Chapter 21

I hooked up the digital camera I had taken to San Antonio, and showed Geneva and several other people who were in the lounge that evening the numerous shots I'd taken of the Brooke Hospital complex. During our trip up there, Dr. Montoya had cautioned me, repeatedly, about moving around the interior of the building without knowing where I might come across unexpected bodies.

Those restrictions had limited, somewhat, the shots I'd been able to take of the interior of the hospital, but I had ample coverage of the outside, the bigger open spaces inside, the kitchen facilities, and a sheltered, park-like outdoor area, protected on all sides by the building's walls.

Unavoidably, I'd stumbled across a few dead bodies, and I worried about the possible effects on my continued good health. Or maybe even my continued existence. But I hadn't dropped dead, then or later.

Everyone was impressed with the pictures. Perhaps never before had so many people who weren't themselves sick been eager to go to a hospital.

Emily and Martin Kazner had been trying to research, from what little we had in the way of on-board reference books, the availability of military installations in coastal Texas. Ingmar and Dr. Montoya were determined to transport our group to San Antonio with far greater defensive firepower than we had carried with us, ashore, at any previous time. They consulted Raymond Pryor -- the only person in our group with relatively recent active duty military experience.

"I don't know of any army base -- any big base -- on the coast," Raymond said. Nothing in Louisiana, either, near the coast, that I know about. Not with the kind of equipment we need. Best thing we can do, is look for a big National Guard armory, somewheres. Maybe there's a big one, in Houston, I don't know. It's a big city. Seems like there would be."

"We need some armored vehicles," Martin told him. "What do they call them? Bradley Fighting Vehicles? Armored personnel carriers."

"I don't know," Raymond replied. "It's a long ways, over to San Antone, from Houston. Them things -- they take a lot of fuel. We'd be stoppin', a lot, I think, to refuel. And it'd be a real rough ride. It don't seem practical, to me, try to ride that kind of equipment so far."

"Are they hard to drive?" Martin asked.

"Not too hard to learn to steer one, no," Raymond said. "Nowadays, they steer pretty much like a big truck would. But it wouldn't be comfortable, and we couldn't carry much with us, if we was all traveling in those things. Listen, I don't think takin' everybody so far, in that kind of machine, would work very well. They're for -- y'know -- on battlefields."

"But we need some kind of armor. And some guns -- big guns."

"But what are the odds, of anybody intercepting us?" Max Coward said. "I mean, we've had radio silence, now, for several days. What are they going to do -- our enemies? They can't cover the entire Gulf Coast. They can't have too many people, either. Why don't we just, y'know -- make a run for it? Find some vehicles and light out quick for San Antonio?"

"We could at least try to pinpoint a major armory in Houston -- see what they've got," Martin said.

The three men couldn't agree, and finally just decided to include others in the discussion, and to try to come to a consensus, before we put in at Galveston, or attempted to sail in closer to Houston.

I had been listening carefully -- but saying nothing. I had my views on how we should make our run inland, but I hadn't been asked. As our group had grown, my influence, as a 17-year-old, had declined. Well, that hadn't surprised me. I didn't even mind -- too much. I felt that I was still able to express my views, when I had strong opinions on something, and I still got a polite hearing from the others. That was enough. That was all anybody could ask, no matter how old they were.

Anyway, however important the discussion the others had been having might be, my mind was on something else. It was on Time to Retire. I was calculating when the number of people in the lounge might start to thin out. I was counting the minutes until all the women who wanted to talk to Geneva about the loss of her dad finally were satisfied that they had said what they could say, and had done what they could do, for the girl.

I was feeling a little guilty. A lot guilty. Everybody was commiserating with Geneva, and I could hardly even think about anything except that I was going to be alone with her, later, in her cabin.

I had never made a move on Geneva -- ever. I'd been too gun-shy. Her father's presence, and Raymond's. And their being black -- and me, the punk-ass little white boy. It was intimidating. They'd all three always been nice to me, and nobody'd ever put me down.

Didn't matter. It was still intimidating.

And now. Now we -- Geneva and I -- were going to be together, tonight. And she'd even said I ought to bring the condoms -- just in case. Well, that was awful! I was getting ready to take advantage of this orphan girl! Get to her, while she was at her lowest ebb. She'd just lost her only living relative, f'Chrissakes! And I was going to meet with her -- and bring my condoms.