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  A dinner bell was rung soon after, summoning all to dinner. The other members of the commune, which seemed to consist of less than one hundred total, were mostly women with a small mix of children ranging from eight to about Dean's age. A few elderly folk were also in the count Ryan silently made. He noted the lack of men of any age. All of them were starting to mill about and take seats at the wooden picnic ta­bles in the tent.

  "We'll all eat, and you can enjoy tonight's enter­tainment. We'll talk more tomorrow," Shauna said. "For now, you are our guests."

  The meal that was being laid out before them was the first real solid nutrition any of the travelers had eaten since the visit to Tuckey's.

  The feast began with the placement of a single tall plastic tumbler on the table at the hand of each diner. After the glasses were down, two women in the fa­miliar jumpsuits walked down either side of the aisles with carts that bore large clear pitchers filled with an icy-cold brown liquid. The cold was a given since drops of condensation were beading the pitchers' ex­teriors.

  Each cup was filled to the top with the liquid, and the remainder of the pitcher left at the table.

  Mildred and Doc, recognizing the beverage, both responded by grabbing the plastic glasses and taking generous gulps.

  "By the Three Kennedys—" Doc began.

  "Ice tea!" Mildred finished.

  The rest of Ryan's party followed suit, drinking greedily from the glasses.

  "We believe in maintaining some of the old South­ern traditions down here," Shauna said.

  "Where'd you get the ice?" Dean asked. "You got a generator for a freezer?''

  "Of a sort. We harvest wind power for irrigation and electricity. We have a shed with electric lights, and some outlets to run refrigerators and freezers for storage."

  As the tea was being consumed, simple fresh salads came around. In the huge bowls plopped down at each table were lettuce, chopped celery, sliced radishes, onions, tomato wedges, strips of green pepper and a few bits of cucumber. An oil-and-vinegar dressing was also presented in small glass bottles. Dean was the only holdout who passed on filling his plate from the bowl, but everyone else happily partook of the chance for real, fresh vegetables instead of something dried or in a can.

  After the salads, ceramic bowls of a pasty cornmeal soup with chicken broth were given to the diners. The soup was a filling and tasty appetizer that everyone lapped up. After the soup was gone, the table was presented with a platter of white fish in tomato sauce, with finely chopped onion, garlic, parsley and sea kelp. The many natural additives gave the fish a spicy flavor that Mildred commented on as reminding her of a favored aunt's cooking.

  Shauna told the doctor all of the food was grown on the commune, and the spice she was tasting was undoubtedly coming from the fresh hot chili pepper that had been minced and added to the sauce for an extra kick, along with a smidgen of oregano.

  "You speak with authority, madam. Sounds as though you know your way around a kitchen," Doc told his hostess.

  "This is my recipe," Shauna replied. "And we have a few here who fancy themselves as chefs."

  "You may present them with my highest compli­ments," Doc said. "I have paid ample tender in the past for food from restaurants that claimed to be eat­eries that were not even close to the flavor of this repast."

  "That means he likes it," J.B. translated.

  The fish beneath the sauce was boneless, fine and flaky, and the many pounds brought out quickly disappeared. The left over tomato sauce was scopped up with chunks of coarse corn bread torn in hunks from the round loaves. The bread tasted gritty, with hints of honey and molasses, and washed down easily with more of the sweetened ice tea.

  For dessert, metal trays of steaming peach cobbler were brought out and dished up. Extra helpings would have been taken without hesitation, but the cobbler was such a hit there was barely enough to go around.

  "Most scrumptious," Doc said.

  No one could have put it better.

  WHEN THE TABLES WERE cleared, as promised, there was entertainment.

  Ryan begged off, citing lack of sleep and exhaus­tion, when all those close to him knew it was because he was still grieving for Krysty. They shared his grief while respecting his privacy. Ryan would socialize more with their benefactors—as well as his com­rades—when ready.

  Grateful to their rescuers, the rest of the group ac­cepted the invitation and soon joined dozens of other members of the commune on blankets around a cen­tral elevated platform. The platform had a half roof for protection and used the natural amphitheater pro­vided by an upthrust mass of rock.

  The companions were expecting live talent, per­haps a singer, or a band with simple string instru­ments, or even some sort of theatrical play with actors reciting poetry or scripted words while treading the boards of a makeshift stage. From what they had seen, the commune seemed to be as low tech as one might expect, with oil lamps and torches for light and open fires for cooking.

  "I hope it's not a storyteller," J.B. moaned sleep­ily. "I hate those long-winded stupes."

  "Oral traditions have been a part of mankind since he first learned to stand upright, John Barrymore." Doc admonished. "Before the advent of written lan­guage, the telling of stories was the only way of pre­serving culture from generation to generation."

  "Sounds more like tall tales and heaping mounds of crap to me," J.B. said, stifling a yawn. "Truth tends to get distorted in the telling."

  "True enough, but hopefully they become enter­taining, as well."

  "Well, I'll be damned. An honest to God boom box!" Mildred said, her voice tinged with delight.

  "Looks like a comm device to me. A big one," J.B. replied.

  "It's a radio, all right, John, but only a receiver. No two-way communication. You can't use it to broadcast, only to pick up open signals sent out across the airwaves."

  "I know what a radio is, Millie," J.B. said, sound­ing offended. "I just never saw one like that before."

  Shauna had brought out a rectangular black mon­strosity that was approximately four feet long and three feet high. Most of the "radio" was taken up by speaker capacity, with two large grid-covered sections on either end, and two smaller speakers in the upper corners. The front was slotted for the playing and re­cording of cassette tapes, while on top of the device was a concave indentation with a flip-top door where compact discs could be inserted. Various silver but­tons lined the radio's front center section beneath the door for the cassette player.

  On one end was a huge black knob and on the other, a knob of equal size but colored white. The device was topped off with a slender silver antenna, which she pulled up to full extension.

  Carter stepped up next to her, holding an old auto­motive battery with a mess of retrofitting and rigging along the top terminals. A single wire with a female receiving plug head at the end came from the mass of wiring. He plugged this into a three-prong male plug coming from the back of the box, glanced at Shauna and nodded affirmative as the lights and dials on the front of the radio lit up in a faint mix of amber and green.

  "You can say what you want about our neighbor, but Poseidon has great taste in music," Carter said with a grin to the audience, who all laughed in reply as he turned up the volume control.

  First there was static. Carter turned the largest dial, and the sound got clearer and less distorted.

  Then, there was a rich voice that resonated with loss, pain, hope and redemption all at the same time, a lyrical voice.

  The unearthly wail of Roy Orbison came out of both speakers, crying for the lonely ones. And after Roy, there was the rhythmic beat of Buddy Holly tell­ing them all that would be the day, and then the eerie mix of the twin voices of the Everly Brothers pro­claiming their eternal innocence. The Big Bopper bopped once more from the grave. James Brown called out and his backing band, the Famous Flames, responded to his every vocal nuance. Four men from Liverpool, England, wanted to hold your hand. The king of rock and roll cried in the chapel, a
nd then told you to lay off of his blue suede shoes.

  One after another, the songs of the past played without stop, echoing out over the pocket of humanity clinging to life among the ruins of the dead earth.

  Mildred, dwelling on her lost world and her lost friends, shuddered, then sighed, fighting to hold back the tears.

  "What's wrong, Millie?" J.B. asked.

  "No chatter. No advertising. Nothing but music," Mildred said in a mocking voice, echoing the tones of the radio DJs of her own youth. ' 'It took us until the millennium and the end of the world to get rid of Madison Avenue, but by God, it might have been a fair trade. One civilization in exchange for some peace and quiet."

  She paused, and added bitterly, "If only we'd been able to keep from blowing up most of the planet in the process."

  The group of friends sat quietly after that, listening to the music play long into the night.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Morning brought yet another vibrant sunny day.

  Dean awakened alone. Stretching, he got up from the mattress and walked outside. He spotted an older Hispanic woman from the night before and waved. She waved back, then gestured for Dean to approach.

  "Morning," she said. "Did you enjoy the enter­tainment?"

  "Sure did! I even liked the slow songs."

  "Good, good. I have a boy about your age. I'll introduce you to him later after he has done his chores."

  "Okay. Um, any idea where my dad is?" Dean asked.

  "Probably having breakfast," she replied. "Of course, it is getting late."

  "Thanks, I could use some breakfast myself," Dean said. "But I think I'll wash my face first."

  The young man stepped over to the communal well and brought up a bucket of clear cold water, pouring it into a free-standing scavenged sink near the tubs. Dean poured a ladleful over his head and then slicked his hair back with a small black pocket comb. Look­ing at himself in a broken scrap of mirror hanging on the pole where the sink was mounted, Dean decided he looked presentable enough, and headed for the main tent.

  Then he saw the inhuman shadow loom up from behind him.

  Turning with a sharp cry of surprise, Dean dropped into a fighter's stance, ready to do battle.

  Standing before him, at seven feet tall and with a quizzical expression, was a Dweller. Dean could tell from the shape of the face and the eyes this wasn't the same mutie that had assisted the companions yes­terday.

  Boy and mutie stared at each other.

  Then the Hispanic woman passed by and called out, "Morning, Carl."

  The Dweller slowly raised a hand in greeting to the woman.

  "He won't hurt you, Dean," she said, continuing back on her way.

  "You're welcome to the sink. I was just finishing up," the boy said, stepping away from the well and the small bathing area.

  Dean didn't look back as he walked fast into the large communal tent with the picnic tables where he'd dined the evening before. There were a few of the commune members inside. At a rear table by himself with a platter of leftover white fish, fried potatoes and scrambled eggs was Doc.

  "The sun always rises, and so does youth—even­tually," Doc said.

  "How's it hanging, Doc?" Dean snorted back as he sat down across from the old man.

  "By a thread, dear boy. I fear it may soon drop off altogether."

  "Where is everybody?"

  "Out on a scouting mission. Your father wishes to learn more about Admiral Poseidon. I believe he in­tends to challenge him over the unfortunate deaths of Krysty and Jak," Doc said after chewing up a mouth­ful of meat and eggs.

  "Damned straight."

  "Beware the enticement of revenge, Dean."

  "Eye for an eye, Doc. This Poseidon has it com­ing."

  "Perhaps."

  "Why didn't he take me?"

  "It was decided to let you sleep in. I promised to tell you what was going on when you awakened. Frankly I did not feel much like getting up myself," Doc said conspiratorially. "My mind is back, but my body is still lacking."

  Dean got up and walked over to a stack of wooden plates and utensils. He returned with one and a glass of water.

  "Mind sharing?" he asked, gesturing toward the repast Doc was filling his own plate from.

  "Not at all. Dig in."

  Dean did. "I got to tell you, Doc. I like eating fish better than talking to them."

  "Oh, you have met Carl," Doc replied. "He is quite the conversationalist."

  "No, but he makes up for it in odor. Those Dweller guys stink!" Dean said.

  "They are part fish, young Cawdor, what do you expect?" Doc replied, keeping his attention on his third helping of food. "Their scent was like pure am­brosia when they showed up at our raft."

  "There's a man with a well-trained nose," inter­jected Shauna, who had stepped under the protective awning and into the tent in time to hear the end of the conversation. "You two didn't want to go with the others?"

  "I did, but they wouldn't let me," Dean grumbled.

  "And I," Doc added with a slight burp, "I am still weary from our sea voyage. Let the others scheme and plot this morning. I shall sup from this bountiful breakfast until I have had my fill, and then I plan to return to my deep slumber."

  "That's fine," the woman said, turning to step back outside. She held off, then swung her sleekly muscled body back to face Dean.

  "By the way, Ryan Jr.—" she began.

  "Name's Dean."

  "I'd watch my words around here when com­menting on the Dwellers. They're a mite sensitive about having their mutie traits so baldly pointed out, especially from a runt like you. They can't help being what they are. Now, you might be—"

  Dean interrupted her for a second time. "I call them as I see them. Or smell 'em."

  Shauna's right hand shot up like it was spring pro­pelled from where she'd been resting it lightly on the edge of the wooden camp table. Her steely fingers grabbed Dean by the earlobe and squeezed. He bucked in his chair and cried out, more in surprise than pain.

  "Interrupt me again, and I'll toss you off the near­est dock myself," she said. "Didn't your daddy teach you anything about manners?"

  "Lady, if you don't let go of me, my dad will slice you into so many pieces, your fishy friends won't be able to find enough left to use as cut bait," Dean said, but much of the bravado had leaked out of his voice like air from a burst balloon.

  "He'll have to chill me first, Junior, and you'll still be dead."

  "As I recall, madam," came Doc's calm tones from his end of the table, "the boy's father was dis­cussing that very same subject a few weeks back." Doc paused to chew another mouthful of the cooked fish he'd been forking into his mouth while placidly observing the altercation between Dean and Shauna.

  "What? About being chilled?" Shauna twisted Dean's ear again to emphasize her point. The boy involuntarily raised himself from his seat, attempting to keep the pain under control.

  "No. About manners. Dean is young, a mere slip of a man just on the cusp of his teenage years. I assure you he means no disrespect to you, our host, or to the unfortunate Dwellers. The boy has lost a woman he loved as a mother and a longtime friend in the span of one stormy night. Any words out of his mouth right now are to be viewed as suspect. I suggest he's trans­posing his own anger at their perishing, and his emo­tional anguish, into aggression at yourself."

  Doc's blue eyes misted up when speaking of Krysty and Jak. He took out his swallow's-eye ker­chief and dabbed at his forehead and cheeks. "Emo­tional anguish that each of us you rescued is still try­ing to cope with in our own private ways."

  Shauna pondered that, still keeping a white-knuckled grip on Dean's aching ear.

  "You make good sense, Tanner. You said you were a doctor, but not a med guy. What, you a head-shrinker or something?"

  "I?" Doc boomed, sounding offended. "My de­gree is in philosophy, my dear, and in philosophy, men have found answers to the questions that plague them for thousands of years. My wisdom comes from
the words and teachings of the ancients, along with a healthy dose of education I've been exposed to while traversing these so quaintly—and so accurately— named Deathlands."

  Shauna chuckled at that, and released her grip on Dean's earlobe. The boy slumped in his chair sul­lenly, rubbing the sore spot where her fingers had twisted the sensitive cartilage. His skinny arms crossed in over his chest in an unconscious protective position.

  "Okay, Dr. Tanner, we'll let this one go. I haven't had to deal personally with a boy child in a long time, and I've forgotten how mouthy they can be. I'm still hoping we can convince your group to hang with us. We need warriors if we're ever going to get out from under Admiral Poseidon's thumb. I won't speak of it to Cawdor if you won't."

  "My lips are sealed. As for Dean's…" Doc trailed off, leaving the boy an opening.

  Dean stared up at Shauna. "Doc says nothing hap­pened, I say nothing happened."

  "Damn, but you are your father's son," she com­mented, and left the way she came.

  "Thanks for the assist, Doc," Dean said. "My ear feels like she twisted it plumb off my skull."

  "There was never any reason for you to fear, young Cawdor," Doc said, and suddenly, like a razor-edged jack-in-the-box, the cutting blade hidden within his walking stick sprang out from a secure and hidden place beneath the table. "Had she continued to press the issue, I would have been forced to sever her of­fending appendage at the wrist."

  Doc returned the blade to its proper place and dropped his swordstick back into his lap.

  "Now, be a good boy and please pass that bowl of potatoes. I must address my starch deficiency."

  RYAN LOOKED DOWN at the colors of the coastline below him, the vibrant hues of the ocean and the dusky tones of the land, dotted with sporadic growth of forest and upheavals of rock, and knew in the bot­tom of his soul that any other time, he would have allowed himself to enjoy the sight. This part of Geor­gia seemed to have escaped the utter devastation other sections of the United States had endured. Krysty would have liked it. She liked any natural spot that was unblemished.

  At his side were J.B. and Mildred, along with their long-haired guide, Alan Carter. They all stood at the top of a one-hundred-foot observation tower built of wood and metal.