Chapter Fifteen

 

According to the locals, the best place for food in Freedom where the food was worth a damn was a former eatery, one of a chain specializing in Southwest cooking. The exterior and interior of the crowded former fast-food restaurant had been repainted in shades of green, but there was no disguising the faux-Tex-Mex building facade and architecture.

 

Mildred and J.B. were seated at a black metal mesh table with a wooden top, watching the people and waiting for their friends to join them.

 

"Make A Run For The Border," Mildred quoted, a fragment of cultural memory floating up, untethered, to the surface of her conscious mind. "That used to be this place's advertised motto."

 

"Skipping borders is bad news. Why would they want you to do that?" J.B asked. "They some kind of food smugglers or what?"

 

"I always believed it referred to the eventual run to the bathroom," Mildred replied with as straight a face as she could manage. "Tacos could be hard on the stomach of the uninitiated." The Armorer glanced down at his wrist chron.

 

"I'm hungry. Wonder where the others are? Not like Ryan to be late."

 

"We're in a shopping mall, J.B. No man, woman or child ever made it on time to a meeting place in a mall, especially one as huge as this," the woman replied lightly. "Ryan'll be along. He's probably being held up by Dean and Doc wanting to go into every store they pass."

 

"And Krysty and Jak," J.B. agreed. "Something in this gussied-up warehouse for everybody."

 

Mildred reached up and took off the new pair of glasses. "How are your eyes feeling, John?"

 

"Good," he replied. "Real good. That eye doc was true to his word in finding me a new pair similar to my old ones. These feel a bit thicker than my other pair, but other than that, my vision's as good as it ever was."

 

"The glass is thicker because your eyes are getting weaker. Comes with age."

 

"Bullshit," the Armorer replied. "If losing your eyesight comes with age, Doc would be tripping and falling on his skinny ass everywhere we went."

 

"I heard that, John Barrymore!" Doc boomed out in his most able educator's tone of voice. "I will have you know my skinny posterior remains upright, thank you very much."

 

"Age sure as hell hasn't affected his hearing," J.B. groused, causing Mildred to laugh as the rest of the group took up positions around the ornate bench.

 

"Look same," Jak said, peering at J.B.'s glasses.

 

"They are, practically. Got a backup pair, too."

 

"Let's see the backups," Ryan said, rubbing his still aching shoulder. "I want to know what my duel with a bot paid for."

 

"Bot?" Doc echoed. "Ah, yes, the killer robot."

 

 

J.B. had hesitated, and now Mildred spoke for him. "Well, Ryan, the backup lenses and frames are much larger than this pair."

 

"So?"

 

"So, he doesn't think his backup pair of specs are very becoming to a man with his features."

 

"Oh, now I've got to see them," Ryan said. The rest of the group voiced their agreement. Sighing loudly, J.B. made a show of searching through each and every pocket of his leather jacket before removing a black padded case.

 

Off came the wire spectacles, which he placed gently on the tabletop.

 

He snapped open the new black case and removed an oversize pair of purple frames and tinted lenses, which he angrily thrust on his frowning face. "There. Happy?"

 

"You bet," Ryan replied, trying hard not to laugh. No one else looking at the bizarre sight shared Ryan's tact. The rest of the friends broke out in guffaws of amusement.

 

"Laugh all you want. I think he looks like a rock star," Mildred stated proudly, taking J.B.'s arm.

 

 

"Oh, hell," J.B. said from between clenched teeth.

 

 

The Armorer's discomfort was eased when Mildred noticed Dean's new attire. The boy was wearing a black T-shirt featuring a mass of silvery storm clouds and lightning superimposed over a large, unblinking single eye. The Truth Is Out There was at the bottom of the shirt's hem, and on the back, in a broken-typewriter font, another slogan read Trust No One.

 

"Krysty and Dad liked this one," Dean said, turning and modeling for J.B. and Mildred.

 

Krysty shrugged. "What can I say? The message struck me right funny. Guess if you keep looking long enough, you can find anything."

 

"Well, I liked the back," Ryan said, picking up the lull. "Trust No One might seem paranoid to some, but I decided that was a sentiment I could agree with without any debate."

 

J.B. agreed. "Damn good advice for any halfway intelligent citizen of Deathlands."

 

Mildred wrinkled her nose. "True, most of the time. Otherwise it's kind of negative, don't you think?"

 

"Hell, it beat the other shirts that fat guy was selling. What were they, Dean?"

 

"Um, most of them had a yellow mutie with a spiked head saying Eat My Shorts. He had a lot of those. None of them had ever been worn, he said. Had a few with a man dressed like a bug. Some with guys playing predark sports, like basketball. Triple dull. This was the best of the bunch."

 

"I can attest to that," Doc agreed. "That store owner was an idiot, and his collection of moldy paper useless."

 

"Tried to get Jak to take him a shirt, but he wasn't interested."

 

"Like clothes no message," Jak replied. "Wanted black shirt. All had stupid shit pix."

 

 

 

THE INTERIOR of the eatery had been designed to replicate what some predark advertising executive had distilled into being a Mexican dining experience. There were no primary colors to be seen. The dominant hue was brown. All shades of brown. Dark brown walnut. Light brown walls hinting at adobe stone. Off-white flooring with a grit pattern of brown dots broken up by horizontal and vertical chestnut brown lines.

 

The tables matched the decor, but the chairs, which were standard-issue steel folding chairs, had obviously been replaced at one time or another. The front counter was made of stainless steel, low slung, with indentations where automated cash registers once rested. Now hungry patrons waited in line to verbally give their order to a single cashier.

 

Both cashier and her small comp console were encased inside a massive armaglass sec booth.

 

A slot allowed the passing of jack. After payment the order was called back to the hidden cooks in the rear. Once the order was given, a customer then was allowed to go down the counter to await his or her food.

 

"This damn well better be good. I hate waiting in line," Ryan announced.

 

"Where are the menus?" Doc asked.

 

 

"Up there. Above the woman taking the orders," J.B. said, pointing out the hand-lettered displays hanging from the ceiling. "Nice to be able to read fine print from a distance again."

 

"At least the selection is generous," Doc remarked, his lips moving as he read off some of the offering on the day's menu.

 

"Hey! Glazed ham!" Dean said eagerly.

 

"Pricey," Ryan said, reading the listed amounts for various meals. "Still, I guess we're entitled to one good meal. I know I am. Order what you want."

 

"Bless my fragile soul, but is that a listing for a bowl of pinto beans?" Doc asked.

 

As the group looked over the menu, Ryan took in the rest of the restaurant. The interior was crowded to near bursting, and filled not only with a wide variety of customers, but with their overlapping conversations, as well, all of which seemed to blur together into a single mass hum that phased in and out between being uncomfortable and unnoticeable.

 

There wasn't an empty seat in the house. Older men seemed to have claimed the long metal counter-top bar that ran along the left windowless wall, all of them busy at their plates, shoveling forkfuls of food into their mouths. The tables and booths were also all occupied with people of all races. While the food appeared to vary, the only beverages being offered seemed to be water or coffee sub.

 

Unlike any other ville Ryan had ever visited, none of the inhabitants had paid attention to a new group of seven walking into the eatery. Jak got a curious glance or two, and that was all.

 

A table filled with the forest greens of the mall sec force occupied a corner table, a good location Ryan would have chosen for himself if there had been room. From the vantage point the sec men had chosen, they could see anyone who came into the place, as well as having a good view of the dual kitchen doors to the back. Two of the men stared back at Ryan as the one-eyed man gave them the once-over.

 

"No good, this," Jak griped. "Many people. Hard see, hard hear. Dangerous."

 

"My daddy always used to tell me, the more people in a restaurant, the better the food was," Mildred said. "And I'm starved."

 

"So let's eat," Ryan stated, striding across the floor to the line waiting for service at the counter.

 

 

 

WHEN THEIR ORDERS were delivered, the friends decided to go into the central food court outside. Carrying their trays carefully, they looked for a place to sit. Ryan chose a table near a wall so they could be guaranteed of having one section safe. J.B. sat on his left and Dean on his right. Krysty took the chair next to Dean. Jak, Doc and Mildred completed the circle. Their meals showed off variety. All of them drank coffee sub or water or both, but they differed in food selections. Ryan had gone for a hunk of steak smothered in thick brown gravy, with mashed potatoes and green peas, while Krysty asked for and got a massive salad covered in dressing and bread crumbs. Dean had selected his glazed ham and fried apples. Mildred chose breakfastscrambled eggs, strips of bacon, spicy hash brown potatoes and dark toasted bread. J.B. also got eggs, but had his fried, with a side of chewy sausage patties and more of the bread.

 

Nothing elaborate, but it was all good, filling food.

 

Docfor some reasonhad selected his bowl of pinto beans smothered in onions with a generous helping of corn bread on the side.

 

"I've never had a tastier platter of beans," Doc said with relish once his meal was done. "This re minds me," he started out, "of another fine occasion"

 

"No, no reminders," Dean said hastily. "Doc, I like it fine here. Let me enjoy it!" he pleaded.

 

"Are you saying my company is less than stellar, young Cawdor?" Doc responded haughtily over the rim of his coffee cup. "And I thought I contributed to the boy's education," he added with a hurt air to Ryan.

 

Krysty spoke up quickly. "Dean's a growing boy, Doc. He needs more in the way of nightly entertainment than another discussion of the Crusades or the finer points of whether that Poe fella's poetry was as good as his short stories."

 

"They were. Perhaps his verse was even superior to his prose," Doc said crisply through sips of the brew. "The good Mr. Brody only started Dean's education. Alas, I fear the majority of the knowledge he needs to be well-rounded must come from within our merry little band of rogues. As the only educator here, I must accept my responsibility for his future development."

 

"Wish I had another cup of this coffee," J.B. said, looking down through his new specs at the bottom of the empty mug. "But I sure as hell don't feel like getting back in that line for a refill."

 

"Me, too. Times like this, I miss having a waitress," Krysty mused.

 

"Yeah, like that Sandy girl. The one we ran into back in Florida at that weird-ass Tuckey's roadhouse," J.B. said.

 

"Don't remind me," Mildred said with a laugh. "I still carry visions of that horrible orange decor."

 

"And of the mysterious pecan-nut log," Doc said wistfully. "If only I'd been allowed a taste"

 

"One bite and you'd probably still be back down in Florida, six feet under," Mildred told him. "I told you those damn things were probably over 150 years old."

 

"But preserved, perfectly preserved in their shiny red-and-white-plastic wrappers. I still wonder what treasures were hidden inside."

 

"A salty brown lump hard enough to bash a man's skull inor break out a few pearly white teeth."

 

"Good Tuckey's! Yum! Real stickie meat!" Dean added, getting caught up in the humor. "Visit Our Pettin ZooReal Live Mutents!"

 

"I see it left an impression on one of us, anyway," Krysty commented.

 

Still riding the high after the stress of the pitfight, Ryan gave in to a streak of humor and irony he didn't often indulge in. "Okay, okay," he said, raising a hand. "So the place was lacking in some of the refinements. But the food was good and we'd gotten off without any trouble if those four clowns in the fancy Western duds hadn't come in wanting to pick a fight."

 

"Still say you should have let me pet the muties, Dad."

 

"Pet a mutie and you come back a few fingers shy of a hand, Dean."

 

 

 

USING HIS NEWFOUND STATUS as the big winner of the day, Ryan decided to go ahead and stock up on as many supplies as their line of Freedom Mall credit would allow. He imagined it would be some time before they encountered a ville with such a wide variety of choices. At Krysty's suggestion, after their gut-busting meal, they went in search of some food that was practical to carry around in the less-than-ideal conditions of the Deathlands.

 

"Save some worry if we buy now," Krysty said. "And it's not often we have such choice."

 

First off was a stop at one of the numerous markets that lined the interior corridors of the mall in search of supplies that would travel well, like jerky and dried fruit, and Ryan even allowed himself the luxury of buying a box of ribbon-striped stick candy for special occasions. Doc was big on banana chips, and Ryan had to restrain him from stuffing his pockets to bursting with the yellowish crispy treats.

 

Some potato chips for immediate consumption, a few pull tabs of water, a canvas bag of coffee sub and a box of crackers divided among the group ended the food-shopping spree. All wanted to take along more, but knew overloading themselves with more than they could comfortably carry would prove wasteful in the long run.

 

Besides Dean's new shirt, which was an admitted impulse buy, the only clothing any of the group really needed was fresh socks and underwear. A shop called Under the Covers provided long tables stacked high with plastic-wrapped supplies of socks.

 

"North Carolina used to be big on textiles," one of the shop clerks explained. "There was a small ville up north from here called Mount Airy. All they did was have factories churning out boxes of socks. I'll bet there's more socks in this part of the world than in all of Deathlands. The thing is, you take what sizes are left."

 

Ryan eyeballed the chirpy salesgirl. "Will do," he said, and moved away as she pressed too close for comfort.

 

Underwear took some extra looking, and there were no bras to be found for the women. Trying to help conserve funds, Doc made a show of announcing he was sticking with his genuine one-of-a-kind long Johns.

 

"Keep wearing those moldy old drawers, and they're going to adhere to you like a second skin, Doc," Mildred retorted. "One of these nights, I'll have to surgically remove the smelly things!"

 

"Smelly? You dare cast aspersions on my cleanliness, woman?" Doc boomed in his best outraged tone of voice. He struck a lecturer's pose, one hand on his hip and the other tugging at the lapel of his frock coat.

 

"Now you've gone and done it," J.B. said sadly.

 

 

"I will have you know my personal hygiene is beyond reproach! On occasion, this extra layer of clothing I wear might be a burden during times of warmth, but who is the one enjoying the insulation when a brittle chill settles down around us at night? Dr. Theophilus Algernon Tanner, that's who!"

 

"Alas," Mildred retorted, sarcastically lifting the back of her hand to her brow and striking a shrinking-violet pose. "Once again I, Dr. Mildred Winona Wyeth, have been struck down by the irrefutable logic of a doddering old fool in a threadbare pair of long Johns! What can I do but admit defeat! Defeat!"

 

Doc gave Mildred a withering look. "At last she admits it. I have witnesses. Witnesses! Ryan, we must race posthaste to a notary public so that I might have this moment legally documented and signed!"

 

"No can do, Doc," Ryan said, shaking his head. "I'll pony up for a pair of black socks for your feet, though."

 

Doc bowed at the waist. "You are a kind man, my dear Ryan. Much too kind."

 

The place was wearing on everybody, and once the needed items were located, Ryan plunked down the charge chit for all.

 

"Another thing," J.B. said. "We need to stock up on some ammo if prices aren't too high."

 

"Only one way to find out," Ryan agreed.

 

Strangely enough, when they reached the designated area for blasters and ammunition, the storefront was abandoned. Closed. Empty. J.B. checked with the shop's neighbors and discovered it had sold out the inventory over a month earlier. The owner hadn't been seen since.

 

"What you think happened, Dad?" Dean asked after the Armorer returned with the bad news.

 

"Don't know, son," Ryan replied. "I do know one thing, though."

 

"What?"

 

"We're going to have to continue to conserve on bullets."