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beneath her in the spray-topped water.
She was partly on his blind side, and he tipped his head to glance up at her,
thinking what an amazing physique she had broad shoulders tapered to a slim
waist and tight, firm buttocks; she had the thighs of an athlete, with slim
ankles; her breasts were tipped with fire, her nipples hard as cherry stones.
The steam was affecting Krysty's sentient hair, which was uncoiling after the
defensive tightness against the cockroaches, tumbling in vivid waves of
luxuriant crimson. Ryan noticed that the curling hair at the junction of her
magnificent thighs was opening like a soft vermilion fan.
"See what you like?"
He grinned. "And I like what I see. Come on, Krysty." He held his arms up to
accept her into the embracing warmth of the steaming tub.
One in the bank of hair dryers wasn't working. And when they tried to shower
after their lovemaking in the tub, Ryan and Krysty discovered that half of
them were only running cold.
AFTER HIS BATH Ryan took the opportunity to shave off the stubble that seemed
almost a permanent part of his life, revealing the livid scar that seamed
across his right cheek from the corner of his good eye past the angle of his
mouth.
Krysty brushed out her hair, making it crackle with vitality. By the time
they'd finished, their clothes were ready, clean and dry, slightly warmed.
Ryan laced up his boots, stretched and yawned. "That was so good,
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Deathlands - Ice and Fire lover," he said quietly. "All I want now is a decent
meal and then twelve hours of bed."
She didn't reply. Dressed only in her bikini briefs, she walked to stand by
him, kissing him on the cheek, as soft as the caress of a hummingbird's wing.
J. B. DIX, TRIM AND SPRUCE, had found what had once been the living quarters
for some of the administrative officers in the redoubt separate cubicles, each
with double-size beds, and dining areas with tables that seated six. The
kitchen units held a better than average range of tinned food. To everyone's
relief the stove worked and there was no need to open any of the ubiquitous
and disliked self-heats.
"By the three Kennedys!" Doc exclaimed. "But we are surely the most elegant
sextet in all of Deathlands.
Not to mention the most fragrant."
Jak had appointed himself in charge of the cooking facilities and he was
bustling around, helped by Lori.
The boy's hair, under the rare influence of shampoo and clean hot water,
danced around his narrow face like the fine spray of the ocean thrown on
jagged rocks. Ryan found cutlery and plates while J.B.
scavenged around some of the lockers in the individual rooms.
"What're you heating up for us, Jak?" Krysty asked, leaning back in one chair,
resting the heels of her boots on another.
The boy peered at the faded labels as he slid them into the electric opener.
"Tomato soup, oxtail soup and vegetable soup for the start. Potatoes, chicken
nuggets and corn. Cherry and apple pie to finish up."
"Sounds real good," Ryan said, licking his lips in anticipation. "Hope it's
not gone sour over the years."
"Tins would have blown," Krysty observed. "Should be fine. Oh, but that smells
wonderful, guys! I can't wait."
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"And look what I found to go with it," said the Armorer, brandishing a ribbed
bottle half-full of a dark amber liquid.
"What's that?" Lori asked.
Doc, who'd been fiddling with some sort of electrical control unit in the
corner of the dining area, glanced around. "That's Southern Comfort, child.
The peach nectar of the gods. Set 'em up, John Barrymore Dix.
Best damned barman from Portland, Maine toto somewhere else. Make it one for
my baby and one for the road."
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Deathlands - Ice and Fire
Chapter Five
IT WAS a truly magical evening.
Krysty found some old wax candles in a tiny cupboard marked Emergency
Illumination, and they dimmed the overhead neon strips and sat in the soft
pools of spilled golden light. The Southern Comfort was as marvellous as Doc
had said, brimming over with the taste of peach summers long, long dead and
buried in wastelands of glowing ash.
The heated food was some of the best any of them had ever tasted. The soup was
a little thick on additives and preservatives, though Lori had succeeded in
scooping most of it from the top.
Doc had managed to get the range of concealed speakers around the angles of
the room to function, digging out a set of ceedees to accompany the meal. Most
of it what he called classical music. Ryan would personally have liked some
songs with words, but he had to admit the gentle rhythm went well with the
unhurried, peaceful meal.
"This is Vivaldi," Doc informed them, beating time to the music with his fork.
"Four Seasons. Lovely, isn't it? There's a Mozart flute concerto next, and
then some Gregorian chant. Monastic music." He looked around the table, seeing
only a universal blankness. "Well, perhaps you'll like it anyway."
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