Fallen Angels by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction, General, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Fiction, Fiction - Science Fiction, Science Fiction - General, High Tech, Adventure, Fantasy, Epic, Fantasy - Epic, Historical, Space colonies, Science fiction - gsafd, Fantasy - Historical
ISBN: 9780743471817
Barnesnoble:
Goodreads: 215730
Publisher: Baen
Published: 1990-12-31T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE "The Best of All Physicians. . ."

The van was dark and cold and stank with a stale pungency Alex MacLeod could never get used to. Worse than a spaceship! He sat huddled under blankets with the others in the back of the van, sharing his warmth. The only light was the feeble glow of a flashlight. Alex took a breath of damp, moldy air. He wished Bob could start the engine so they could warm up; but, of course, that was impossible.

Sherrine was a goblin face half-lit by the weary flashlight. "This is cozy," she said. "I used to read science fiction books like this?—under my blankets with a light. Always with an ear cocked for the sound of my parents coming."

"Did they ever catch you?” asked Gordon.

"Oh, sure. I got a lecture the first time. The second time, they spanked me. They never caught me again. Maybe they got tired of watching. I always looked forward to the summers, though, when they'd send me to Gram's farm. Pop-pop kept two cartons full of old paperbacks hidden in a corner of the root cellar. I could read them in daylight."

Gordon laughed. "It sounds like fun."

"Yeah, lots of fun," said Alex. "How long are we going to be stuck here?”

Bob shrugged and the blankets shrugged with him. "I don't know."

"Relax," said Fang. "Here. It's cheddar."

It was a half-found wedge. Alex felt his throat close. "No thanks," he said. I'm going to be heartily sick of cheese by the time we get to Chicago."

"Cheese is fermented milk curd," Fang volunteered. "The Orientals think of it as 'rotten milk.' "

Sherrine turned to him. "Thank you for sharing that thought with us."

"Well," said Thor. "Where there's a curd, there's a whey."

"Seriously," Alex insisted. "How long will we be stuck inside this trailer?” Surrounded by cheese. Encastled by cheesy ramparts. Breathing cheese with every breath. Sure, it saved gas on the van; sure, it hid them from the sheriffs deputies; but it seemed as if he had been buried in a tomb of . . . of fermented curds.

Fang nibbled on the wedge, looking for all the world like an oversized mouse. "How long?” he said. "Hard to say. The trailer takes the back roads to avoid the monties."

"The Mounties?”

"Monties . . . Montereys. They high jack cheese."

Gordon cocked his head. "High-jack cheese? Poche?—Why would anyone do that?”

Fang held his wedge up and turned it so it caught the pale light. "Supply and demand," he said. "South and east of Chicago this stuff is rare. Infrastructure collapsing. Bridges, culverts, embankments. Roads are near impassible. Can't hardly get gas anywhere in Wisconsin. So not much cheese ever gets out of the state. Not until the farmers can hoard enough fuel to make a run like this one. Naturally, the monties are on the lookout. One cheese truck taken to . . . oh, Pittsburgh or St. Louis, could set you up for life."

"I've heard," said Sherrine, "that in some places they stamp the cheese wheels with official seals and use them for money.

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