Marc fell into a conversation with the man about the wolves, he and Angie quietly keeping track of each other.
"Everything's a'gin us now," the mountain man stated, cracking his knuckles impatiently.
"But so many? Packs are never more than ten or fifteen," Marc observed.
"We killed the world. They hate us enough to band together."
"Surely that can't be?"
The man grunted, spoon already in his beefy hand as Lenore set his deep bowl down with a heavy thud. Angela looked away from the mats of dark hair on his forearms as he began scooping up huge bites of the steaming stew.
"Tis not just the wolves. Rats, snakes, ants. People'r the enemy."
Marc was frowning at the picture, and Lenore's eyes stayed on him. "Must not be that way where you came from?"
He shook his head, military mind calculating the odds of mankind if that were true. "No." Slim to none. "How far have you come?"
"So many miles I can't feel my ass anymore."
Lenore's eyes lit up and she leaned closer, sharp intelligence clear. "Tell me. Is it safe? When were you there?"
Wondering if it was the wolves that had scarred them up or something older, Marc eyed Angela. "Wrong one to ask."
Lenore produced a tight, grim smile - satisfied - and turned to Angela with approving eyes, "He's well-trained. We can make some deals, trade. I'm Lenore. He's Maxwell. Welcome to the killin' fields of Nebraska."
6
"Ohio, huh?" Lenore grunted, handing her a thick slab of cornbread, and they both ignored the loud belch and male grunt that echoed from the table. "Never been past the Missi'sip."
Angela closed her eyes, smiling in delight. Marc frowned when the man's gaze went to her face, lingered there.
"This is so good!"
"Missus makes the best," Max stated gruffly, eyes now on her chest. Angela held her ground though she had the urge to put her sweater back on.
"You've been here since the War?" Marc asked the man and wasn't surprised when he looked to his wife first.
"Tell 'em what ya will. I see no harm."
Lenore ducked through a heavily-curtained doorway that held a long, oddly decorated horn Marc thought was probably the wolf caller.
When Angela turned to see what he was staring at, Max waved a hand. "She's checkin' their breathin'. Corn fumes."
They both frowned, confused, and the man finished his last bite before explaining.