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Hobarth was canny. He knew "Max Argent" well enough to know that if he wanted something, he jumped at a chance, whether it was a night on clean sheets or a volume in the little library that existed in the Hobarth attic.
"Reading again? Confed..". Hobarth knew parts manuals and truck manufacturers, but preferred the pool table and old pinball machines of the family rec room when it came time to unwind.
"Confederacy of Dunces", Valentine supplied.
"Sounds like the ministers in Kansas City. I hear there's cholera. Both sides of the river".
Kansas was bleeding again, and much on the mind of the whole Hobarth clan. She had broken into warring factions, supported by the UFR in the east and the powerful Kurians of the Southwest on the other side of the Arkansas River. "Route 666" had become tougher than ever.
Valentine contemplated his tea. "One of them will get bled. The Kurians don't like people dying without orders and proper processing".
Hobarth stiffened a little. It didn't do to say such things, even deep in the relatively neutral Grog lands.
Valentine changed the subject. "I'm about done with this. Can I get up in the book attic? I want to look up an item or two".
"Look something up? It's not an archive. It's a paper junk heap. Most of the stuffs falling apart".
"I saw a book there last trip. I just want to read up on it a little more".
"Wonderful. Do us a favor and clean up a few cobwebs while you're up there, okay?"
"Gladly".
"You accommodated?"
"Yes. Don't worry, the Dragon Lady's charging contractor rates. I had some Iowa scrip I wanted to dump anyway".
Hobarth smiled at the use of his aunt's nickname. "I'll tell everyone to be extra nice. You staying long?"
"Maybe a week. My worm needs a few days of feeding".
"You could use all that in-wall time to take a bath, you know. You could read in the tub".
"What, and lose my camouflage? The critters confuse the Reapers, you know".
"Wonderful. Something about you's just a bit out of alignment, you know that, Argent? And I don't mean that busted-up face of yours either".
* * *
Valentine didn't enjoy exercise. He'd rather heat his muscles chopping wood, or even digging a latrine ditch or picking apples, so something might be gained out of the calorie loss. He looked on exercise as a routine maintenance activity, like adjusting straps, darning socks, or sharpening and oiling a blade. It was not an end unto itself, but preparation so his body would be ready when called upon.
But he could combine it with a more interesting activity, like fishing.
So during his stay at the truckstart, every morning he'd sling his tackle on the legworm's harness and goad it out to one of the ponds or creeks, provided there wasn't a winter fog or cold rain. The Reapers sometimes prowled in daylight if the overcast was heavy enough.
So with a clear morning and in hope of a torpid catfish he'd prod his legworm out, where it could pull up bush in peace while he fished. On the way there and back he jogged from one side of the legworm to the other, practiced leaping on its back or mounting it using low tree
limbs to swing himself up, until his breath came hard and fast and his bad leg ached. If the fish weren't biting, he'd practice with his battle rifle - a few cartridges now and again could be replaced, and there was no such thing as a wasted shot if it kept you in practice. The time might come when being able to eat, or draw one more breath, would depend on a single bullet.
Besides, the women at the truckstart believed the smell of gun smoke to be an improvement.
Evenings he'd spend in the attic library, unless a truck came in. Then he'd join the rest of the Hobarth's gang and listen to the latest news, reports of road conditions, and shortages, always shortages. Valentine would borrow any kind of printed material - even Kurian leaflets sometimes carried clues as to the progress of the UFR. He read them with the mixed emotions of an estranged relative catching up on family events.
He lingered at the truckstart until he found a driver Tim Hobarth recommended who was heading south into the UFR. He entrusted the woman, a wispy-haired piece of leather who went sleeveless even on a cold day and drove an ancient diesel pickup pulling a high-clearance trailer, with a letter and coin for postage. He'd addressed the wax-paper packet to "William and Gail Post".
Post would make sure his information about the Iowa Guard's movements got into the right hands. A few Bear teams and some Wolves inserted into Omaha would make a world of difference.
Valentine spent the rest of the afternoon and evening moody and anxious to be off. He'd staved off the empty feeling by composing his letter to Southern Command and seeing it sent on. With that done, the guilty memories marched right back into his forebrain and set up residence. Finishing with Mary Carlson's murderers had left him empty and with too much time to think. Now free to get back to St. Louis, conscience partially cleared by his plea for help for the Golden Ones...
