The Hunter gazed blankly at Lampert; what he knew about poetry wouldn’t fill a shot glass.
“Never heard of it,” he said. Turning from the Old Man, he went back to the car, leaned in, and eyed the nurse. Apparently unfazed, she blandly eyed him back.
“I’m gonna let you out,” he told her. “And I don’t need no trouble. Understand?”
The nurse nodded. “Don’t worry,” she said coldly, “I saw what you did to Cornell.”
The Hunter winced inwardly, still ruing that little event, but showed nothing on his face, nodded back, and undid the nurse’s restraints. This accomplished, as the nurse stretched and walked around and saw to the Old Man, he went to the rear of the car and rummaged in the storage compartment for a while before selecting a small propane stove, a saucepan, two bowls, three spoons, and three random cans of food.
Eventually, undoubtedly lured by the smell, the nurse and the Old Man came over to where he crouched over the stove. Without looking up, he poured a third of the food into two bowls and set them before the others. Taking the pan and a spoon, he sat down on the ground nearby and began to eat. After getting the Old Man settled on a blanket she’d dug from the car, the nurse took the bowls and she and Lampert also tucked in.
“What the hell is this?” asked the Old Man, grimacing at his first bite. “Some kinda goulash? Or what?”
“It’s food,” said the Hunter. “Eat.”
Lampert stared into his bowl for a moment and then shrugged and spooned up some more.
“Can’t argue with logic like that, now can I?” he said wryly, gazing at the Hunter over the sterile blue-white glow of the propane stove. They ate for a while before the Old Man had to open his trap again.
“Ain’t much for conversation, are ya?” he said, and grinned snidely. “Sorta the strong, silent, violent-as-all-hell type o’ guy, huh?”
The Hunter said nothing, face flat, and stared back. After a long moment, the Old Man shrugged again and went back to his food.
“Like I said,” he wheezed. “Not much for conversation.” He turned to the nurse. “So, Barb, you ever listen to much music?”
The nurse hesitated, eyeing the Hunter, before finally glancing over to the Old Man and nodding slightly.
“Some,” she replied. “I’m something of a jazz fan, actually.”
“Jazz?!” snorted Lampert. “Aw, that’s just for musicians to show off to other musicians. All those scales and the like, incessant noodling. Naw, what I mean is good old-fashioned rock and roll. Ya ever hear of a band called the Clash?”
“I don’t believe so,” said the nurse. “Were they popular?”
“Yeah, pretty popular,” said the Old Man. “Couple radio hits in the eighties. But more influential, I’d say. Anyway, they had this one song, Clampdown. Man, that was a good one!”
“I see,” said the nurse.
“Yup,” nodded Lampert, gazing pointedly at the Hunter. “Workin’ for the Clampdown. Makes you think, don’t it?”
“Um, yes,” the nurse said bemusedly. “I suppose so.”
The Hunter finished his portion of chow and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. Carelessly, he tossed the pan and the spoon next to the stove and glared down at the Old Man.
“Eat up, old dude,” he said evenly. “I need to get some shut-eye.”
Later, his captives restrained (but not too uncomfortably) in the car, the Hunter lay on his back on the ground, stared into the deep oblivion of limitless space, and, for the first time in his long career, gave some thought to the relative morality about what he was doing. It wasn’t so much that he’d had any sort of epiphany or come to some sort of realization, but rather that he knew and liked the song the Old Man had mentioned. In fact, it was on his compact MP3 player, filed under Classical Rock. If he felt like it, he could listen to it right now. But to have the sentiment of the song, a roaring indictment of the misuse of power and bully-ism, applied to him personally? Well, damn his shriveled old hide, but the Old Man was right; it did make him think.
Chapter Thirty-Six
When Sergeant Lumler got to the Jolly Café, he found that, as feared, it was no longer in business. In fact, it was no longer technically there. A few smoldering timbers and a great pile of bricks and debris were all that was left. The café’s sign, half-burned, lay in the middle of the wreckage-cluttered street.
Lumler shook his head. Too bad. But then this part of New America had been hit particularly hard in the War. Buildings on both sides of the street were either damaged or destroyed. Few did not show the scars of bullets or rocket-propelled grenades. Resignedly, trying not to think too much about it, Lumler took a seat on the remains of a low retaining wall and waited for Santiago.
It was a cool day, with low clouds and a persistent drizzle, but, warm and dry in his long black PF overcoat, Lumler didn’t take much notice. The neighborhood, once a busy commercial district, was mainly deserted; those citizens of New America not employed in Vital War Industries had been drafted into the Army. Niceties like restaurants would just have to wait. The only activity was a couple of blocks over, where a bunch of Army grunts could be heard, shouting back and forth in hoarse, aggressive voices. Overhead, a huge flock of crows wheeled and flapped and cawed in the gray sky.
Finally Santiago came along, picking his way around the rubble, ambled up to Lumler and shook his head.
“Looks like breakfast is off,” he said sadly, eyeing the destruction. Lumler noticed that the man’s lab coat, usually pristine white, had blotches along the front like old wine stains.
“Huh, yeah,” said Lumler, rising. “Like forever. Well, never mind. I brought some stuff. Let’s walk down to the park.”
“OK,” shrugged Santiago. “Not like we’re gonna get anything here.”
They walked down West 9th Street, passing a series of big corn and soybean fields, where dozens of Agro citizens, distinct in their green vests, toiled away, weeding and fertilizing and watering the plants, all under the watchful eye of a red-shirted foreman and his three escorts, who lounged nearby under a tarpaulin, smoked, and checked their weapons.
“So what used to be here?” asked Santiago, waving at the crops. “Not bean fields, I presume?”
“Naw, it was like, mostly housing for the University. Frats, apartments. Over there, where them rice paddies are? That was the main campus.”
“No shit? Wow, they’ve been busy, haven’t they?”
“Gotta do it,” shrugged Lumler voluminously. “Can’t plant outside the perimeter no more.”
Santiago just nodded and they walked on. After five or six blocks, a spacious greenway appeared on their right and they turned into an overgrown but still attractive public park. Past the cracked, weed-grown slab and rusting fences of a set of tennis courts and a fallen-down utility shed, they came to an open plaza. Here they walked through the weeds to a decrepit fountain, where they cleared some vines and shrubs and sat down on the decaying marble edge.