loot. There were all kinds of Army surplus around: food, clothing, tools, medical equipment, you name it. I figured Sean had been real busy at the local Army base or National Guard Armory. I stared at the flickering flame of a Primus stove, listening to him talk.
“ Yeah, I got me some good prospects for tomorrow, my brothers,” he said, staring up into the darkness. “There’s a nest of Trogs not two blocks from here, over near where I found you boys. There’s gotta be a sewer grating or manhole cover around there that I haven’t found. They’re down there somewhere, brothers. I’ll get ‘em. Fuck yes, I’ll get ‘em. Nothing finer than Trog-hunting. You boys oughta pitch in with me. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
“We need a car,” Specs said.
“Maybe I can help you with that tomorrow. First you gotta help me kill some Trogs.” He laughed. “We better get some sleep. Trog-hunting is hard work. Nash, kill that stove. Let’s rack out.”
7
The next morning we ate good. Better than I had in many, many weeks. Sean’s larder was far superior to our usual fair of cold Spaghettios and tins of deviled ham. He had lots of Army MREs and we ate scrambled eggs and bacon, crackers and jelly, and had some peach cobbler for dessert.
“Fill yourselves, my brothers,” Sean told us. “You’ll need your strength.”
As it turned out, he was right. And that was something I learned to remember later: Sean was very often right.
Well, he armed us and led us out on a Trog hunt. He gave me a Beretta 9mm handgun and a 30.06 Savage. He gave Specs a bluesteel .357 Smith and told him not to blow his fucking foot off with it. He also made us wear yellow miner’s hardhats with lights on them. Batteries being scarce, we weren’t allowed to turn them on without his say so.
He showed me two white phosphorus grenades he had.
“For Trogs?” I said.
“If you get a pack of ‘em, these’ll sort ‘em out. Hope I get to use them.”
Christ.
Why did we go along with him? I don’t know. There was no threat intended or implied. We could have walked—sans the guns—anytime we wanted, but we really didn’t want to. I was amazed by Sean. He was a cool head that never lost his temper. Deadly as they came, but honest and loyal in his own way. And resourceful. Jesus, he was resourceful. Wasn’t much he didn’t know about guns and ammunition and fighting. He knew how to stay alive, that was for sure.
A few hours after breakfast—which was served at the crack of noon—we were back in the same vicinity where Sean had found us. He led us into a collapsing building down near the river. Most of the windows were boarded up and there was graffiti all over it. I figured it had been derelict long before Doomsday. Inside, it was dusty and dirty, cobwebs hanging down like party streamers. There were offices, storage rooms, and a big garage in the back. It looked kind of like an old fire hall. Light came in through missing boards in the windows and holes in the walls, but not a lot of it.
We moved through the dimness, past rotting cardboard boxes of ancient ledgers and file folders, water-damaged crates of rusting machine parts.
“What was this place?” Specs asked.
“Hell if I know,” Sean told him. “Come on.”
He directed us through the heaped wreckage, pawing through cobwebbed corridors. The masonry was crumbling around us. There were rat droppings everywhere. Sean found a human skull, kicked it, and laughed when it bounced off the wall and dropped neatly into a garbage can.
“Two points,” he said.
A few bats were disturbed from their daytime sleep and winged angrily over our heads.
“Gah,” Specs said. “I really hate bats.”
“Least they’re normal bats,” Sean said. “Ain’t the size of condors and got teeth like jaguars, laugh like hyenas. Seen a colony of ‘em like that over in Detroit-Shoreway. Enough to give you fucking nightmares for a month.”
He brought us through the garage and into
“ Yeah, I got me some good prospects for tomorrow, my brothers,” he said, staring up into the darkness. “There’s a nest of Trogs not two blocks from here, over near where I found you boys. There’s gotta be a sewer grating or manhole cover around there that I haven’t found. They’re down there somewhere, brothers. I’ll get ‘em. Fuck yes, I’ll get ‘em. Nothing finer than Trog-hunting. You boys oughta pitch in with me. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
“We need a car,” Specs said.
“Maybe I can help you with that tomorrow. First you gotta help me kill some Trogs.” He laughed. “We better get some sleep. Trog-hunting is hard work. Nash, kill that stove. Let’s rack out.”
7
The next morning we ate good. Better than I had in many, many weeks. Sean’s larder was far superior to our usual fair of cold Spaghettios and tins of deviled ham. He had lots of Army MREs and we ate scrambled eggs and bacon, crackers and jelly, and had some peach cobbler for dessert.
“Fill yourselves, my brothers,” Sean told us. “You’ll need your strength.”
As it turned out, he was right. And that was something I learned to remember later: Sean was very often right.
Well, he armed us and led us out on a Trog hunt. He gave me a Beretta 9mm handgun and a 30.06 Savage. He gave Specs a bluesteel .357 Smith and told him not to blow his fucking foot off with it. He also made us wear yellow miner’s hardhats with lights on them. Batteries being scarce, we weren’t allowed to turn them on without his say so.
He showed me two white phosphorus grenades he had.
“For Trogs?” I said.
“If you get a pack of ‘em, these’ll sort ‘em out. Hope I get to use them.”
Christ.
Why did we go along with him? I don’t know. There was no threat intended or implied. We could have walked—sans the guns—anytime we wanted, but we really didn’t want to. I was amazed by Sean. He was a cool head that never lost his temper. Deadly as they came, but honest and loyal in his own way. And resourceful. Jesus, he was resourceful. Wasn’t much he didn’t know about guns and ammunition and fighting. He knew how to stay alive, that was for sure.
A few hours after breakfast—which was served at the crack of noon—we were back in the same vicinity where Sean had found us. He led us into a collapsing building down near the river. Most of the windows were boarded up and there was graffiti all over it. I figured it had been derelict long before Doomsday. Inside, it was dusty and dirty, cobwebs hanging down like party streamers. There were offices, storage rooms, and a big garage in the back. It looked kind of like an old fire hall. Light came in through missing boards in the windows and holes in the walls, but not a lot of it.
We moved through the dimness, past rotting cardboard boxes of ancient ledgers and file folders, water-damaged crates of rusting machine parts.
“What was this place?” Specs asked.
“Hell if I know,” Sean told him. “Come on.”
He directed us through the heaped wreckage, pawing through cobwebbed corridors. The masonry was crumbling around us. There were rat droppings everywhere. Sean found a human skull, kicked it, and laughed when it bounced off the wall and dropped neatly into a garbage can.
“Two points,” he said.
A few bats were disturbed from their daytime sleep and winged angrily over our heads.
“Gah,” Specs said. “I really hate bats.”
“Least they’re normal bats,” Sean said. “Ain’t the size of condors and got teeth like jaguars, laugh like hyenas. Seen a colony of ‘em like that over in Detroit-Shoreway. Enough to give you fucking nightmares for a month.”
He brought us through the garage and into
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