"That smell," Doc whispered. "Wait, let me place it in the proper context!"

Jak wrinkled his nose. "Stinks. Smell sweat."

"Yeah, somebody needs to wash their a.s.s," Dean agreed.

"No, I speak not of the stench of unwashed flesh, young Cawdor. I'm talking about the heavenly aroma of old paper. Rotting pulp."

"Dust, you mean," Krysty said, running a finger along a box top and bringing it up coated with fine dirt.

The smell was unfamiliar. In the Deathlands it was quite unusual to find much in the way of printed material, new or old. The larger villes might have their own little news sheets run off on antique printing pressesDoc had spied a version of this in Freedom and had happily grabbed one up in search of any printed information, only to find it was a series of advertis.e.m.e.nts for the endless array of mall stores but in the poorer sections, more often than not paper was viewed as nothing more than useful kindling or toilet tissue.

As for older, predark vintage books and magazines, most of the paper goods had long since crumbled into dust due to the abnormal weather conditions around the globe or vanished into nothingness in the long nuclear winter immediately following skydark. There were rare exceptions, the odd baron and a h.o.a.rd of books.

A fair estimate of the general populace of Deathlands would probably put most men and women in the category of the functionally illiterate. There was no time for reading for the enjoyment of books, nor was there a viable system of delivering written letters or messages. Written contracts with signatures were a thing of the past, except for barons who delighted in thrusting papers down for hired help to make their signature mark without even knowing what agreements such contracts contained.

Kollector's Kloset contained the most pulp paper any of the group had ever seen. One wall was devoted to bagged examples of horror magazines. Ryan's eye traveled over the lurid covers before one caught his complete and undivided attention.

As he sighted the predark magazine, everyone heard a sound that was familiar yet disturbing all the same.

Ryan was laughing, a deep-from-the-gut laugh followed by a few guffaws and chuckles.

"You okay?" Jak asked carefully. The albino hadn't cared much for this shop from the beginning, and now Ryan's mirth was starting to set him more on edge. Ryan rarely laughed, unless it was in irony or bitterness.

This laughter was genuine, the kind that came without conscious thought or warning, the kind of natural laughter few people were able to give of themselves.

Ryan nodded toward the wall of monster magazines. "Check out the one on the bottom left there," he said, still amused. "Does the ghoul on the front in the fancy knee britches look familiar to anybody besides me?"

Dean's young voice was the next to ring out in laughter, followed in turn by Krysty's chuckling, then Jak's bark of surprise and amus.e.m.e.nt. Unable to contain his curiosity, Doc bent over and peered intently at the indicated magazine cover. The colors were lurid green on mustard yellow. The center of the cover was dominated by a tall, spindly man dressed in a long greenish coat with a lean face, hawk nose and thinning white hair. The man was waving a hand in a gesture of entry into the magazine's interior.

" Creepy ," Doc read off the top of the cover. " Creepy Magazine ."

"You forget the rest, Doc," Ryan added, reading the blurb next to the figure. "Says here that Uncle Creepy Welcomes You Inside."

"Yes, yes, I see that. What I am missing is the implied humor."

"That Uncle Creepyhe looks just like you, Doc!" Dean piped up, in a gale of giggling.

Doc frowned. "Nonsense! This fellow looks nothing like the proud countenance of"

"Quiet!" Ryan whispered. "Somebody's in the back. I guess the guy who owns the place finally decided to make an appearance."

Ryan's words were proven true when a fat, bearded man-child waddled out from a back room and took up a stance behind the long row of gla.s.s showcases.

He looked to be carrying about three-hundred-plus pounds on his five-foot-four-inch frame. His hair was long and greasy, and appeared to have been dyed a phony jet black that never existed in nature. His beard was also the same unnatural color of night. He wore a T-shirt two sizes too small. On the shirt was a picture of a tall man with pointed ears spouting the command Live Long And Prosper.

Some dark brown gravy stains also adorned the shop owner's attire above the moon white expanse of flesh visible between his shirttail and waistband.

Ryan kept expecting him to knock over one of the many precariously stacked piles of books, toys and junk with either his wide a.s.s or wider stomach, but he was nimble and seemed to possess an uncanny sense of grace when it came to navigating the store's many possessions.

"Greetings and salutations. My name is Chet. I am the proprietor of this, my humble establishment," the bearded man said. "Welcome to the finest array of predark comics and collectibles on the East Coast. If we don't have what you're looking for, we can find it for you with our search service for a small fee."

"More fees," Jak sniffed.

"Pardon me," Doc said, moving to the counter. "I cannot help but notice you deal in paper goods."

"Whoa, you are quite the elder," Chet said, staggering back and holding a hand over his heart as he got his first clear look at Doc. "Hey! Anybody ever tell you that you look just like Uncle Cree"

"No! No, they have not."

"Oh, okay. Man, a guy your age, I bet you've got a b.i.t.c.hing collection."

"Only of memories, my rotund friend, and those are getting harder and harder to find as time goes on," Doc said wistfully. "Alas, I now have no place to call home to keep my possessions. All I have is what I carry."

"Say, that's a real flashback of a mack daddy jacket you're wearing," Chet said, pointing at the lapels of Doc's frock coat. "Very retro. Need to get you an ascot or neck kerchief and you'd be humming."

"Before you ask, no, my coat is not for sale, especially to one such as yourself."

Chet didn't get the implied insult. "Suit yourself. I wouldn't give it up, either. My problem is finding apparel that will fit my ample girth," the fat clerk said.

"That's what tailors are for, my good man," Doc noted.

"Tailors cost jack. Any jack I get I spend on collecting," Chet replied, nodding his three chins as he spoke. "All the good stuff is going up in value. Used to be, I put the word out for baseball cards or comic books and within a month I'd have more than I could handle from outlanders and wanderers going back and forth across Deathlands. Now, my best pickers can't find d.i.c.k anymore. Everybody thinks this stuff is worth a fortune, and I can't afford to pay top jack to have to then turn around and resell it and make a profit anymore."

"Supply and demand," Krysty said.

"Exactly!" Chet replied. "All the stores in the mall are occupied. I cannot demand a break in my rent. Instead, I must weather the annual rent increases! Do you know what rent goes for in Freedom?"

"I've seen enough," Ryan said, already bored with the sales pitch. "Let's go."

"In a minute, Dad," Dean replied, his attention drawn to a rack covered with old-style wire coat hangers. An array of T-shirts was hanging from the rack.

"They got any black ones?" Jak asked, stepping over next to Dean as carefully as possible.

"They're all black," Dean replied, looking at some of the small white size tags in the collars. "All XXL, too."

"That's good," Krysty said. "Allows you to grow into them."

"I don't know," Ryan said, holding up one of the huge shirts. "I think a boy Dean's age could pitch a tent with one of these things."

"So what's your reading fancy, mister?" Chet said to Doc.

"So many choices," Doc said, searching his mind for a book he desired.

"I know. And you want to know why?" Chet asked.

"Why?"

And then the portly salesman launched into a dissertation the likes of which Doc had never heard before. Unlike most common reading material such as paperbacks or hardcover books, the ma.s.s-published glossy magazines or hundreds of daily newspapers on newsprint, comics had the quantum edge in survival. Starting in the mid-1950s, comics were no longer being seen as just childish diversions to be read and disposed of, but also as pop-culture collectibles to be h.o.a.rded.

As the years pa.s.sed, more and more comics were kept stored away until finally, by the late seventies, practically every comic book sold off the stands was read onceor not at allhermetically sealed in a plastic bag, kept flat by a specially cut piece of coated card stock and stored upright in a specially designed box to avoid any damage.

Millions of comics were kept safe in this fashion, with the more valuable examples receiving extraspecial care. Those were put in stiff Mylar snugs, which were then placed in acid-free archival boxes. Larger collectors even built their very own comics vaults, some aboveground, some below. All were airtight.

Compared to all their paper brethren, comic books lasted because of the extra care taken in the decades before skydark to keep them from deteriorating due to natural causes.

"Yes, well, that's all very nice," Doc said, taking the time to speak while Chet gasped for air after his verbal history of the comics. "But I was actually hoping to find a volume of Chaucer."

"What issues did he draw?" Chet asked. "Did he work for Marvel? D.C.? Dark Horse? Image?"

Doc gave up. He'd had enough. "He's not an artist, he's a writer, you overstuffed cretin."

"Sorry, I get those guys mixed up sometimes. Artists, writers, inkers, lettererstoo many names. Got a t.i.tle for this book?"

" The Canterbury Tales ," Doc said respectfully. Chet looked blank for a few seconds, then reached behind him and plucked a chipped brown clipboard from a stack of papers and consulted a list.

"Got Marvel Tales, Weird Tales, Tales from the Darkside, Sonic's Pal Tails, Tale Spin, Shirt Tales and Tales Guaranteed to Drive You Bats , but nope, no Canterbury Tales . Sorry. Hold up, I missed one. A Tale of Two Cites ."

"d.i.c.kens!" Doc cried. "Let me view it, please!" Chet consulted the list a second time. "Box 63-A, Row F," he read before wading out and pulling down a box from a wooden rack. He removed the lid, and inside were bagged and boarded comics. He pulled one out and handed it over with a flourish to Doc.

He stared down at the cover. " Cla.s.sics Ill.u.s.trated ?" he snorted.

"Don't get a call for those, anymore. You are a man of taste."

"Wait, wait a moment," Doc said, struggling to communicate. His entire skinny frame nearly shook with frustration. "I don't believe we're on the same page, to coin a phrase. I see all of the men's magazines and juvenile antics of the comics, and I appreciate your discovery of this crudely drawn mockery of the good Charles d.i.c.kens, but I wonderdare I askif you have any books at all?"

Chet looked insulted. "Of course!"

"Splendid," Doc said with relief in his educator's voice. "What kind?"

Chet started counting down on his fingers again before launching into a litany of selections in a merry singsong voice. "What kind? We got Big Little Books, Golden Books, Tell-Me-a-Story books, black-and-white and color Graphic Novelsboth original and reprints, Whitman Tell-a-Tale, Wonder Books, talking story books, but I'm afraid they no longer talk when you pull the string, and a near complete line of every TV-paperback tie-in known to the historians."

"Really."

"You bet! What kind you wanting?"

"I believe I'm in need of that rare animal book book."

"A book book? Never heard of it."

"I'm not surprised," Doc sniffed, and turned on his heel to exit.

Chapter Fifteen.

According to the locals, the best place for food in Freedom where the food was worth a d.a.m.n was a former eatery, one of a chain specializing in Southwest cooking. The exterior and interior of the crowded former fast-food restaurant had been repainted in shades of green, but there was no disguising the faux-Tex-Mex building facade and architecture.

Mildred and J.B. were seated at a black metal mesh table with a wooden top, watching the people and waiting for their friends to join them.

"Make A Run For The Border," Mildred quoted, a fragment of cultural memory floating up, untethered, to the surface of her conscious mind. "That used to be this place's advertised motto."

"Skipping borders is bad news. Why would they want you to do that?" J.B asked. "They some kind of food smugglers or what?"

"I always believed it referred to the eventual run to the bathroom," Mildred replied with as straight a face as she could manage. "Tacos could be hard on the stomach of the uninitiated." The Armorer glanced down at his wrist chron.

"I'm hungry. Wonder where the others are? Not like Ryan to be late."

"We're in a shopping mall, J.B. No man, woman or child ever made it on time to a meeting place in a mall, especially one as huge as this," the woman replied lightly. "Ryan'll be along. He's probably being held up by Dean and Doc wanting to go into every store they pa.s.s."

"And Krysty and Jak," J.B. agreed. "Something in this gussied-up warehouse for everybody."

Mildred reached up and took off the new pair of gla.s.ses. "How are your eyes feeling, John?"

"Good," he replied. "Real good. That eye doc was true to his word in finding me a new pair similar to my old ones. These feel a bit thicker than my other pair, but other than that, my vision's as good as it ever was."

"The gla.s.s is thicker because your eyes are getting weaker. Comes with age."

"Bulls.h.i.t," the Armorer replied. "If losing your eyesight comes with age, Doc would be tripping and falling on his skinny a.s.s everywhere we went."

"I heard that, John Barrymore!" Doc boomed out in his most able educator's tone of voice. "I will have you know my skinny posterior remains upright, thank you very much."

"Age sure as h.e.l.l hasn't affected his hearing," J.B. groused, causing Mildred to laugh as the rest of the group took up positions around the ornate bench.

"Look same," Jak said, peering at J.B.'s gla.s.ses.

"They are, practically. Got a backup pair, too."

"Let's see the backups," Ryan said, rubbing his still aching shoulder. "I want to know what my duel with a bot paid for."

"Bot?" Doc echoed. "Ah, yes, the killer robot."

J.B. had hesitated, and now Mildred spoke for him. "Well, Ryan, the backup lenses and frames are much larger than this pair."

"So?"

"So, he doesn't think his backup pair of specs are very becoming to a man with his features."

"Oh, now I've got to see them," Ryan said. The rest of the group voiced their agreement. Sighing loudly, J.B. made a show of searching through each and every pocket of his leather jacket before removing a black padded case.

Off came the wire spectacles, which he placed gently on the tabletop.

He snapped open the new black case and removed an oversize pair of purple frames and tinted lenses, which he angrily thrust on his frowning face. "There. Happy?"

"You bet," Ryan replied, trying hard not to laugh. No one else looking at the bizarre sight shared Ryan's tact. The rest of the friends broke out in guffaws of amus.e.m.e.nt.