“Jeremiah brought us an incubator,” I said to explain his sudden appearance.
“And some other things,” the man said casually.
“Is that right?” Cipher asked. “What other things?”
“You’d have to ask Larry for the inventory list,” he said, which only heightened my suspicion. Jeremiah straightened his shoulders and said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey, you boys want to check out my rig? It’s parked right outside the fence.”
“Love to,” Cipher said and slung an arm around my shoulder, which must have meant that I was going along too.
We followed Jeremiah to the pasture between the gates where we’d camped our first few nights here, when Cipher had gone out to find Marion alone, and Larry was still deciding whether we were worthy enough to enter his kingdom.
Along the way, we picked up Macon and a few other townspeople who were curious about Jeremiah and his so-called rig. Gizmo and Wylie were at the vehicle already, inspecting the outside of it. They’d probably seen Jeremiah arrive, since the machine shop was near the gates.
Despite my misgivings about Jeremiah, the rig in question was impressive, a military-grade Humvee with modified suspension and huge, treaded tires that allowed it to travel over the backwoods of Rabid Country. Jeremiah gave us a rundown on its specs, and where he was stingy before with information, he seemed to enjoy sharing the various customizations of his vehicle.
“These blades in the front here are great for mowing down brush. Or Rabids,” Jeremiah said in response to one of Wylie’s questions about its front-end features.
“Must come in handy,” Cipher remarked.
“Sure does. It ain’t easy going it alone. Can’t even take a shit without worrying one’s going to pop up and bite my ass.”
Cipher nodded and Gizmo asked about the tires, which appeared to have something like chainmail surrounding them.
“Did that myself,” Jeremiah said with pride. “Got tired of getting stuck in the mud or busting a tire on a broken stump, but even if I do, this mod will fit just about anything standard-issue, so I’m never in a bind for too long.”
“Remarkable,” Wylie said and Gizmo nodded in agreement. “How fast does it go?”
“In Rabid Country, about ten miles an hour. Gotta take it slow or else the suspension gets jacked up. Out on the road, I get normal highway speeds. It’s terrible on gas, but what can you do?”
While they talked about the rig’s features, my focus kept returning to the cage mounted to the top of the roof, large enough to fit a grown man. “What’s that for?” I asked, pointing.
“Sometimes clients request live specimens,” Jeremiah said. “Then I have to use the tranq gun on ‘em.” He opened the double doors on one side of the Humvee to reveal a large interior with numerous weapons mounted to the opposite wall. He grabbed a green rifle and showed it to the small crowd that had gathered. The darts looked like long metal syringes with red, bushy tails where the plunger would normally go. The needles were two inches long at least. I’d grown accustomed to needles since working with Marion, and had been told by several patients that I had a light touch when inserting them, but these looked violent and scary.
“How does it work?” Cipher asked, and I supposed he’d never had the opportunity to use a tranquilizer gun before.
“Now see here.” Jeremiah pointed to the dart’s lethal-looking spike. “The hole is in the side of the needle, not the tip. The dart has two chambers, one that contains the fluid and one that’s pressurized through a one-way valve. When the dart hits the Rabid, the pressure pushes the fluid out of the dart.”
“Fascinating,” Gizmo said, taking the dart in his hand to inspect it all over.
“This one has enough juice to take down a biggun no problem,” Jeremiah continued. “But it’s a real bitch to haul the heavy ones into the cage, so I usually go for the smaller ones. About your size,” he said and nodded at me.
I shrank away, hiding behind Cipher, who was too enthralled by all of Jeremiah’s weapons and gadgets to notice.
“Is this secure?” Cipher asked and laid a hand on the vehicle’s exterior.
Jeremiah banged on the metal with his fist. “Rabid proof. And I added armor to make it bullet proof too, in case the Rabids ever figure out how to use a gun.”
“God forbid,” Cipher said. “Where do you get your gasoline?”
“Here and there,” Jeremiah said. “And that’s where I sleep.” He pointed to a narrow bed built into the back of the rig, the sheets made up with military precision.
“Who do you typically do work for?” Cipher asked.
“My clients are confidential, but I buy a lot of my gear from the military. I may or may not do an odd job for them from time to time.”
“How long were you in the service?” Cipher asked.
“Four years. Enlisted as soon as I was old enough. Sick of starving. Military’s good for that at least. Lots of carbs and time to workout.”
