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Berwin straightened and scratched his forehead. "Let's see. I can remember two dreams. The first one was shorter."

  "What was the subject?"

  "Myself as a small boy, I think," Berwin said. "I was about five or six years old and big for my age."

  Doctor Milton began taking notes. "And what were you doing in this dream?"

  "Nothing. Just standing there with the saddest expression you can possibly imagine. Strange, huh?"

  "Not really," Milton said. "The dream state often lacks coherence. Did you speak in the dream?"

  "No."

  "Not a word?"

  "No," Berwin reiterated. "Why? Are the words I say in my dreams crucial?"

  "They could be, yes," Doctor Milton answered.

  "Well, I didn't say a word in either dream."

  "Tell me about the second one."

  Berwin leaned back, fingering the last piece of toast on his tray. "The second dream was definitely bizarre. I seemed to be floating in the air above a huge, walled fortress or compound. It was daytime, and there were a lot of people moving about. Four brick walls enclosed the fortress, and in the middle of the west wall was some kind of bridge, possibly a drawbridge."

  "Yes. Go on," Doctor Milton prompted, writing as fast as he could.

  "Along the inner base of the walls ran a stream, forming a moat—"

  "Where did the stream originate?" Doctor Milton asked, breaking in.

  "Was there an underground spring in the compound?"

  Berwin pondered for 30 seconds. "No. As I recall, the stream entered the fortress under the walls at the northwest corner, then was diverted to run along the base of all the walls."

  "Did the stream flow out of the compound at any point?"

  "The southeast corner."

  "Very interesting," Doctor Milton said. "Please continue."

  Berwin concentrated, idly tapping his fingers on his food tray. "There were six enormous structures located in the western section of the compound. I also saw a row or two of cabins in the central area, arranged in a line from north to south."

  "What about the enormous structures? Can you tell me more about them?"

  "They were square in shape. My guess is they were concrete buildings."

  "How were they arranged? In a line like the cabins?"

  "No. They were spaced about one hundred yards apart and arranged in the shape of a triangle."

  "What else?"

  "That's all I can remember," Berwin said.

  "There must be more," Milton insisted. "What did you see in the eastern section of the compound? What were the concrete buildings used for? Were there any apparent weaknesses in their defenses? Any machine guns mounted on the walls? Any cannons?"

  "Weaknesses in the defenses?" Berwin repeated quizzically. "Machine guns on the walls? Are we discussing a dream or a plan of attack?" he joked.

  Doctor Milton did a double take and tensed for a moment, then laughed and lowered the notebook to his side. "Sorry. I got carried away. I know that any trivial detail might help us restore your memory, so I was pushing a little too hard."

  "I understand," Berwin said.

  "Did you feel as if you knew the place you saw in your dream?" the physician queried.

  "I felt as if I should. When I woke up this morning, its name was on the tip of my tongue," Berwin divulged. "But the feeling didn't last very long."

  "Most unfortunate," Milton commented.

  "What does it all mean?"

  "I require time to analyze your dreams before I can tender an opinion."

  Berwin sighed and spooned oatmeal into his mouth.

  "After your breakfast you can wash up. Then Nurse Krittenbauer will bring your clothes."

  "I finally get out of this flimsy gown?"

  Milton nodded and walked to the doorway. "I'll return in a few hours to conduct several tests. Behave yourself until then. Don't wander off without permission."

  "I won't," Berwin pledged. He frowned and nibbled on the toast.

  Another day in bed did not appeal to him in the least. If the doctor wouldn't permit him to walk around, then perhaps a little harmless exploring was in order.

  "See you later," the physician said, and departed.

  Berwin finished his breakfast while ruminating on the possible significance of the compound he'd observed in his dream. The place had seemed so real. All of his dreams the past two days had been exceptionally realistic, and he wondered why. He hoped Milton's analysis would aid in restoring his memory.

  Nurse Krittenbauer arrived with a basin of hot water, a washcloth, and a towel. "Ready for your sponge bath?"

  "As ready as I'll ever be."

  "Do you want me to do the honors?" she asked with a mischievous wink.

  "I can manage," Berwin said.

  "What a spoilsport," Nancy cracked. She exchanged the basin for the meal tray and left.

  The giant slid out of the bed and gave himself a sponge bath. As he finished he glanced at the window and decided to open it to let fresh air in. He dropped the cloth in the plastic basin and stepped around the head of his bed. How strange, he thought. The images outside were blurred and distorted by the glass. He leaned on the sill and examined the pane.

  Although the window appeared to be normal glass from even a few feet away, close up the glass displayed a prismlike effect. No one inside could see out.

  Was it deliberate? And if so, why?

  Berwin inspected the edges for a latch, surprised to discover there was no way to open the window. What reason could they have for sealing the window frame?

  "What are you doing?"

  Berwin pivoted and saw Krittenbauer in the doorway with an armful of clothes. "What's with the window?"

  "Were you planning to jump?" she asked in jest, walking over to the bed.

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  "This is a hospital, Mister Berwin. Some of our patients are emotionally distraught. Some have attempted to commit suicide. To remove temptation and prevent anyone from jumping, all of the windows above ground level can't be opened. You're on the sixth floor."

  "Oh," Berwin said, moving toward her. "But why can't I see outside?"

  The nurse grinned. "What a bundle of curiosity you are. The windows have been constructed so no one can see out because we don't want our patients spending all their time looking outside when they're supposed to be in bed."

  "Are you referring to me?"

  "Is there anyone else in this room?"

  Berwin sat on the edge of the bed. "Are those my clothes?"

  "Yes," Nurse Krittenbauer said, and deposited the pile next to him.

  "The doctor says you can wear your own clothes, but if I catch you out of bed again without permission I'll confiscate them and you'll wear a hospital gown until the day you leave."

  Berwin chuckled. "Was that a threat?"

  "That was a promise." She turned on her heels and exited.

  The clothes turned out to be a flannel shirt, jeans, black socks, and brown leather boots. He stripped off the gown and donned the flannel shirt first. The material fit tightly across his shoulders and upper arms, too constricting for comfort. He buttoned the shirt and experimented, raising and lowering his arms, puzzled.

  How could he have worn the shirt on a regular basis when it hampered his movements? The pants weren't much better. They threatened to burst at the seams if he bent over too far. He had better luck with the socks, but the boots were too narrow at the tip for his toes to fit comfortably.

  Berwin went to the mirror and scrutinized his appearance. If his own family hadn't delivered the clothing, he'd suspect that the clothes weren't really his.

  A soft noise, a shuffling, came from behind him.

  Turning, Berwin found a skinny man dressed in brown overalls and a brown cap, a broom in his left hand. The man appeared to be startled to encounter someone in the room. "Hello," Berwin said.

  "Hello," the man responded uncertainly, scrutinizing Berwin's attire. "I didn't think anyone was here."

&
nbsp; "May I help you?" Berwin asked, coming around the foot of the bed.

  The man shook his head vigorously, apparently intimidated by Berwin's size. "No, thanks. I'm the day-shift janitor."

  "What's your name?"

  "Jennings. Tom Jennings."

  "Bob Berwin. Please to meet you," Berwin said, and offered his right hand.

  Jennings stared at the hand for a bit, then shook gingerly. "Do you work here too?" he inquired.

  "Yeah," Berwin joked. "I'm the resident amnesiac."

  "You're a resident?" Jennings queried in surprise. "Man, let me give you a word of advice. Don't let Doc Milton or old iron-guts Krittenbauer catch you dressed in those duds. They'll skin you alive. They like all their men resident-types to dress in white."

  "But they gave me permission to wear these clothes," Berwin said.

  "They did?" Jennings questioned. "Then you must be a hotshot at whatever the hell amnesiacs is and they're givin' you special treatment."

  Berwin suddenly perceived that the janitor had misunderstood his remark about being the resident amnesiac, and he was about to correct the man's misconception when Jennings made a most curious comment.

  "They usually have a fit if a resident walks around in civvies. They're military all the way." He walked to the far corner and started sweeping the floor.

  "Military?" Berwin repeated.

  Jennings glanced at the giant. "Don't get me wrong, Doctor Berwin. I ain't got nothin' against you military types. I'm just not used to all the spit and polish, is all."

  "Isn't spit and polish what hospitals are all about?"

  Jennings snorted. "Now there's a good one. It might as well be,' seein'

  as how the HGP runs this floor and keeps close tabs on the whole hospital.

  A mouse can't get into Khrushchev Memorial without permission."

  "Don't you mean Kennedy Memorial?" Berwin asked.

  The janitor laughed. "You're a real funny guy, Doc. This place ain't been called that in eighty or ninety years."

  Lines formed on Berwin's forehead as he tried to comprehend the janitor's revelations. Nothing made sense. He needed more information, but if he asked the wrong question, if he disclosed his ignorance, the man might clam up. "How long have you worked here?" he inquired.

  "Oh, about fifteen years," Jennings said, sweeping under the bed.

  "Before that I pushed a broom at the Committee for State Security building over on Proudhon Avenue." He paused and swallowed. "I don't mind tellin' you that workin' there gave me the creeps."

  "Why?"

  Jennings looked up. "Would you be comfortable workin' in the KGB

  building?"

  "I guess not," Berwin said, playing along, scheming to elicit more news.

  "You must enjoy working here better."

  "You bet your ass I do," Jennings stated. "I don't have to work nights any more, which makes my wife happy. And some days, when they have a patient on this floor, I get to go home early."

  "Why's that?"

  "You haven't been workin' with the HGP very long, have you? They're a hush-hush bunch. When they've got patients on this floor, the guard at the desk tells me not to worry about cleanin'. They take care of it themselves, but they don't do as good a job as me."

  The guard at the desk? Berwin shook his head in bewilderment, feeling as if his world had been turned topsy-turvy.

  "Yes, sir," Jennings went on, still sweeping. "They do a half-assed job, and I have to work harder when they finally give me the green light. But I don't mind if it gets me a few extra hours off now and then. You know what I mean?"

  "I think so," Berwin replied.

  "So what's the field you're in again? Amnesiactics?" the talkative janitor inquired absently.

  "It has to do with the mind."

  "Really? I heard the HGP was more into bodies."

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah. You know. The gene thing. I never did understand science much."

  A tack he could take occurred to Berwin, and he promptly took advantage of the opening. "You must hear a lot about our work."

  "Oh, the usual scuttlebutt," Jennings said, sweeping nearer to the door.

  Berwin stepped aside so the janitor could pass him. "Like what?" he asked, willing himself to remain calm, keeping his tone level and casual.

  "There was talk about all the experiments being done on this floor,"

  Jennings said. "They say the experiments were classified Top Secret. I even heard the North American Central Committee are the bigwigs runnin' the show."

  Berwin rubbed his forehead, utterly confused. He couldn't recall his own past, but the name Khrushchev, the letters KGB, and the North American Central Committee all sparked a flicker of recognition in the vague reservoir of his memory, and the word he associated with all three filled him with apprehension:

  Russians. Why did the thought of Russians provoke such anxiety? What did he know about them? Think! he admonished himself. The Communists in Russia had been the mortal enemies of the United States, hadn't they?

  But how could there be Russians in Boston? Doctor Milton had told him the United States won World War Three. He looked at Jennings, who was sweeping with his back to the doorway, and went to ask another question.

  Before he could, a pair of hands clamped on the janitor's shoulders and Jennings was hauled roughly from the room.

  Chapter Eight

  "Where the blazes are we?" Hickok asked, his hands gripping the steering wheel firmly, his eyes on the rutted, pothole-dotted road directly ahead.

  "You're doing the driving," the stocky man across from him responded.

  "Don't you know?"

  "I know we're in Iowa," Hickok said.

  "The white man's sense of direction never ceases to amaze me," cracked his traveling companion.

  "And the cantankerousness of Injuns never fails to get my goat."

  "Cantankerousness? Wow. I'm impressed. I didn't think you had words larger than two syllables in your vocabulary."

  Hickok sighed and glanced to his right at the man he considered his virtual brother, one of the two best friends he had, the other one being Blade. "Look, Geronimo, will you quit givin' me a hard time and take a gander at the map in your lap?"

  "I can't," Geronimo responded. A green shirt, green pants, and moccasins covered his muscular form. His black hair was cut short, barely covering his ears. The Blackfoot heritage in his family was evident in his facial features. Under his right arm in a shoulder holster rested an Arminius .337 Magnum, and tucked under the front of his brown leather belt and slanted across his right hip was a genuine tomahawk, taken from the enormous collection of weapons stockpiled in the Family armory.

  "Why the heck not?" Hickok demanded.

  Geronimo looked at the gunman, his brown eyes twinkling. "Because I want to keep my eyes on you and the road."

  "Why? I'm doing a right smart job."

  "That's a matter of opinion."

  "We haven't had an accident yet, have we?" Hickok queried, wrenching on the wheel to avoid a hole two feet in diameter situated in the middle of the highway.

  Geronimo clutched the dashboard for support, swaying as the transport lurched to the left. "No, but we still have about a thousand miles to cover.

  I'm sure you'll find something to hit."

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence, pard," Hickok muttered straightening the steering wheel, pleased at the vehicle's superb response.

  The Solar Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle, dubbed the SEAL by the Founder, had been one of Kurt Carpenter's pet projects.

  He'd wisely foreseen that his descendants would require a unique vehicle capable of traversing the radically altered post-apocalypse terrain, and he had invested millions to have the SEAL developed according to his rigorous specifications.

  Vanlike in shape, the transport was a revolutionary prototype powered by the sun. A pair of solar panels attached to the roof collected the sunlight, which was then converted and stored in special batteries
housed in a lead-lined casing underneath the SEAL. The body was constructed of a heat-resistant, shatterproof plastic, fabricated to be nearly indestructible and tinted green. The tint prevented anyone outside from viewing the occupants. Four puncture-proof tires, each four feet high and two feet wide, supported the transport.

  Knowing his followers would need protection from the hordes of scavengers, raiders, and worse roaming the countryside, Kurt Carpenter had hired mercenaries to add armaments to the SEAL. They'd done their job well. A flamethrower with an effective range of 20 feet had been mounted in the center of the front fender, surrounded by layers of flame-retardant insulation. Hidden in the front grill was a rocket-launcher, and concealed in recessed compartments under each headlight was a 50-caliber machine gun. A surface-to-air missile, heat-seeking with a range of ten miles, perched on the roof above the driver's seat. All four weapons were activated by toggle switches on the dash.

  Carpenter hadn't spared any expense on the interior either. Spacious and comfortable to alleviate the strain of extended trips, a pair of bucket seats at the front accommodated the driver and a passenger. Between the seats ran a small console. Behind them, running the width of the vehicle, was another seat for passengers. The rear section served as the storage area for their supplies, spare parts, tools, and whatever other provisions were needed.

  From the person sitting in the wide seat came a request. "I'd like to know where we're at too, Geronimo. Would you check for me?"

  "For you, Marcus, yes," Geronimo replied, and consulted the map spread open on his thighs.

  Hickok sighed. "This is going to be a long trip."

  "I can't believe we've gone hundreds of miles and haven't run into trouble yet," Marcus commented.

  "You sound disappointed," Geronimo said, tracing his left forefinger on the map, following the route they'd taken.

  "I was hoping to see some action," Marcus stated. "I've heard so many stories about how dangerous the Outlands can be, but this run so far has been boring with a capital B."

  "Count your blessings," Geronimo responded.

  "Don't you want to see action?" Marcus asked, sounding surprised.

  "The less I see, the better."

  "But why? We're Warriors, aren't we? Fighting is our business, right?"