Watersleep Page 8

  "Ace on the line there, J.B. It makes sense now. I couldn't figure out for the life of me why Cajuns had come all this way," Ryan said. "Now we know."

  "We think they saw the rad poisoning coming, so they decided to find another home with the same cli­mate. Probably got some boats to make the trip along the gulf," Bill said. "I hear they've set themselves up along the coastline of Mississippi and Alabama, long about where Biloxi and Mobile used to be. There's all kinds of tales about a Cajun boss by the name of Rollins. Guy takes being a midget a little too close to heart, and fancies himself to be the next Na­poleon."

  "I know about him, Dad!" Dean interjected excit­edly. "Learned his game back at the school. He was a shrimpy man with a thirst for conquering way back. Saw himself as the biggest baron in the whole world! Took over every ville he could find."

  "Ah, but did you also learn that Napoleon had his Waterloo—and his Elba?" Doc asked. "The ultimate fate of any and all who become crazed with power."

  "Well, he had a triple-good time while it lasted, Doc," Dean retorted.

  "Napoleon, Boss Larry and now Rollins—sounds to me like another tin-plated, swaggering asshole with delusions of grandeur," Ryan commented.

  Bill laughed heartily at that comment and slapped his bony thighs in delight. "Aren't they all?"

  IRONICALLY ENOUGH, after passing the varied amuse­ments, then hanging a left at Centerpoint, Bill took the group to the Gator Motel, the very same place they had stayed during their last visit.

  The building had once been cruciform in shape, with a central lobby at the midpoint of the four arms. A fire from long ago had destroyed three of the arms of the cross, therefore effectively leveling three-fourths of the motel.

  The surviving section was known as the Gator Wing. The motif was pure jungle, with once bright hues of shocking purple and pink and blue. The carpet had been nearly trod through, but enough remained in places to hint at the sea green color the floors of the hotel had once been.

  Still, despite the run-down appearance, the place was dry.

  "I would love to grab a shower," Mildred said. "I haven't felt so sticky in I don't know when."

  "You're in luck, my good woman," Bill said. "Place still has running water, but don't overdo it with the hot. The heater's been moaning and groaning something fierce. The emergency generator's still up and sparking, so there's electricity for lights as long as we don't overdo it."

  "A bath! Man, that'll be a hot pipe!" Dean said. "Maybe they've still got some of that Prince Mayakovsky Splash On smelly stuff!"

  Remembering the rancid odor of the long gone bad after-shave, Krysty wrinkled her nose. "Gaia, but I hope not," she said with a laugh.

  "How many rooms do you need?" Bill asked.

  "Four, if you can spare them," Ryan said, glancing over the faces of his companions. That would provide a double for J.B. and Mildred, Jak and Dean and him and Krysty. A single would suffice for the companionless Doc, who deserved a reprieve from putting up with the younger and more rambunctious Dean and Jak. "But I guess three'll do in a pinch."

  Bill laughed softly. "Four shouldn't be a problem. Plenty of space in the Gator Wing here at the finely appointed Gator Motel. I'm here all alone."

  THE HOT WATER of the shower felt good on Ryan's skin. After waking up soaked in the gateway chamber that morning, and then being sodden for hours during the rainy trek into Greenglades, with the added bonus of the dunking courtesy of those giant leeches, he'd debated subjecting himself to yet more water by bath­ing, but was now glad Krysty had insisted.

  First he shaved with good hot water in the salmon pink sink—shaving cream courtesy of the medicine chest in the room's bath—then he discovered actual toothpaste in the same chest, as well as a pristine cake of soap, still shrink-wrapped in the original wrapper. A worn but clean Gator Motel washcloth from the storage closet outside the room would help top off the experience.

  As he turned his back to the showerhead and al­lowed the soothing warmth to massage his shoulders, Ryan decided he could get used to staying in motels when traveling. Large red welts left from the leech along his right side from under his armpit to his but­tocks were already starting to fade. He'd been lucky.

  The battle could've gone much worse if he hadn't been quicker with the panga, and he might be carrying oblong scars permanently or have been sucked dry by the freakish creatures.

  What had caused something like leeches to mutate into eight-foot-long monsters like that? Exposure to radiation?

  Ryan sighed and decided he didn't know or really care. He pushed the memory from his mind and blanked his senses, enjoying the warm water beating down.

  "Room for one more?" a feminine voice said from the other side of the thick shower curtain.

  "Depends."

  "On what?"

  "On who that is behind the curtain. I don't want any old dried-up wrinklie in here with me."

  "Sometimes you have to take a chance. Go with your gut instinct."

  "It's not my gut advising me right now," Ryan admitted, feeling another kind of warmth, this time from the inside of his body, starting to spread along his groin.

  "Good." Krysty pushed aside the edge of the cur­tain, stepping into the shower stall with him. Her fair white skin was in sharp contrast to Ryan's darker body as she turned to face him. He could see a light dusting of freckles on her shoulders and he fought the urge to reach out and cover them with caresses.

  "Need some help scrubbing your back?" she asked, reaching down and doing delicious things with her fingers.

  "That's not my back," Ryan said distractedly.

  "You want me to stop?"

  "Not on your life."

  Krysty laughed, a sensual, throaty sound that aroused Ryan even more. The tone of her laugh re­vealed a hint of the earthy lust he knew took over her mind and body during these interludes.

  Ryan reached out a hand of his own, sliding the washcloth from her neck down to her breasts.

  "You wash my back and I'll wash yours," he mur­mured, rubbing the cloth gently in ever tightening cir­cles over her left breast, then her right, then back to her left. Both nipples were now erect as Krysty sighed deeply. Ryan kept rubbing, varying the pressure from hard to soft, sometimes focusing directly on the nip­ple, sometimes on the soft underside of the breast.

  "Been too long since we've had—" she began, then Ryan covered her mouth with his own.

  "No talking," he whispered. "All I hear, day in, day out, is talk. Not now."

  At first the kisses were soft, teasing, but quickly escalated into a flurry of rapid tongue movements and quick inhalations. Krysty's soft breath exploded from her nostrils as Ryan lifted her up and pushed himself fully into her inviting soft warmth. They met at the waist, joined, and he had to freeze, lengthening the pleasure before sliding himself back and almost out before thrusting back in.

  Once again, as he gazed down at her beauty, Ryan silently thanked whatever fates had thrown him and Krysty together. The rare moments such as these, when they were truly alone and away from the eternal vigilance of traveling into new and dangerous terri­tory, were a taste of true freedom and independence.

  They made slow love, Ryan standing, Krysty in his arms and her legs wrapped around the small of his back, the dull pink tile of the shower stall serving as a backdrop to their impassioned coupling.

  She came, once quickly and the second time much slower, willing herself to allow the pleasure and the pressure to build. The first orgasm had been sharp and fast, brought about by her body's demands, but the second was for her, and she selfishly held back until the sensual demand for release couldn't be denied. Ryan, knowing her physical arousal responses and patterns as well as his own, quickened the pace, tim­ing his own explosive passion to match hers.

  He closed his eyes, burying his face in her shoul­der, beneath her heavy, wet hair, savoring the mo­ment.

  They held each other in the gentle spray of the shower, and for some reason he couldn't quite yet fathom, Ryan clu
ng to her tight, like a drowning man to a life preserver. Again the sensation of being trapped underwater flooded across his mind, but this time he went down willingly. With Krysty at his side, he would gladly fall all the way to the bottom and beyond.

  Chapter Eight

  Long days had passed since Ryan and the others left the walls and attractions of Greenglades ville. Wild Bill had pointed them in the direction of what he said were the broken remains of Highway 10 from the edge of the theme park's parking lot. Surprisingly enough, numerous stripped, burned and corroded cars still dotted the asphalt lot, each one parked in its lonely slot, waiting vainly for its owner to return.

  "Greenglades was located right off the highway for easy access. At least, that's what the old park bro­chures say. A lot of the structure was damaged in the last quake, but it's still passable. Go up this ramp here," Bill said, pointing to a broken but climbable concrete-and-steel overpass that could be seen tow­ering above the tree line edging the park area. "And then turn left. Stay on the old road, and it'll carry you clean across the state to Jacksonville. It's pretty much a straight line to the East Coast. There should be some small villes set up along the way—nothing much, but enough to trade with and get the latest info on any marauders or other road hazards you might be walk­ing toward."

  "You're welcome to come with us, Bill," Ryan said. "Nothing left for you here, and when those Cajuns back in the swamp don't report in, I imagine there'll be others out looking for who chilled them."

  "Thanks, but no. I'm staying put. I'm too old to change my ways now, and I know where everything is. Don't want to have to go and relearn. Those Cajun bastards won't bother me. Besides, my wife's buried here, and I'd just as soon stay close to her until my time comes." The older man's voice dropped. "Don't know if a man like you can understand that, Mr. Caw­dor, but that's how I feel."

  A younger Ryan Cawdor wouldn't have understood Bill's logic of wanting to remain behind, tending to his dead wife's memory. A more experienced and wiser Ryan Cawdor knew exactly what their new comrade meant.

  "I never question a man's feelings," Ryan said, and extended his hand. The old man took it and gave Ryan a firm handshake back. "Watch your rear flank."

  "And you, yours."

  The old man stood in the rain and watched the group depart. He stood there for a very long time before he turned and went home.

  AS A BENEFACTOR, Bill was second to none. He had insisted on sending them out with a small smattering of foodstuffs from his own kitchen, and some fresh underclothes taken from one of the plastic-wrapped supply rooms that once fed the numerous Greenglades Theme Park souvenir stands.

  "You'd look great in mouse ears, Doc," Mildred had said.

  "Wrong theme park, madam!" Doc snorted. "No mouse ears or ears of any sort other than my own shall adorn my noble brow, and I am not about to wear a hat decorated with the bill of that cursed goose mascot that adorns so much of the decoration here. However, you would do well to wear such attire."

  "Why's that, Doc?" J.B. asked, playing along.

  "All the better to tell the world firsthand she's a quack."

  "Ow," J.B. cried out as Mildred slapped his upper arm. "He's the one who said it!"

  "Yeah, but you were the one encouraging him, John."

  However, despite Doc's reluctance to serve as a corporate shill, Dean and Jak had both eagerly ac­cepted standard-issue baseball caps with the official Greenglades logo embroidered on the front. The rest had decided to stay with their own familiar fedoras and hats for protection.

  "A little keepsake of your stay," Bill had said wistfully as he pulled the hat down on Dean's head.

  Considering the rain had only let up for intermittent periods during their journey, the hats had been a wise choice. Day upon day and night upon night had been dank, dark and wet

  Roughly at the midpoint of their journey across the state, the small procession slouching through the pummeling rain for yet most of another long day's walk discovered a sign.

  The sign, in red letters on white, read Good Fod Fast.

  "I fear proper spelling is following close on the heels of the eradication of the King's English in modern society," Doc commented, tapping the misspelled word with the end of his swordstick as the group stood in a half circle and looked at the badly painted enticement.

  "Doesn't matter, long as the food's good," J.B. said.

  "You mean 'fod's good,' John," Mildred said with a smile. "You're right, though. Illiteracy never stopped a good cook unless he mixed up the sugar and the salt."

  "They must've painted over an old highway road sign," Ryan said, using the edge of his panga to scratch away at the outer coating. He was rewarded with a flash of silver-and-bright-green metal beneath the badly applied cream-colored layer.

  "I'll bet this was the exit sign for drivers," Mildred agreed. "Not much use for it now."

  "We talk or we eat?" Jak asked impatiently.

  "Might as well," Ryan said, taking the point and leading the group down the exit to the restaurant be­low. "Get us out of this rad-blasted rain for a while, anyway."

  "Who's Tuckey, dad?" Dean asked, looking at a ruined but still legible mass of plastic that rose im­posingly on twin steel legs above the sloped roof of the restaurant. One corner of the towering edifice was missing, but the name of the eatery was still readable. "Think he owns this place?"

  "No," Ryan replied. "That sign's beforetime. Tuckey went down along with everybody else after the nukecaust."

  Mildred was about to attempt an explanation, then thought better of it. At times, it was better to keep silent and let some of the less memorable customs and institutions from her past remain buried in the refuse and rubble of time.

  "Tuckey's. Sounds like stickies," Krysty said, turning up her nose in distaste.

  "Now, there's a meal I want to eat," Ryan said sarcastically, grinning back at her. "Give me a heap­ing helping of stickie meat."

  "Gross," Mildred added.

  As they approached the building proper, another sign near the thick glass-and-wood door proclaimed Visit Our Pettin Zoo. Beneath the pronouncement, in small letters, was added, Real Live Mutants!

  "Wonder what's in the zoo, Dad?" Dean asked after reading the sign aloud in a careful voice. "You think they really got muties?"

  "Probably, but a mutie is nothing I'd want to pet, son, and I'd sure as hell not want to put up any jack for the experience. Best leave the poor bastards alone."

  Ryan held open the glass door into the restaurant and allowed the others to enter. When he pushed the door's handle, a small bell tied to the wall over their heads gave a jaunty jingle to signal their arrival.

  "Well, I guess it's nice to know some things never change," Mildred said softly, her dark eyes drinking in the room's furnishings and decoration. Tuckey's was almost a perfectly preserved relic from the pre-dark days of 1974.

  The interior of the eatery held everyone's eye. The dominant color was a faded reddish orange. The ta­bles, the chairs, even the walls were covered in the vibrantly toned yet well-worn Formica. Overhead, nonworking electric lights came with plastic orange shades. The scuffed floor tiles underfoot were a mix of off-white and a light yellowish orange, arranged in a checkerboard pattern. Each of the tiles came with a small letter T embossed in gold in the center.

  "This Tuckey guy must've loved orange," J.B. muttered.

  Ryan, once he'd had his fill of the orange, took in the rest of the dining room. One older man sat at the bar, sipping at a mug of what looked like coffee-sub. A small saucer in front of him held a few blackened pieces of bread. Across from the man in a booth sat another traveler who appeared to be in his midthirties. He was eating from a bowl with a spoon and stared back at Ryan as the one-eyed man gave him the once over.

  Deciding the eatery was apparently what it ap­peared to be, Ryan strode across the floor to a windowless wall and chose a large round table located in a corner of the dining room. Two thick orange candles were in brown bottles at the middle of the ta
ble, serv­ing the dual function as a centerpiece and as light to eat by. He took the seat nearest the wall and leaned back. From this vantage point, he could see anyone who came in or out of the entrance, and had a good view of the dual kitchen doors to the back.

  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.

  Summoned by the ring of the chime over the door, a waitress came from the kitchen. Attired in a dirty uniform in two shades of orange, she looked to be in her late forties. Her dark brown hair was tied back in a severe bun and tucked under an orange paper hat. A name tag above her left breast read Hi, My Name Is Sandy. The "Sandy" had been added in black marker. She carried a well-chewed yellow number-two pencil that was almost a nub in her right hand and a small notepad in the left.

  "Afternoon," she drawled. "You folks passin' through, are you?"

  "Right about that," Ryan said.

  "I knew. I know all the locals," the waitress noted with a nod.

  "Saw your sign out on the interstate and thought we'd come in and eat before it got dark," Krysty added.

  She seemed pleased they had read the sign. "My husband and me, we painted that advertisement up all by ourselves. You made a good choice stoppin'. No­where else to eat for another forty miles, and not a better place until you hit the East Coast."

  Doc rubbed his hands in anticipation of warm food.

  "Pray tell, Madam Sandy, what is on the famed Tuckey's menu for a hungry traveler?"

  "Same as what was on it last night. Stew."

  "What kind of stew?" Doc queried.

  "Stew…stew, I guess. Hell, I don't cook it, I just serve it. There's some meat, not much, but enough. Some vegetables. Pepper. You know. Stew."

  "Looks like we're having stew, then," Ryan said. "You serving up real coffee?"

  The waitress snorted. "We both wish, mister. No, we've got Bojar's Blend. It's a sub. Not too bad if you mix it thick."

  "Fine. We'll have that, too. Bring the pot."

  "How about dessert?"

  Ryan was about to decline, but then caught the ex­cited look on Dean's face. "Depends. What is it?"