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"I don't know," says Toby.
"I don't want any more dead people," says Ren fretfully. There may not be much choice about that, thinks Toby.
"Here's the rifle," she says. "This is the trigger. I want you to stand right here. If anyone but me comes out that door, shoot. Don't hit me by mistake. Okay?" If she herself gets whacked in there, at least Ren will have a weapon.
"Okay," says Ren. She takes the rifle awkwardly. "But I don't like it."
This is crazy, Toby thinks. She's jumpy enough to shoot me in the back if I sneeze. But if I don't check that room out, no sleep tonight and maybe a slit throat in the morning. And no fire.
She goes in with her flashlight and her mop handle. Papers litter the floor, smashed lamps. There's broken glass, crunching underfoot. The smell is stronger now. Flies buzzing. The hairs on her arms lift, the blood rushes in her head.
The bundle on the floor is definitely human, covered with some sort of gruesome blanket. Now she can see the dome of a bald head, some wisps of hair. She pokes at the blanket with the mop handle, keeping the beam of light on the bundle. A moan. She pokes again, harder: there's a feeble twitching of cloth. Now there are the slits of eyes, and a mouth, lips crusted and blistered.
"Fuckin' hell," says the mouth. "Who in fuck are you?"
"Are you sick?" says Toby.
"Asshole shot me," says the man. His eyes are blinking in the light. "Turn that fuckin' thing off." No sign of blood leaking out of his nose or mouth or eyes: with any luck, he doesn't have the plague.
"Shot you where?" says Toby. The bullet must have been hers, from that time in the meadow. A hand scrabbles forth: red and blue veins. Although he's shrivelled and filthy, his eyes sunken with fever, this is Blanco, no doubt of it. She ought to know, she's had the close-up view.
"Leg," he says. "Went bad on me. Fuckers dumped me here."
"Two of them?" says Toby. "Did they have a woman with them?" She makes her voice level.
"Gimme some water," says Blanco. There's an empty bottle in the corner, near his head. Two bottles, three. Gnawed ribs: the lavender Mo'Hair? "Who else is out there?" he rasps. His breath's coming hard. "More bitches. I heard more."
"Let me see your leg," says Toby. "I may be able to help." He won't be the first person ever to have shammed injury.
"I'm fuckin' dying," says Blanco. "Turn off that light!" Toby sees various courses of action rippling across his forehead in waves of little frowns. Does he know who she is? Will he try to jump her?
"Take the blanket off," says Toby, "and I'll get you some water."
"Take it off yourself," croaks Blanco.
"No," says Toby. "If you don't want help I'll just lock you in."
/> "Lock's broken," he says. "Asshole skinny bitch! Gimme some water!"
Toby pinpoints the other smell: whatever else is wrong with him, he's decaying. "I've got a Zizzy Froot," she says. "You'll like that better." She backs out through the door and closes it behind her, but not before Ren's had a look.
"It's him," she whispers. "The third one, the worst one!"
"Take a deep breath," says Toby. "You're perfectly safe. You've got the rifle, he doesn't. Just keep it pointed at that door."
She digs into her packsack, finds the remaining Zizzy Froot, drinks a quarter of the warm, sugary, fizzy liquid: Waste not. Then she fills the bottle up with Poppy and adds a generous dollop of powdered amanitas for good measure. The white Death Angel, granter of dark wishes. If there's two bad choices take the lesser evil, Zeb would say.
She pushes the door open with her mop handle and shines the flashlight in. Sure enough Blanco is shoving himself across the floor, grinning with the effort. In one hand is his knife: most likely he was hoping to get near enough so he could grab her by the ankles when she went in. Take her down with him, or use her as a bargaining chip to get hold of Ren.
Mad dogs bite. What else is there to know?
"Here you are," she says. She rolls the bottle towards him. His knife falls with a clink as he grabs for the bottle, unscrews it with shaking hands, guzzles. Toby waits to make sure it all goes down. "Now you'll feel better," she says gently. She closes the door.
"He'll get out!" says Ren. She's ashen.
"If he gets out, we'll shoot him," says Toby. "I've given him some painkillers to calm him down." Silently she says the words of apology and release, the same as she would for a beetle.
She waits until the Poppy has taken hold, then re-enters the room. Blanco's snoring heavily: if the Poppy doesn't finish him, the Death Angels will. She lifts the blanket: his left thigh is a mess -- decaying cloth and decaying flesh all simmering together. It takes a lot of self-restraint for her not to throw up.
