“The woman in the drab white uniform jacked a shell into her sawed-off shotgun and stood beside the warehouse door. "It's me… Owen," came the voice of a child. "Let him in," allowed the kindly doctor. After the rolling steel door had been hoisted, letting in the sweltering dragon's breath of a high noon gust, a bizarre procession entered the cavernous building; a battered and rusty red wagon pulled by two harnessed curs. The dogs, one a Doberman, the other a mutt of indeterminate parentage, were... a sorry pair. Both were ravaged with mange and parasites, and the effects of malnutrition showed in their bloated bellies and sharp, serrated ribs. A small, black boy led the dog-drawn wagon. They knew him only as Owen, one of the doctor's regular scavengers. The child was a seasoned survivor at the tender age of nine. His dark face bore the battle scars so common in that brutal day and time; horizontal slashes from a razor fight, as well as a bullet-punctured lower lip. But the most noticeable disfigurement appeared in the form of raw radiation burns which covered the right side of his face and neck like brilliant pink islands on an ebony sea.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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