In the end, Mrs. O'Coombe's doctor came along after all, but only after the remaining Javelin doctor personally spoke to Valentine and explained that having a doctor along might mean the difference between a continued recovery and a setback as they moved the wounded.
Though Valentine wondered how much of a specialist Mrs. O'Coombe's doctor really was. He went by the unimaginative moniker of "Doc" and seemed more like a country sawbones than an expert in difficult recoveries, though his nurse, a thick-fingered Louisiana-born woman named Sahita, had the serene, slightly blank look of an experienced caregiver. Sahita looked at the entire world through narrowed eyes and seemed naturally immune to chitchat, responding only in monosyllables if at all possible to any conversational efforts.
Valentine and Frat did a final inspection before boarding the vehicles. Food, clothing, gear, guns. Everyone a first-aid kit, everyone a tool for finding food or making shelter.
Frat had a big shoulder bag over his arm as well, stuffed with maps and battered old guidebooks to Kentucky. Valentine was rather touched by the imitation, if that's what it was rather than coincidence.
Though Frat had avoided choosing a diaper bag for his miscellany.
Inspection complete and vehicles pronounced ready, they boarded their transport and put the engines in gear. Despite his misgivings, Valentine was relieved to be on the move at last. The sooner they started, the sooner he could return.
The vehicles rolled out of Fort Seng in column order the next morning.
The motorcycles blatted out first, followed by Rover with Valentine riding shotgun and Mrs. O'Coombe in back, looking for all the world like an annoying mother-in-law in a comedy of the previous century. Duvalier slumped next to her, head pillowed on her rolled-up overcoat, already settling in to sleep. Bee had reluctantly taken a place in the Bushmaster behind but soon amused herself by unloading magazines, cleaning the bullets, and reloading the magazines.
The rest of the camouflage-painted parade followed.
Valentine had a big, comfortable seat, and there was a clip for his rifle in the dashboard. A clever little map or reading light could be bent down from the ceiling, and there was even a little case in the seat for a pair of binoculars or maps or sandwiches or books or whatever else you might desire on a long trip.
For such a wretched, ungoverned, miserable place, the Old World sure put a lot of thought into conveniences, Valentine thought ironically. Of course a New Universal churchman would counter that the conveniences applied to only one half of one percent of the world's population.
Habanero the wagon master controlled the wheel and gearshift in Rover, his earpiece in and a little control pad on his thigh that allowed him to radio the other drivers. He gave Valentine an extension so he could plug in to listen-and to speak if he had to.
In the cabin of Rover, Valentine felt his usual isolation from the outside world when riding in a vehicle. While he enjoyed the comfort and convenience, you lost much of the appreciation of landscape and distance, proper humility before wind and weather.
Of course he couldn't overlook the advantages an engine and wheels gave when you had two hundred miles to cover in search of your scattered wounded. The pleasant, ten-minute walk to the gate took but a moment in Rover.
"Slow here," Valentine said as they approached the gate and the doughnut-selling missionary.
"You need to install a drive-up window," Valentine yelled from his rolled-down window. He'd been saving up the jibe all morning.
"Wise of you," the missionary said. "Oh, it's you, my brother and friend. I'm glad you've decided to bow to the inevitable. But time runs short! Hurry! Go like Lot and his wife and do not look back."
"Sorry to disappoint," Valentine said, getting out to claim a final doughnut for the road. "We're not leaving. We're just off to do a little touring. Would you recommend the Corvette museum in Bowling Green or the Lincoln birthplace?" Behind, he heard Duvalier get out, yawning.
"I weep for you," the missionary said. "You're all dead, you know. A reckoning is coming. Weeds have sprouted in Kentucky's green gardens, and it is time for the gardeners to replant. But first, the scythes and the cutters. Scythes and cutters, I say."
"They better be sharper than you," Duvalier said. "It's a sad-"
"Wait a moment," Valentine said. "What's this about, you? What scythes, what cutters? I don't believe in visions unless they're specific."
"Oh, it's coming, sir. Sooner than anyone expects." He looked up and down the column. "You have one final chance to repent. Turn west and follow the sun. If you turn east, by your actions is Kentucky doomed. You sow the seeds of your own destruction."
"Shut up, you," one of the Wolves yelled from the Chuckwagon.
"Want us to gag him with his own pastries?" Frat called to Valentine.
Valentine held up his hand, halting the Wolves in their tracks. "How does a man like you come by such intelligence?"
The doughnut missionary grinned. He passed a finger down his nose. "I prayed and I learned over many long years. But I too had faults: pride and greed and lust. I was cast out to make my way among the heathen. But they did not take all my gifts. I still have my vision."
"False prophecy. I've seen no portents. Red sunsets before the Kurians ever move, my mother always told me. Long red sunsets and dawns, with blood on the clouds."
"Whispers on the wind, you poor soul. That's how I know. Whispers on the wind."
"Would that the wind were a little clearer."
"I hear voices, you poor lost soul. See visions. Visions! Oh, they break the heart."