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He spent his last evening at Hobarth's wandering the acres filled with wrecks, getting glimpses of the old world through faded bumper and window stickers and business information printed on car doors and rear windows.
WARNING: FREQUENT STOPS AT GARAGE SALES
GET ANY CLOSER AND YOU'D BETTER
BE WEARING A CONDOM
IN THE EVENT OF RAPTURE THIS VEHICLE WILL BE EMPTY
It was empty, unless you counted mice and spiders.
They weren't all pre-2022. Valentine saw one that he'd been told was popular in the early years of the Kurian Order. A smooth-sided luxury sedan with the half-sun, half-moon logo of the short-lived New World Fiber Network sat there, slowly hollowing like a rotten tooth as pieces fell away. Its rear-door sticker placed it firmly in the post-'22 generation:
I DON'T FEAR THE REAPER
Valentine heard a dull growl and turned, expecting to see one of the Hobarth dog pack. One good stare and they usually calmed down enough to make friends, animal to animal.
But he saw a quivering black-and-tan dog standing between the rows of creeper-covered cars, looking through the gap toward the next row. Valentine had time to see a barrel move before he heard a quick hiss and felt a firm tap just behind the neck.
He started to crouch, but the world turned gummy, and his defensive stance loosened into a kneel. Then he felt grass against his cheek and dirt in his eye, but that didn't matter. A pleasant, dark warmth beckoned and he gladly slid down the hill toward it.
* * *
Motion, and the smell of corn.
The corn came from fabric covering his face, probably a feed sack over his eyes. A cloying, wet mess in his pants. He tried to rise, but handcuffs held his wrists together behind him. Fight it fight it fight it.
"Hey, he's coming out of it already", a husky voice said. The words were being bent and twisted in his ear, where a surflike roar fought
with a deep thrumming reminiscent of the old Thunderbolt's engines at high revolutions.
A little higher-pitched whine: "The doc said out for twelve hours for sure. Nothing like that, nothing near".
"Knowing his system, he probably just had a nice nap", a female voice added. She cleared her throat. "Get him inside and sit him up. I'll get the others".
Nice nap, indeed. Valentine flexed, tried to clear the creosote someone had substituted for blood in his limbs. They settled him into a chair and he felt a distasteful squish in his underwear.
A needle went into his arm. This time he stayed awake.
Sort of.
Hard to tell if time was passing or not. He swore, but it came out as a dry-throated moan. It seemed the first part of his brain that was willing to try to work his mouth had a vocabulary limited to profanity.
More words, but they didn't make sense.
Then he was awake, only now the fabric over his face was wet; so were his chest and shoulders.
"Up and at 'em, Valentine", the husky voice said, more intelligibly this time.
They know my name. This can't be good.
Husky voice again: "You reading me?"
Valentine needed time to think, but more water came.
"Anyone want to work him over with a bar of soap? He really needs it", a faraway female voice said. Hard to tell if it was the same one he'd heard before; the earlier conversation came back vague as a dream.
Another voice, female, nearer: "David S. Valentine, former major with Southern Command, we meet at last".
