outside,' she said. 'There are chiggers in this damn' grass.'

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Later, when Quantrill offered to open ajar of mint jelly for her, Abby made the first reference to their earlier delights on the grass outside. “I can cope,' she snapped, wrenching the lid loose. 'Why do southern men still think sex makes a weakling of a woman?'

'Never thought about it,' he shrugged, watching the TV.

'Think about it,' she growled, tasting the jelly, watching the set of his jaw as he refused a taste. 'Oh, hell, you were just trying to help, Ted. I'm on edge.' She laid a hand on his shoulder as she asked softly, 'Was I your first, urn, experience? Wait; forgive me, don't answer that.'

'First one that was like they say it's supposed to be,' he said, 'and don't tell me whether to answer you, and don't forget it was your idea! And even if I was klutzy I'm not one damn' bit sorry. You want me to go now?'

He stared toward the ancient TV, which was running a plea for voluntary induction. In its wisdom the Department of Defense trusted in the blonde charms of wide-eyed Eve Simpson, the child star whose cleavage was no longer childish, whose buxom bogus innocence permitted just enough jiggle to enslave the daydreams of youthful — and many not so youthful — males. Little Evie moistened her lips to croon her fascination with 'our boys in uniform'.

Abby Drummond realized that young Quantrill might soon be wearing a uniform. She stepped toward the TV, paused. 'May I?'

Quantrill nodded. She snapped off the set, sat on a box facing him, placed the jelly between her thighs in subtle symbolism, asked permission again as she took his hands.

At first he glanced over her shoulder, then into the dark; anywhere but into her face as she said, 'I take too much for granted. And I'm a shitty dancer because I like to lead, and I'm sensitive as hell about the big-strong-man syndrome. So I've sent you some rejection signals I didn't mean.

'You may have tears in your eyes, and you may not have a lot of experience, but the best men start that way, lover. At everything. You're being forced to become a man faster than anybody should, and it's going to get a lot worse before it gets better. Have you ever seen anyone die?'

After a moment he met her eyes. 'No,' he lied.

'Neither have I, but we will. Lots of them, maybe. I'm having a hard time dealing with you because I see you as needing an older person's advice, and as being a man who usually does things right the first time. So I act as though there were two of you. I'll work on that. If you don't want any of teacher's advice, tell me now and I'll do my God-damnedest to quit. But don't ask me to forget you're a man, mister. You are altogether too good at making love to a woman.'

'Why the hell,' he sighed with the faintest of smiles, “is that last thing so important to me?'

'I don't know, Ted. Maybe advertising has given it more importance than it deserves. But with the bod you have, and the tenderness you show me, — well, don't you worry about it, luv. Hell, I'm giving advice again!'

His smile now more confident: 'Don't stop, Abby. Things're going too fast for me and I don't have anybody else to trust. In fact, I wonder if I should trust anybody's advice a hundred per cent.'

'You're a natural,' she grinned back at him. “Trust your instinct a lot, because it's dead-center. For example, it told you not to trust anything too much. It was right. I saw how you willed yourself to be a child today at that road-block, on the spur of the instant. I think you're a born actor; not all great actors are long on brains but they have great timing and they have terrific instincts. Come to think of it, the smartest actors know how to hide half their brains so they don't scare other people off. If I have any advice on how you'll survive best, it's just to act like a kid and hide half your brains.'

'From everybody?'

She saw the direction of his inquiry. “Not quite; you'd die of loneliness. Your instinct will tell you who you can open up to.' She placed a middle finger in the mint jelly, placed a tiny smear of it on her lower lip, licked the finger clean, smiling all the while. 'No, not quite everybody. Now you take me,' she said, leaned forward, transferred the sticky smudge to his own lips.

Quantrill did not have to be told twice.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Wednesday morning, Quantrill was awakened by roving hands for the first time in his life and learned that there was something better than merely breakfast in bed. He fluffed out their bedrolls later while Abby opened canned fruit, and wondered aloud whether Jane Osborne was coming home. 'It'd be nice to take a shower in the house,' he said.

'I'm going to take a chance on us,' she said, and after using bleach on her hands she went into the house. She returned while Quantrill watched the TV. 'Recorded message at the museum,' she said. 'It's now a crisis relocation center and it's full. Taking no messages at the, har, har, moment — maybe a year-long moment. That's not like Ellis; something tells me the museum directorship is in new hands,' she went on, more to herself than to him.

'Let's take a shower and then go find out.'

'Oh; forgot to tell you. No more water pressure. We'd better drain that hose for drinking water. There'll be more in the hot water tank and the tank behind the toilet.'

Abby found her old watercouch folded away and, with Quantrill's help, half-filled it in a rear niche of the Chevy. The hundred liters of water would last them two weeks, she said. They used the toilet water for its customary purpose, a single flush serving them both.

Of still more importance was the penicillin they found in Jane Osborne's medicine trove. Abby admitted she had acted from unreasoning fear in swallowing her tabs the day before, and convinced Quantrill that he should not begin to take his fresh ones unless he developed definite symptoms. She was telephoning fruitlessly to find a source of radiation meters when the TV and hall light winked off.

'Well, that's all the omen I need,' she said grimly, and after locking the house they drove through eerily silent streets to the museum.

'Boy, I never saw a museum like that before,' Quantrill muttered at the gate. The cyclone fence was strung on heavy pipe, an obvious jury rig blocking the drive to the foremost building. He spied other structures in the distance.

'You said it,' Abby replied, peering at the rump end of a cargo van that faced away from them in the drive, twenty meters inside the gate. Concrete blocks had been stacked chest-high in a vee that protected the van, and bullet holes pocked the metal panels that showed. She fumbled for her wallet, murmured, 'Just be your boyish self,' and stepped from the Chevy.

The voice that issued from the van was a shocking study in contrasts, warmly feminine but powered at the hundred decibel level. It would have been audible a kilometer away. 'PLEASE DO NOT ATTEMPT TO ENTER THIS CRISIS RELOCATION CENTER. THE CENTER IS CROWDED FAR BEYOND CAPACITY, AND THESE PREMISES ARE UNDER MARTIAL LAW. YOU ARE UNDER SURVEILLANCE BY HEAVILY ARMED OFFICERS. TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT WITHOUT FURTHER WARNING. THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE.'

Waving her identification, Abby called out, 'I work here! Abigail Drummond, grounds maintenance records; I'm sure my supervisor will be glad to see me.'

'PLEASE DO NOT ATTEMPT TO ENTER THIS CRISIS RELOCATION CENTER,' the voice began again, and repeated its stentorian message. Abby plugged fingers into ears and waited until the bullhorn thanked her again for her patience.

'I am vitally needed here,' she shouted. “May I speak to Mr. Ellis, or Miz Osborne, please?'

'PLEASE DO NOT—,' the bullhorn replied, fell silent, then said in crisp male tones, 'YOU IN THE CAMPER! GET OUT AND STAND IN FRONT, LEAN FORWARD, BOTH HANDS ON THE HOOD.'

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