“First of all, that guy on the west wall is Ares, a fellow Warrior. Don’t allow his Mohawk haircut to fool you. He can riddle a tin can at one hundred yards. If you were believed to be an enemy, you would never have made it to the drawbridge. Second, it would be rude of the Family to badger you when you’re obviously in need of medical attention and rest.
Third, I don’t see any reason why you can’t bring an empty Winchester into the Home,” Yama responded.
Andrew looked at the man in blue. “How did you know my rifle is empty?”
“Why else were you using it as a club instead of shooting at those wolves?” Yama rejoined. His voice lowered. “Besides, even if the Winchester was fully loaded, you’re with me.”
Andrew pursed his lips, appreciating the significance of the statement.
After the incident with the wolves, he knew Yama could terminate him as readily as he might swat a fly. And if the other Warriors were equally as competent as the man beside him, then his plan just might succeed.
They came to the entrance to the infirmary and Yama paused to open the door. “I believe Nightingale is on duty,” he commented, and stepped inside.
“Nightingale?” Andrew said. “Ares. Yama. No offense, but you people have unusual names.” He stopped and studied the interior. Dozens of cots were aligned in two rows down the center of the chamber. Medical cabinets lined the walls. The sole occupant was a brown-haired woman dressed in white who sat at a desk near the doorway. She looked up and smiled.
“Hello, Yama. What have we here?”
“His name is Andrew,” the Warrior replied. “Wolves tried to turn him into a snack.”
The woman stood and motioned at the cot closest to the desk. “Have a seat, Andrew. I’ll be right with you,” she instructed him, then walked to a medicine cabinet along the west wall.
“So you think our names are unusual,” Yama said.
“I’ve never heard them before,” Andrew responded as he moved to the cot and slowly, wearily, sat down.
“You must not do much reading.”
“I can read,” Andrew stated. “But I never have the time. And too, we only own a few books. They’re hard to come by, you know.”
“The Family possesses hundreds of thousands of books in our library in E Block.”
“Really? Hundreds of thousands?”
“And every volume was stocked by Kurt Carpenter. There are history books. Geography books. How-to books. Fiction. Nonfiction. You name it, it’s probably in our library,” Yama elaborated. “Most of us have taken our names from those books.”
“What?”
“Our Founder instituted a formal Naming ceremony for every Family member when he or she turns sixteen. Carpenter was afraid his followers and descendants would lose sight of the factors contributing to the holocaust, so he started the Naming as a way of encouraging them to stay in touch with their roots. Originally, names were only taken from historical volumes. Later, the practice was expanded to include any type of book. Some Family members have even adopted a new name of their own choosing, like Blade.”
“Where did you take your name from?” Andrew inquired.
“The Hindu King of Death.”
“Why would—” Andrew began to say, then thought better of the question, recalling vividly the two slain wolves.
“Here we are,” Nightingale announced, returning with a first-aid kit and a large bottle of antiseptic. She knelt in front of the cot and inspected the wound. “You have quite a nasty bite there.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“I’ll clean the cut and stitch it for you,” Nightingale offered. “You’ll be as good as new in no time.”
“I don’t want to put you to any bother.”
“Nonsense. I’m a Healer. Ministering to the sick and the injured is my job.”
Andrew gazed at the rows of empty cots. “You don’t have very many patients.”
Nightingale placed the first-aid kit on the cot and opened the lid. “Not at the moment, no. By and large, the Family is blessed with abundant health.”
“But how can all of you be so healthy? Disease is widespread in the Outlands.”
“So I’ve been told,” Nightingale said. She removed a box of cotton balls and set it alongside the kit. “Fortunately, our Tillers and Hunters provide us with the vegetables, grains, and meat we need to have a nutritional diet. We don’t have the proper climate to grow abundant fruit, but the Tillers do their best during the growing season and supply us with apples, pears, and others.” She pause to unscrew the cap on the antiseptic. “With the proper diet and regular exercise, maintaining optimum health is a simple task.”
“If you say so,” Andrew replied, “but I’m a farmer, lady. I grow crops for a living and so do my friends. We eat better than most in the Outlands, but we still come down with disease from time to time.”
“Are you afflicted with negative attitudes?”
“What do our attitudes have to do with anything?”
“Plenty. Our Elders teach that our attitude can literally make the difference between life and death.”
“It sounds as if these Elders of yours spend all their time spouting words of wisdom,” Andrew quipped.
“Doesn’t it make sense to benefit from the seasoned experience of those who are older than you are?” Nightingale asked.
“Yeah. I guess you have a point. But I get the impression the Family has put their Elders on pedestals.”
“We respect their judgment. We don’t worship them,” Nightingale said.
“Now would you be so kind as to take off your shirt?”
“No problem,” Andrew assured her. He placed the Winchester on the cot to his right, then gingerly stripped off his torn T-shirt, wincing as sharp pangs stabbed his right side. “Is everyone at the Home the same as you two?”
“How do you mean?” the Healer queried, examining the bite carefully.
“I don’t know how to describe it, but you’re different than most folks I know. Are you sure you’re from this planet?”
Nightingale smiled. “We don’t have negative attitudes.” She applied antiseptic to a cotton ball and dabbed at the wound. “This might sting a little,” she warned.
Andrew grunted and flinched. “Just a tad.” He watched her clean the cut, then did a double-take when she removed a thin needle from the first-aid kit. “What’s that for?”
“What do you think it’s for?” Nightingale rejoined. She took a roll of shiny thread from the kit. “This is nonabsorbable silk material which is used in making sutures. I’m going to sew the torn skin back together.”
“Couldn’t we just let it heal naturally?”
“You’re not afraid, are you?”
“Who, me?” Andrew responded nervously, and addressed Yama to distract himself from the mental image of the needle penetrating his flesh.
“So tell me. How many Warriors are there?”
“There are currently seventeen,” Yama said, and frowned. “We lost one two months ago and a replacement hasn’t been selected yet.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Andrew said out of courtesy. “So there are normally eighteen, all told?”
“There have been ever since the three hybrids were permitted to join the Warrior ranks.”
“Hybrids? Do you mean mutations?”
“Yes.”
Andrew’s surprise showed. “You have mutant Warriors?”
“Lynx, Ferret, and Gremlin were genetically engineered by the infamous Doktor. They rebelled against him and joined us in our war against the madman. They’re outstanding Warriors.”
“I’ll bet the damn Doktor isn’t the only one your Family has had trouble with,” Andrew commented, hoping to sound the Warrior out, to prompt Yama to relate the details of the conflict with the Technics.