tears welled in her eyes, the first he’d ever seen, and, her beautiful features scrunching up in pain, she whirled, ran away, and was quickly lost in the crowd. Next to Justin, Cornell waved to the send-off party through the window and then turned to Justin.
“Well, Doc?” he said. “Shall we?”
Justin nodded. “Yes,” he said woodenly, settling into his seat. “Let’s go.”
If the others had anything to say about this tragic, romantic little scene—or anything else, for that matter—no one saw fit to give it voice. Neither Erin Swails or Barbara Cass, nor Bowler or Cornell. Even Lampert was quiet as they rolled out of the garage and into the bright Oklahoma sunlight. Once on the weed-grown asphalt and gaining some speed, they put Baron Zero, his remarkable House, and the whole strange experience behind them, never to be seen again.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“So, Bowler, what’s yer story, anyway?” asked the Old Man.
It was well after sundown. After a long, long day of bumping along in the car in almost complete silence, they’d finally made camp on the side of the road and now were all huddled around a small wood fire. They’d had some food, the freshest of their provisions, as they were the most perishable, and had set up a big, six-man tent in which to sleep. For Justin, these and all of the other efforts of the day were mainly lost, as he more or less wallowed in self-pity and the sharp sting of bereavement, and let the others guide the course of things and do most of the actual work.
Now, though, with a good meal under his belt, in the coolness of night after a hot day, things didn’t seem quite so bad (as in, maybe he wasn’t permanently crippled by sadness and loss after all) and he forced himself to shrug it off as best he could and to sit up and pay attention. At the moment, everyone was looking at young Bowler, who now gave a shrug and finished chewing something.
“Ain’t much to tell,” Bowler said. “I used to be a baggage handler for Trans-World, at Miami International. But that wasn’t much to speak of. Just slingin’ bags. Had a little place, not too far from the water, and, you know, friends and all…” He trailed off slowly, in unspoken homage to the dead, as most people did these days when speaking of Before. “Basically, though,” he continued, “I guess my life was pretty boring. Before the Plague, that is. Then things got real interesting. But then, you all know what that was like.”
With that, a lull had fallen over the conversation and things went very quiet, with only the crackle of the fire. Then, from somewhere not very far away, a coyote’s bay split the night like a siren and they all jumped in surprise and shot worried glances into the shadows.
“That’s a coyote, right?” Bowler asked nervously. “Right?”
“Yup,” said Cornell, sitting with his back against the nearby car. “Since the Fall, they been multiplyin’ like rats. Too much good scavenging. Nothin’ to worry about, though. They won’t come anywhere near the fire.”
“Uh huh,” said Bowler. “So we better keep the fire goin’, huh? Like all night?”
“Yup,” said Cornell again. “And we’ll post a watch, too. Matter of fact, if no one objects, I think we oughta do that every night from here on out.”
Everyone looked at Justin, obviously for approval or disapproval, and suddenly, for no apparent reason, the whole weight of what had happened in the last few years fell on him like a couple of tons of bricks. The sickness, the death, the mountains of dead bodies. The brutality, madness, and casual savagery. The crushing sense that everything had come to an end and the accompanying feelings of total helplessness. The horror, the pain, and enough loss for several human life-times all of a sudden crashed over him like a tidal wave and he almost fainted from the accumulated stress and anxiety.
It wasn’t easy, but he controlled the urge to scream or sob (or both) and, setting his face resolutely, nodded curtly to the expectant faces.
“That sounds fine,” he said stiffly. “By all means, set watches.”
There must have been something noticeable in his voice, because the Old Man (damn his shriveled hide) cocked his head at Justin curiously.
“You OK, Doc?” he said, in that horrible nasal voice. “You don’t sound so good…”
“I’m fine,” said Justin, staring into the darkness. Then, before anyone could say anything more, he stood up and, trying not to reel, walked away from the fire, around to the other side of the car. Blessedly, no one followed.
For a long moment, leaning on the car, he simply held himself in check. If he was to break down now, to let vent all of the years-long store of terror and repugnance, he would start to cry. And if he started to cry, he wasn’t at all sure that he’d ever stop. So he stood and shook and, feeling like a champagne bottle maliciously shaken, fought to banish the memories and raw emotions to some part of his mind where they wouldn’t threaten to send him off the deep end. He was still struggling when his eyes, wandering randomly, fell on something in the car and, despite a tiny little voice in his head saying not to, he reached in and grabbed a bottle of whiskey.