Jim LaVigne

PLAGUESVILLE, USA

Acknowledgements

Dedicated to:

Kevin, for the spirit

Jane, for the undying support

Ellie, for the spark

And most of all, to Katy, without whom this would not be possible, for Everything Else

Prologue:

From Baron Zero’s New History of America

Q. How many survivors does it take to screw in a light bulb?

A. Doesn’t matter; there’s no electricity and no more bulbs.

—popular joke, circa 2075

Most survivors would later mark August 3rd, 2064 as the final day of the United States of America. On that date, Harold Thomas Ortega, our 53rd President, gave the last address to issue from the White House. Anyone left who was lucky enough to still have electricity, a functioning TV, and the luxury of anything like safety, heard the following brief, poignant message. It would later be generally be referred to as the “We Endure” speech and, while hailed as brave by some, was mostly the object of derision and bitterness among the typically cynical, hard-hearted survivors.

“My fellow Americans. I come to you today with a heavy heart and a spirit much subdued by the monumental challenges we face, but also to offer hope. As you all know, we face the greatest crisis ever known to man. The global spread of the New Plague has devastated not only this great nation of ours but indeed, the entire human population. Sadly, our best estimate is that at least 8 of every 10 human beings on the planet has succumbed to the disease. Now, I know that this is a shocking statistic and that loss of life on this scale is difficult to comprehend. Never before in the annals of human existence has such a disaster claimed the lives of so many, and the difficulties faced by those of us who are left are myriad and frankly grave. Truly, we face trying times.”

“But I speak to you today to let you know that the government of the United States of America endures. Yes, we are forced to function at a greatly reduced level, and with far less effectiveness than in earlier times, but nonetheless, we endure. Through pain and strife, we endure. Through disease and chaos, we endure. And through this crisis, my fellow citizens, we shall also endure. Your government has not forgotten you. We are still here, we are still striving to persevere, and we will never cease to do our duty as long as we draw breath. We will endure.”

“And so, my friends, in the coming days, let us remember the great strength and amazing adaptability of our great nation and work, each of us, to maintain this great land, this great nation for which so many have struggled and fought. Let us reach out to our fellow man, to help those who cannot help themselves, and to insure that this mighty nation endures. With your help, we will ride out this grave situation and emerge an even stronger, greater country. We will endure. Thank you, good night, and God Bless the United States of America.”

Even at the time, clinging to any scrap of hope, most survivors who saw or heard the final address knew that it was a complete load of bullshit. For one thing, the man delivering the speech had been sealed in a special, germ-free, state-of-the-art hazmat suit for the last two years; what did he know about disease or suffering? What was all this “we” talk?

Mainly though, all a survivor had to do was to look around to see that the man was full of crap, because no matter where they were, from Alaska to Florida, Maine to California, they were surrounded by death. Like a great, mindless colossus, the plague had stomped across the country, killing everyone it could and (metaphorically) shaking the infrastructure of society so violently that things simply fell apart. With hundreds of thousands of bodies in the streets, no one was left to endure. No one was left to run the power plants or to man police forces, nor monitor and man the infrastructure. There was no sewer, water, electricity, or phone service, and each person was more concerned with the simple demands of feeding themselves than anything else. Needless to say, they didn’t feel much like the citizens of a great nation.

Not that it had been altogether sudden; anyone who survived had seen the same sad, dreary descent into collapse. In the fall of 2058, there had been reports of an outbreak of some plague-like disease in India, in which a few thousand people had perished. Inured to such outbreaks in the Third World, no one had taken much notice until the disease had spread, first to China, then Africa, and people had started dying in alarming numbers. Within a week, mortality statistics began to overwhelm every agency tasked with compiling them and the news networks were afire with grisly scenes of hospitals and UN clinics overwhelmed with victims.

Still, few in the West were overly concerned; they had all kinds of plans in place to deal with just this sort of thing. The U.S. CDC, the UN World Health Organization, all of the hundreds of national governments and health watchdogs, all assured people that they had it under control, that there was no need for panic. They had a plan and it would take care of everything.

But it didn’t. The disease, a new, air-born variant on the venerable Yersinia pestis, more commonly known as pneumonic plague, defied all efforts to confine—or even slow—its spread. The small stock of vaccine on hand was both insufficient and ineffective, and production of new vaccine painfully slow and haphazardly distributed. Before the experts knew what was happening, and despite every contingency plan and worst-case scenario fallback scheme, the plague colossus stomped right over them.

Emergency plans and severe restrictions on travel proved ineffective and modern transportation meant that the disease spread quickly to Europe and the Western Hemisphere. Soon enough, within a year of its outbreak, it had reached U.S. soil and people began to die. From either coast and from the squalid reaches of the Mexican Narco-Union, it spread like a wildfire in a high wind. It is estimated that, by 2063, it had spread to every corner of the continent.

In the news and on TV, all the average U.S. citizen saw for the next two years was one piece of crushingly bad news after another. Oh, the Powers That Be, such as did not die and stayed at their posts, kept right on saying that they were doing everything they could, that a vaccine was in the works and not to panic or take the law into their own hands, to stay in their homes and remain calm, but when the lights went out and the plumbing stopped working, when their neighbor died and lay unburied on his lawn until dogs ate him, when a roving gang came down the street, kicking in doors and ransacking homes for food, they knew that the end couldn’t be far off. And when the TV went into 24-7 Emergency Broadcast Channel mode, even if they still had power they generally just quit watching.

In most of the country, anarchy came gradually but inexorably. First the local police and fire services had failed as the men and women who comprised them either died or simply took off their uniforms and fled. Similarly, the various state National Guard forces faded and then disappeared as their numbers plummeted and the less dedicated of them simply gave up and went their own way. Armed citizens and vigilantes held sway in some places, defending what was left of their properties and possessions, but the plague, like an inexorable wave, swept through their numbers as quickly as anyone else and, by about 2065, those survivors not in some sort of enclave were faced with the ultimate expression of Every Man for Himself.

Agencies like FEMA and the Red Cross were overwhelmed within the first year and ceased to be a factor before ever really getting started. Health services nationwide, hospitals and clinics and all of the emergency facilities set up in the first year were overwhelmed within months and there were many reports of armed guards, awash in desperate, angry victims, resorting to lethal (and, to some, highly ironic) force to defend the houses of healing.

As to the source of all this misery, the plague itself, little was ultimately learned. The great university labs and the Federal Government, in the form of the CDC, doing the best they could with severely limited facilities and personnel and nearly buried alive by panicky victims, burned through a whole set of letter and number combinations. At last count, they had settled on YP46. But putting a name to the disease did nothing toward preventing its spread. The last anyone heard from the monolithic labs in New Atlanta was that they were still at work on the problem, but with the collapse of basic services and the onset of lawlessness, it is thought that they were, like all other Federal agencies, more or less wiped out.

The disease’s origins were, perhaps inevitably, the source of much conjecture and speculation. The more conspiracy-minded held that it was some sort of experiment gone awry, some secret germ warfare program or, more likely, a terrorist attack, but no evidence of such was ever unearthed, though not for lack of trying; indeed, in the final days, many people seemed more obsessed with the plague’s origin than its effects. In the end, though, no blame could be squarely laid, and the disease was thought to be of a wholly mundane nature. Mother Nature simply served up an organism the human race could not master.

And in its physical manifestation, the organism was cruel. Victims first felt fatigue and a persistent cough, followed quickly by a general systemic breakdown and, finally, a gruesome, bloody death as they choked to death on their own fluids. Mortality was swift; most victims died within three days of infection.

Among survivors, madness was not an uncommon response. From the very religious, wailing of the End Times, to the New Agers praying for alien intervention, from the average guy who just snapped when he was forced to dig another grave for another dead family member, to the clinic worker who’d seen one too many people choke to death on their own blood, quite a number of folks just plain lost it. For those not driven out of their minds outright, scenes of depravity, sexual perversity, violence, and unreasoning destruction became all too common and served perniciously to swell the ranks of the mad and the dead.

Indeed, one of the great tragedies of the event was the loss of life not from plague but from the depredations of those who, panicked by a looming apocalypse, reverted to a “might-is-right” mentality and fought with each other over goods and places which would swiftly be, devoid of a human presence, essentially useless.

And, on top of all this loss of life and misery, those lucky enough to not contract the plague still died, from a variety of other causes. The infirm and the aged, uncared-for and unable to care for themselves, perished from neglect or a simple lack of medical care. Formerly mundane afflictions like diabetes and common heart conditions, not to mention everyday diseases like influenza, became, in the absence of vital medications, modern sanitation, and proper care, as deadly as the plague itself. Common accidents became lethal; even a broken ankle could be life-threatening, and an inflamed appendix was tantamount to a death sentence. In addition, untold numbers of people, faced with the horrors to come, simply took their own lives; there are no figures available, but it is estimated that tens—if not hundreds—of thousands may have committed suicide.

By necessity and nature, those who were survived and weren’t overtly insane tended to band together. There were, naturally, plenty of lone holdouts, survivalist types holed up in what they thought were impregnable fortresses, sometimes whole families, but most people hadn’t been so prescient or prepared. (Interestingly, there is no evidence to point to a lesser mortality rate for such isolationists; the plague knew no boundaries and could not be deterred by weapons and fortifications.) Most were just regular people, young and old, men and women and children who, for whatever reason, had not contracted the disease and now were faced with a daily struggle for mere survival. Sometimes in cities, sometimes in the country, sometimes with forethought, and sometimes slapdash and improvisational, they grouped together.

Many of these bands devolved into rule by the strongest, a simple gang mentality that, while crude and sometimes brutal, often provided the best form of organization for the situation. After all, no one had to think about what to do next if somebody else did it for them, and only a few people had it in them to do the thinking. Still, such groups proved problematic; often it was only by violently preying on each other that they survived and, sadly, some resorted to cannibalism.

Others bands were more “civilized”, better organized and more democratic, electing leaders and using basic rules of order and law, but these were few and far between, generally less aggressive and poorly armed and thus vulnerable, and most ended up being either wiped out or conglomerated into a few larger enclaves. These larger groups, staking out whatever land they deemed worth defending, like islands in a vast sea of wasteland, existed in relatively complete isolation of each other and bore makeshift names like the California Confederacy and the New Hampshire Free State.

Naturally, global communication, land lines, cellular networks, satellites and computers, unmanned and without electrical power, quickly flickered and then went silent. The U.S. Emergency Broadcast Network, reduced to intermittent transmissions of useless advice, sent its last signal on June 6, 2066. Where once there’d been a clamor of human interaction, profound silence descended.

As the months and years went by and neglect set in, the very landscape of America changed. Vegetation, be it tree or vine or simple grass, began to take over; pavements buckled from the weeds sprouting up and saplings germinated on the freeways. Great buildings—skyscrapers, stadiums, cathedrals—were left to the elements and the foliage and began to crumble.

Animals, whether domesticated or wild, proliferated or died out, depending on their adaptability. Indeed, for some species the plague was a veritable boon; it was not uncommon for a survivor to encounter large packs of wild dogs, hordes of overfed rats, or great flocks of carrion-fatted birds. On the other hand, animals like cows and pigs and most poultry, unable to defend themselves or adapt, became much more scarce.

The remains of civilization provided their own serious hazards as well. Railroad and semi tankers full of liquid chlorine and ammonia rusted through and released vast clouds of searing poison gas that sometimes covered a hundred square miles. Waterways, the complex system of locks and dams now untended, dried up in some places and in others overflowed their banks and flooded great stretches of low-lying America. Nuclear plants melted down, burst their containment structures, and lay radioactive waste to whole regions. Rusting, leaking refineries, derelict, chemical-filled industrial plants, weeping oil rigs, giant exploding fuel tanks and a host of other man-made ecological disasters pocked the countryside like gigantic carbuncles.

All in all, it became a very hostile world in which to live, and one not for the weak; murder, rape, insanity, hunger, dread, and general, random lawlessness faced nearly each and every one, each and every day. More esoteric, leisure-oriented things like basic education, religion, science, entertainment and the arts, all waned sharply or took new and different forms as the older survivors died off and the upcoming generation, most of them half-feral orphans, developed their own crude, usually heavily nostalgic, cultures.

By some mutual but tacit agreement, survivors tended to use the same stark, capital-letter terms when speaking of what happened: the decline and collapse of civilization was called the Fall, the years prior to it were known as Before, and the present day was known as After. The plague itself was commonly referred to simply as the Sick.

As of this writing, in the summer of 2077, a mere dozen years since the “We Endure” address, the best estimate, from admittedly unreliable word of mouth communication, is that the U.S. population now stands at about 20,000, give or take a few thousand. This means that, of a population of about 325 million, more than 99.99 percent perished. If the effect was global—and there is no reason to believe it was not—this means that at least six and a half billion people (6,500,000,000) succumbed, and in less than five years. The numbers are staggering, to say the least, and difficult to fully countenance; there are no precedents in human history for such all-encompassing, sudden mortality. In fact, it is thought that dwelling too long on the statistics themselves is enough to engender madness.

At present, there is order only in the better-armed and organized enclaves, stray gangs and violent psychotics roam at will, and the landscape, urban and rural, teems with both man-made and natural hazards. Anyone still alive faces a most uncertain future, and while a hopeful few harbor dreams of a better tomorrow, many believe that the human race, like a guttering candle, is on the brink of extinction.

Chapter One

Krillo-dogs are super neat!

Tastes just like some kind of meat!

Krillo-dogs, yeah Krillo-dogs!

The dog all kids just love to eat!

—jingle in ads for Titan Agrofoods product, circa 2052

Teresa first thought about leaving the Bloodclaws, the only family she’d ever known, when she was nearly gang-raped by three of her closest childhood friends. Up until then, things had been alright, but if good old Clanky hadn’t stepped in to help her fight when the three others tried to force themselves on her, they might have been very different. As it was, it had started her thinking.

At the moment, she sat atop a ruined, partially burned school bus in the midst of the Bloodclaw compound and stared out at the sunset. Around her, some forty individuals ranging in years from five to fifty, her clan mates, went about their lives. Some worked on vehicles, a handful were cooking a dog over a fire, a couple of groups simply sat and talked with friends. Some drank their stupidwater and started fights, and, over to one side, a few gun-toters were engaged in some noisy target practice. Later on, there’d probably be a pit fight. All in all, a pretty average, boring evening. Even the prospect of a new episode from Big Mike, their clan storyteller, didn’t hold much interest; his stories were always about Jesus and his crew and they were starting to all seem kind of the same.

Lazily, she scanned the compound and spotted their leader, Sharp, off to one side, having a can of drink. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth compressed into a down-turned line. Sharp.

The main problem, Teresa knew, was that she was beautiful. This wasn’t a conceited opinion of herself, it was simple fact; the way the boys looked at her only confirmed it. Whatever it was, whatever combination of facial and bodily features in whatever combination it was that attracted men, she had it. In a big way. At first, when her boobs had sprouted and her hips had begun to fill out, she’d taken great pains to conceal herself, but her face was not so easy to camouflage and her looks had soon become an issue. That had been a rough time.

But later, when she’d learned how to protect herself (mainly the hard way, through hard trial and painful error), she’d come to understand that her appearance was not only not a liability, it could be used to get things from men that most women only dreamed about. Food, burners, ammo, blankets, smoke, you name it. And if she usually enjoyed the sex, that was just a bonus.

Not always, though, and sometimes it bothered her that she did things like trading sex for material goods, but then she would reflect that she was actually lucky to have the opportunity; most women in the Bloodclaws didn’t have her physique. She should be glad she had something with which to trade.

“Hey, T!” came a voice from the ground and she looked down to see Hairy Steve looking up. She nodded to him.

“What up?” she asked disinterestedly.

“Y’all gleep Gene lately?” asked Steve, scratching himself.

“Which?” said Teresa. “Big Gene or Obscene Gene?”

“Big.”

“Over there,” waved Teresa, “yappin’ with Sharp.”

“Oh, hey, yeah,” said Steve, waving. “Thanks, T. Later.”

“Later.”

She watched as Hairy Steve ambled away. Eyeing Sharp across the compound, his big mohawk unmistakable, she frowned and shook her head as she realized that, again, it was her body that was in question. Sharp didn’t want her for her, so to speak, not even for her not inconsiderable fighting and banging skills. No, he wanted her body, her tits and ass and face. If he had been interested in her in some way more personal than as a status symbol, she might even have gone for the guy. But when all he wanted was sex and to have her, as in own her, well, that was where she rebelled, and as vociferously as she’d resisted her would-be rapists.

It was most definitely not something she took lightly. These people were the only family she’d ever known. She had some very few, very vague recollections of her mother, fading snapshots in her mind of a thin, distraught woman with black hair and a thin, worried face, but other than that, nothing remained of her biological family; even her last name had been lost in the Fall. But now, to stay with her clan would mean one of three things: she could submit to Sharp, become his woman and do what he said for the rest of her life, she could fight him and, if she wasn’t killed, take over the clan, or she could just plain leave, slink off in the night and try to find a new life somewhere else. To tell the truth, the second option, a fight to the death, seemed more attractive than the other two, but even that wasn’t all that appealing, since she had absolutely no desire to be in charge. Which, since she wasn’t about to submit, left her back at the idea of leaving. After all, she had her own place out in the wasteland that no one knew about. She could go there for starters and then see how it went. Yeah, maybe.

It was strange, too, that even the exciting aspects of being a Bloodclaw—what they called banging—were starting to become less than thrilling. Oh, she still loved the exhilaration of the chase, the speed and the danger of running some poor sucker into the ditch or a wall, but the end result, the suffering of those who they caught, usually just sorry chumps who happened to be on the road, well, that wasn’t so fun. Lately, the pain in their faces and the way they begged for their lives was starting to get to her. She didn’t know why, exactly, but somehow the whole idea of preying on anybody who happened along, the very basis of Bloodclaw philosophy, was starting to look sort of childish and unproductive and mean. Another reason to leave.

She was still turning it over in her mind when someone started to ring the big metal triangle that served as their alarm bell. Something was up! The triangle was only used when the presence of the whole fighting arm of the clan, those old and young enough to fight, was required. And that meant her. Putting her thoughts on hold for now, she climbed down from the bus and, the old excitement bubbling up in her system, hoping for a good road chase or gunfight, went to see what was happening.

Chapter Two

Tonight on the Dick van Fusco Show, Dick’s guests will be: Actor Milton Ferretly, fresh from his latest wacky brain surgery, singer/songwriter Suzie Granola plugs her new disc, plus comedian Dinkie Drainpipe, combat ball star Deadline Jonson, and the ultra-punk sounds of hot new band Pox Populi! You’ll hate yourself if you miss this one! Forever!

—ad for popular TV talk show, UZS network, 2055

Dr. Justin Kaes of the United States Centers for Disease Control and Prevention sighed, kicked an empty food can across the dusty road, and wished, for maybe the fiftieth time, that he’d never volunteered for this mission. It was hopeless, for one thing, an utter fool’s errand, and besides, he was hardly the adventurous type; out of shape and soft from easy living and long hours of sedentary lab work, he simply wasn’t fit for all of this chasing around and danger. And now Poole and Gonzalez were gone, off on another fool’s errand, and he was in charge.

All he was supposed to do was to stay put, make sure nothing happened to their vehicles or the Old Man, and wait, but he still felt very nervous. After all, here they were, stuck out in the middle of the wasteland once known as Oklahoma, totally lost, with no fuel and little food or water, surrounded by who knew how many potentially violent survies, and charged with keeping safe the meanest, crankiest and oldest man that he or any of the others had ever met. Yes, he thought, and sighed again, I should have just stayed in New Atlanta.

Suddenly the noise of yelling from the big MedCenter truck cut through the hiss of the wind, and Justin swore under his breath. Another bust-up with the Old Man. For a moment he considered ignoring the noise and letting Cass and the others deal with it, but then he reminded himself that he was in charge and shuffled over to the truck.

Within the converted RV, it was much cooler and more humid, but nothing like what it should be; running on backup power would do that. Back in the clean room Cass, the head nurse, and one of her three assistants, a large, handsome man named Greg, were busy arguing with their charge, the reason for this whole adventure and all of their high-tech medical gear, the old man named Howard Lampert. From the sound of it, it seemed as if the Old Man was giving as good as he was getting. As usual. Cass gave him an exasperated look as he came up.

“You worm-headed jerks!” the Old Man was yelling, in that reedy, thin voice that cut through Justin like a power drill. “You’re all gonna starve to death out here! You think Dr. Poole and what’s-his-face are comin’ back? Ha! It’s been a week already, you stupid bastards! And he probably got jumped by some of the locals the first god-damn day!”

“Now, Mr. Lampert,” said Greg, clinging to what was left of his bedside manner, “don’t you worry about that. You’ll be just fine.”

Cocooned in his railed hospital bed, surrounded by blinking, beeping machines connected to his frail, wizened body, the Old Man scowled and slapped his forehead with one hand. Justin winced a little at the violence of the gesture; at 102, the Old Man shouldn’t be getting slapped on the head like that.

“Jesus H. Chrysler!” Lampert spat. “It’s like talking to a fuckin’ bag of hammers!” Shaking his head, he noticed Justin’s entrance and waved the younger man over. “Doc, come here a minute. Talk some sense into these blithering morons, wouldya?”

“What’s the trouble, sir?” asked Justin. “Do you lack for anything?”

“Well, no, no,” said Lampert, slumping back. “Not at the moment, no, other than the obvious. But here’s the deal, Doc: I know that you have to be low on water and food. These trucks aren’t big enough for that. Plus, you’re out of gas and, from what I’ve heard, this whole part of the country is just crawling with survies. So, unless you do something, and pretty damned soon, you’re either gonna get slaughtered—or worse—or you’re gonna starve to death. Shit, maybe both! Who knows?”

“But Mr. Lampert,” said Justin mildly, “what do you care about that? No offense, but you’ve been telling us from the first day that all you want to do is to die. Wouldn’t this… scenario furnish just that result?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” said the Old Man wryly. “It’d work just fine. But why did you have to drag me out into the middle of fucking nowhere to do it?! I could have starved to death back in Minneapolis just as easily, you know!”

“Well, of course,” Justin smiled, “but then you wouldn’t have the chance to save a great many lives. Don’t forget what this is all about.”

“Yeah, yeah. You and your god-damn plague. I’ve told you a hundred times already, I don’t give a flying fuck about that. As far as I’m concerned, humanity can just as well—”

“Go fuck itself,” finished Justin, “as you so colorfully put it. Yes, I know, but I’m afraid that is as may be. Our mission is clear and, unfortunately, as we explained, it does not necessarily require your cooperation.”

“OK, so why don’t you just keep me doped-up or in a coma or something? All you really want is my blood, right? So take it! Be done with it already!”

“Now, we’ve been through this,” said Justin, a headache beginning in his temples. “We need you alive and healthy. The amount of serum would be insufficient otherwise. Remember?”

“Remember?” mimicked the Old Man nastily. “Of course I remember, ya dumb jerk. You’ve told me over and over about saving humanity and all that bullshit. Whatever. But that’s my freakin’ point, what I was tryin’ to tell these dipshits: you ain’t gonna get the chance! Any minute now some god-awful bunch of crazed bikers are gonna sweep down outta the desert and turn your fancy RVs into Swiss cheese and microchips!”

“Well, you just let me worry about that,” said Justin, much more confidently than he felt. “You just relax and try not to exert yourself, alright?”

“Fuck off,” said the Old Man.

“Yes, well…” said Justin. “I’ll check in on you a little later.”

After checking the Old Man’s vitals and a recent scan of the withered old heart beating away in the withered old chest, Justin gave Cass some unneeded instructions and took himself off to his tiny lab at the front of the vehicle. Closing the airtight hatch, he slumped at his desk, held his head in one hand, and thought back to the events that had brought him to this place.

In New Atlanta, Justin’s home town, things had been pretty bad; gangs of hungry, often crazy people roamed the streets and it was thanks only to their loyal security staff that the great hospitals and labs had been able to keep running. But every day, every week, every year, some new sign of the Fall had descended. Packs of wild dogs appeared in the winter of 2062. Roving gangs took and held the downtown area the next year, and by 2064, Justin and everyone else in New Atlanta had become accustomed to seeing bodies—sometimes great mounds of bodies—in the streets. And when the corpses began to cause even more health problems, like cholera and typhus, they were witness to great grills made of railroad tracks that were set up to burn the remains.

The last couple of years had seen trees buckling the pavers in Margaret Mitchell Square, more—and more violent—gangs, killing each other and anyone else weaker than themselves they could find, and the CDC cafeteria featuring dog and cat food on the lunch menu.

Unlike many of the CDC staff, he thankfully had no wife, kids, or other close relatives in town, but, like most of them, his house had burned to the ground in the Big Fire of 2068. After that he and much of the staff and their families, what was left of them, had simply moved into their offices and made do as best they could.

Out of either desperation or because they didn’t know what else to do, those few remaining had kept at it, plugging away at a cure, despite having virtually no clue as to how to proceed. The problem was that they had no starting point; with all viruses, there were anti-bodies, small samples of the virus itself which formed the basis of a vaccine. But in this case, as they soon discovered, the customary methods were simply not going to work.

The trouble was that the disease was highly mutative; when it encountered an organism it could not infect, it subtly and swiftly altered its DNA to adjust. This meant that, unlike most outbreaks of this sort, it would not run its course and be done. Instead, it would mutate, returning over and over, in ever-changing strains, until it had run out of host organisms. In other words, it would quite likely wipe out every last human being on the planet.

What was needed was a sample of the original strain of the virus, the unaltered DNA of the plague, with which the mutations could be stopped and the virus thus contained. Unfortunately, the only sample of this sort would have to come from a living host, someone who had survived the original strain and had the virus (and thus the anti-bodies) in their blood. But where to find such a host? Their own records recorded an outbreak of the original strain, but they were incomplete, partially lost in the Fall, and the idea of simply going out and looking for someone with the strain was sheer suicide. It had seemed hopeless.

Then, one day last year, in the fall of 2075, they’d received a most interesting visitor. All the way from San Francisco, Dr. Stanley Bahrara represented a consortium of doctors and researchers who believed that they had found the starting point, at least in theory, and had traveled all the way to New Atlanta to enlist their aid.

Lucky (or resourceful) enough to still have a full set of records and research facilities, the folks in California had managed to locate their Golden Hosts, a very few people who had survived the original strain. The problem was that if any of them were even still alive, they would be very old, probably quiet frail, and, given the general societal breakdown, very hard to locate. In other words, it was a terrible long shot. In the end, Dr. Poole, the latest CDC Director, had decided that it was worth the effort, and five separate missions, one for each host, were readied. By necessity, since the loss of their fleet of planes in the Big Fire and the last of the pilots to the Plague, they would travel by land.

The preparation and planning for the trip and the first parts of the trek itself were not terribly memorable, aside from the varying scenes of death and chaos they’d encountered along the way. Justin tried very hard not to remember those. No, the real trouble had begun in Mr. Lampert’s home town of Minneapolis, where simply finding the right street had taken nearly a week. And when they had finally found the Old Man, alive beyond all expectation, just getting him out of his apartment had been an ordeal. Justin smiled as he recalled the exchange between Lampert and Dr. Poole, just after they’d roused the Old Man enough to speak:

“Who the fuck are you?” the Old Man had rasped belligerently. “And what are you doin’ in my fucking apartment?”

“Are you Howard P. Lampert?” Poole had asked, looking and sounding like a robot in his haz-mat suit.

“Who the fuck wants to know?” the Old Man had demanded.

Poole had tried to explain about the possibility of a cure and Lampert’s part in it, but the Old Man would have none of it. In the end they’d just bundled him up, yelling and thrashing as best he could, and hauled him out of the filthy apartment, down the stairs, and into the waiting MedCenter. And off they’d gone.

Suddenly a crash, loud even through the thick walls of the vehicle, interrupted Justin’s thoughts and, glad of the distraction but fearing the worst, he jumped up and hustled out to see what the problem was. Had the Outlaws finally found them? Were they under attack? Was the vehicle malfunctioning? Some natural disaster?

But it was nothing so dire; instead, when he entered the clean area, he found that it was just the Old Man. Again. This time he’d apparently shown his displeasure with dinner, in that he’d thrown the tray of food against a wall. Bellnick, another of the nurses’ assistants, was wearily cleaning up the mess. Justin heaved a sigh and went over to the bed.

“What is it now, Mr. Lampert?” he asked. “Is the food not to your liking?”

“Food?” scowled Lampert. “You call that food? It’s fucking cat food!”

“I’m afraid that’s the best we have, sir,” Justin explained, as he had several times before. “At least for the time being… and let me assure you, it’s far better fare than we enjoy.”

“Oh yeah?” grimaced the Old Man, adjusting himself in the bed. “So whatta you guys eat? Dirt?”

“Close,” smiled Justin. “We are currently subsisting on soy paste. Would you like to try some?”

“Fuck no,” he snorted. For a long moment, the Old Man sat and seemed to think, then he shook his mottled old head and peered at Justin archly. “Soy paste, huh? No shit? So where’d you get that? Or was that something you could just buy, down at the Piggly-Wiggly?”

“We raised soy beans,” Justin said, “at the Center. They’re very nutritious.”

“Huh…”

Justin waited silently, hoping that the Old Man was through being a pain in the ass for the time being, but apparently it was not to be; Lampert waved him over and gestured to a chair. With an inward groan, knowing what this meant—another of the Old Man’s labored, meandering diatribes—Justin walked over, sat down, and crossed his legs.

“So,” started Lampert, without preamble, as always, “when the shit hit the fan and this plague broke out, didn’t you guys have trouble, there at the CDC? I mean, I figure you musta been fucking overrun with sick folks.”

“Oh, we were,” nodded Justin, suppressing a shudder at the memory. “Hundreds of thousands of patients. We treated all we could, of course, but in the end, well, it wasn’t enough, I suppose.”

“So what? They all died? Every last one?”

“Oh, no,” said Justin. “Not every one. But this is a very virulent strain. The survival rate is something like one tenth of one percent.”

“So the other ninety-nine point nine percent croaked, huh? Man, that is harsh. You musta been up to your eyeballs in corpses.”

“Yes,” said Justin evenly, waiting. The Old Man closed his eyes and lay back on his spotless white sheets (changed three times a day whether necessary or not) and Justin hoped that he was dozing off, but then he stirred and shook his head.

“Jesus…” he said quietly. “I never thought I’d see this, you know? I mean, I always knew that this country would fall apart some day, that some kinda plague or natural catastrophe would happen and things would go bad. Just in the cards, far as I could see. But I thought I’d be long dead by then, you know? I mean, it’s not like I took good care of myself. I smoked, I drank, I ate whatever they hell I wanted. Pretty surprising, ain’t it?”

“I suppose so,” said Justin warily. “You are very long-lived.”

“Phugh!” snorted Lampert. “Cursed is more like it. I mean, you’re a doctor, right? Can you tell me why I don’t just fucking die?”

Maybe you’re just too damned mean to die, thought Justin. To Lampert’s face, though, he smiled and shook his head.

“No one knows that, sir,” he said. “Genetics, environment, the vagaries of the individual immune system, all contribute to longevity. But aging is hardly my specialty.”

“Yeah, yeah,” waved the Old Man, “I know. You’re an epidemiologist, like all the other brainiacs on this little trip. Shit, even the orderlies are some kinda eggheads, right?”

“Students. Most of them, anyway.”

“Yeah,” scowled Lampert. “That explains a lot.”

“About?”

“About how dumb you all are!” Lampert wheezed. “Oh, I don’t mean book dumb. You guys are probably real whiz kids when it comes to diseases and doctor shit, but just look at what happened to Garcia! I mean, shit!”

“That,” said Justin softly, “was an accident.”

“Well, yeah, but changing a tire? That’s pretty basic, Doc. I mean, back in my day, not a whole lotta people died every year from not knowing how to use a fucking car jack, OK? And what about that other dude, Chong or whatever?”

“Chang,” muttered Justin darkly. “His name was Jerry Chang.”

“Uh huh. And what happened to him?”

“You know full well what happened. And that was also an accident. In a way.”

“Oh sure,” snorted the Old Man. “He accidentally chased after that Freaker girl in St Louis. He accidentally let himself get led around by his dick, the poor, stupid dope.”

“I’d really rather not talk about it,” said Justin, shifting uncomfortably in the hard plastic, bolted-to-the-bulkhead chair. “To be honest, if it was not an accident, well, then it was perhaps a lack of experience. How could Jerry have known that the girl was luring him into a trap?”

“How?” Lampert rolled his eyes. “By not being a brainless pussy-hound, that’s how. I mean, damn, that’s one of the oldest tricks in the book! And that’s my point. You poor bastards are all left-brainers. Eggheads. You got no fucking common sense.”

Justin didn’t know what to say to that and tried to sit quietly and wait.

“Yeah, it’s been one helluva trip,” wheezed the Old Man. “Garcia, Chang, those two sorry fuckers outside of Chicago… Shit, how many of you were there when you first started out from Atlanta, anyway?”

Justin swallowed a hard knot in his throat and blinked.

“New Atlanta,” he said, “and there were twenty-six of us in all.”

“And we’re down to what, now that Poole and what’s-his-face and the others are gone?”

“Counting Dr. Poole and Dr. Gonzalez,” said Justin pointedly, “and the others, there are fifteen of us. Plus you, of course.”

“Yeah, lucky me. Your little guinea pig. And you really thought you’d somehow get all the way across the country? To San Francisco? Man oh man. What about self-defense? Didn’t ya think about protecting yourselves from all the gangs and cults and shit? Jesus H. Christ, do ya even have guns?”

“A few,” said Justin. “And yes, we were prepared to defend ourselves, at least against animals and the occasional MUP sufferer. Not whole gangs, of course. We had hoped to avoid those.”

“MUP? What’s that?”

“Massive Upheaval Psychosis,” explained Justin. “A common enough mental illness after the Fall, involving terrible despair, psychotic reactions to—”

“Yeah, whatever,” interrupted Lampert rudely. “Loony is loony. Spare me. The point is, you smart guys obviously didn’t think ahead too much, and now you’re payin’ for it. But you’re gonna keep goin’ huh?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Uh huh,” Lampert eyed Justin fishily. “So, you plan on givin’ me the world-record longest piggy-back ride?”

“If necessary,” said Justin, trying to sound resolute. “The fate of many lives is at stake.”

“So you keep sayin’. But answer me this: won’t this plague eventually burn itself out, so to speak? Like the Black Death did, back in the Middle Ages?”

“No,” said Justin firmly. “it will mutate and return. Sir, this virus is unprecedented. It’s virulence is beyond… well, let’s just say that if we can develop a vaccine, we can, with some luck, preserve those who remain.”

The Old Man nodded skeptically and stared at Justin until the younger man fidgeted uncomfortably under the penetrating gaze. What was it about Lampert’s eyes that made him feel so nervous? Superficially they were no different than anyone’s and, if their tests were correct, even a bit astigmatic. So why should they be so sharp, so piercing? Sometimes it felt like Lampert was staring right through him, through the walls of the MedCenter, maybe even through the Earth itself. It was unnerving.

After a few minutes, though, as Justin was thinking of excusing himself, the Old Man let off staring and slumped back again. Justin waited for a time and then something he’d been meaning to ask the Old Man occurred to him and he cleared his throat.

“Mr. Lampert?” he said, making sure the Old Man was still awake. “What did you do for a living? Back in your day? If you don’t mind my asking, that is.”

“I, sir,” said Lampert grandly, sitting up a bit, “was a salesman. And damned proud of it.”

“What did you sell?”

“Oh, you name it! Food, of all kinds, from meat to vegetables to ice dream. Cars, for a quite a while, until the bottom fell out in the early 2000’s. Fucking Detroit. Appliances, that was a good one, and then there was a whole raft of gadgets and gizmos and shit. Hell, I don’t even remember ‘em all. But always sales. Shit, I coulda sold fridges to Eskimos, Doc. You name it, I could sell it.”

“I see,” nodded Justin.

“See what?” demanded the Old Man. “You don’t think sales is a worthwhile career, or what? ‘Cause it provided me and my family with—”

“No, no,” said Justin hastily, gently cutting him off. “That was not what I meant, sir. Not at all.”

“Then what?”

“Oh, it’s just that,” said Justin, selecting his words with care, “I’d been wondering what your former career was, mainly because you seem to be a very perceptive person, especially when it comes to other people.”

“A benefit of age, Doc,” said Lampert. “And one o’ the very few, at that. And yeah, I suppose sales made me a bit better judge of character, but mostly? Just plain old age.”

“And you had a family?”

“Yeah,” Lampert said sourly. “Wife and a kid.”

“Oh, I see. And they are?”

“Dead,” replied Lampert. “Just like everybody else. Anyway, I don’t wanna talk about that.”

“Of course. Forgive me,” said Justin, wondering. Was that a softening in the piercing glare? Was this some kind of chink in the Old Man’s pessimistic armor? A soft spot? He let it go for the moment but filed it away for future reference. “Is there anything else? Something more you wanted to talk about?”

“Aw, I guess not,” said the Old Man, shaking his head. “You don’t get me anyway, Doc. I need to talk to somebody my own age, you know? But then, at a hundred and two, that don’t seem too fuckin’ likely, does it?”

“No, I suppose not.”

Justin waited a while, thinking that maybe Lampert still had something to add, but the Old Man just slumped down into himself and turned his face to the wall. After another five minutes had passed, snores came from the desiccated body and Justin rose and quietly left the chamber.

What a terrible pessimist! he thought. What a mean old crank of a sorehead! And how utterly heartless and callous, talking about Garcia and Chang that way. Well, there was one thing the Old Man was right about: Age had made him bitter and cynical. Other than that? Well, the whole discussion fell more into the realm of philosophy than was comfortable for Justin and he’d never been terribly keen on philosophy. Too vague, too subjective. Now give him some test tubes and a microscope, something you could actually see and qualify… He sighed and shook his head, putting Lampert from his mind for the time being. He walked to the front of the vehicle and rapped on the metal door to the ComCenter.

“Yo!” came a voice from within.

“It’s me, Erin,” called Justin irritably, “Dr. Kaes. Open up.”

There was a rattle, the door slid open, and Erin Swails, their technical expert, stared out. Behind her the small chamber was very dark, lit only by computer displays. Miss Swails looked tired, undoubtedly from constantly monitoring bandwidths, and a bit haggard from their meager diet, like everyone, but otherwise alert and able.

“Hiya, Doc,” she said, brushing long black hair from her angular face. “What’s up?”

“Any luck?” Justin asked, knowing the answer.

“Naw, nothin’,” Erin said. “Some background stuff, probably nearby locals, but other than that? As in, did I raise Dr. Poole and the others? Napes.”

“Hrmm,” Justin murmured. “Well, keep monitoring, I suppose.”

“Will do,” said the other. She paused and then looked him in the eye. “What’re we gonna do, Doc? If they don’t come back, I mean?”

Justin dragged out a smile from somewhere and tried to sound confident. “Let me worry about that. You just watch the bandwidths.”

“OK,” she nodded. “So, uh, how’s the Old Man? Still alive?”

“Oh, very much so,” said Justin wryly. “Let’s just hope we can keep him that way.”

Chapter Three

In these tough economic times, it’s not always easy to make ends meet, especially at the grocery store! But now you have another choice, something besides those snobby old traditional meats, an affordable, tasty choice treat, new Ro-Denz brand meat products! All of the protein at a fraction of the price! When you have to choose, make it Ro-Denz!

—TV ad for Titan Agrofoods product, circa 2057

The Hunter was angry. He didn’t like his employer, he didn’t like the job he’d been hired to do, and he didn’t like the things he’d had to do in the course of its fulfillment. He would complete the job, of course, because that was how he did things: if you paid for his services, you got your money’s worth. Right now, though, he was considering abandoning the whole thing and maybe even seeking a new line of work, because these poor CDC saps did not, as far as he could tell, stand a snowball’s chance in hell of making it to their destination. And somehow, that made him angry, too.

He was named Jack Shipman, but no one called him that anymore. They just called him the Hunter, and he was hired to do just that, to hunt down anyone, anywhere, and for any reason, as long as the pay was enough to make it worth his time. It was the same kind of work he’d done Before, as an elite bounty hunter; the difference now was that he was one of very few people left who knew how the job was done or had the balls to do it The Fall had really cut down on the competition.

At 5’7, compact and wiry to the point of emaciation, he didn’t look like much on the surface, just another raggedy survivor with a shaven head and face, a perpetually cruel expression on his sharp features, and an assortment of mismatched clothes, but he rarely had any trouble with the more aggressive survies; the look in his eyes told them all they needed to know, and an array of lethal weaponry convinced anyone stupid enough to want to know more.

All in all, for the Hunter there’d been more plusses than minuses to the coming of the Plague, since when the Fall had come, he’d been in prison, serving a five-year bid for manslaughter. It had been a valid conviction, for shooting an unarmed fugitive, and he hadn’t rankled over it, but then again, he hadn’t much enjoyed prison, either. When the Sick first hit, afflicting guards and prisoners alike, the authorities had tried their best to keep things under control, but when more and more screws reported in sick and more and more cons caught it and choked to death on their own blood, things had gotten pretty ugly. Even now, he didn’t like to think about it. Finally, though, one of the guards, with the basic human sense that no one was left to care, had opened all of the cells and gates and sally ports and he and about fifteen other guys (out of a prison population of around 5,000) had walked out the door to freedom.

He’d drifted for a couple of years, getting a feel for this new, degraded, depopulated world and learning to avoid things like chemical spills, zones of death from old nuclear plants, and a dozen other similar perils, not to mention all of those engendered by the starving, crazy survivors. At the same time, he enjoyed the freedom that the post-Fall world offered. With no laws or law enforcement, he could go where he wanted and do what he wanted, and the only person who could say ‘boo’ about it was someone meaner and better-armed than himself. And so far, he hadn’t met anyone who fit that description.

It was an ugly world, by and large, he found in his travels, full of pain and destruction and rust, but it could also be wondrous and beautiful. He’d seen whole cities aflame in the night, like miles-wide bonfires, and new lakes and rivers where cities had once been, their clear blue surfaces filled with innumerable water birds whose flight could block the sun. There was death, yes, and lots of it, but there was new life as well, and things he would never have had the chance to see and do in the world Before.

Recently, he’d been hired by the Governor of New America, a large survie enclave on the site of Lawrence, Kansas (or what was left of it), to find these hapless doctors and bring them in. In other words, he was to make sure that they—and their potential cure for the Sick—ended up in New America, where they could be traded or vended to the highest bidder.

The Governor had learned of the CDC mission through a man who’d been intercepted on his way east from Cali, a scout of some kind sent to meet and assist the CDC group, who, under interrogation, had divulged the whole unlikely plan. But unlikely or not, the Gov had been intrigued enough to hire the Hunter, and, after a very long trip and through a great deal of strife and misery, here he was, closing in on the people he was supposed to find and getting more and more angry.

The Governor himself, a fat, pompous, overbearing sort of prick, had nearly made the Hunter’s skin crawl, sitting there in his little pleasure palace like a bloated spider, but he was very rich, commanded almost 2,000 subjects, and, despite the totalitarian nature of the whole setup, seemed to have the best-organized and most “civilized” enclave around. In short, a good man to work for. Or so he’d thought; lately he wasn’t so sure.

He’d picked up the CDC trail in Minneapolis, where he’d spoken to a gang leader named Kookoo who’d seen the entourage driving out of town in their big, anonymously-colored vehicles. Kookoo hadn’t known or cared what was in the vehicles; like most of the younger survivors, he was shit scared of anyone or anything that represented Authority. But he’d had sharp eyes and a good memory, and that had been enough to send the Hunter south, down the remains of I-95.

He’d first laid eyes on them in St Louis, where they’d been delayed for days in an effort to cross the river on the sole surviving bridge. He’d waited and watched and finally they’d made it across. Apparently they’d come up with enough of some commodity the bangers on the bridge wanted and, having paid the toll, been allowed to pass. When he crossed the bridge, a day later, he hadn’t bartered with the gang; his plasma pistol had seen to that.

He’d lost them, at least visually, for another day or two, but now, somewhere in eastern Oklahoma, he knew that he was once more very close. There had been signs, whispered acknowledgements, fearfully pointing fingers. Yes, they couldn’t be more than a day or two ahead.

But for the moment, the Hunter rested. It was a nice night, calm and moonlit. He’d made camp in a big culvert for the night and now sat at its mouth. When the mood came over him, he ate some of his freeze-dried rations and had some of the water distilled from the nano-suit under his rags. Then he cleaned his weapons and checked his transportation.

The slugthrower, a 45-caliber shotgun/rifle hybrid, was first, as it needed the most care; old-fashioned gunpowder had a way of fouling even the best-made gun. Next he checked the waver, a space-age looking thing like a machine gun tipped with a variegated metal cone, and found it fully charged and ready to use; any hostile machine or bot he might encounter would be in for a world of hurt. Then he checked and tested the plasma pistol, the stunrod, and the selection of throwing knives along his ribs; check, check, and check. All in order and ready for business.

After that, he got up and checked on his faithful mount, a modified Yamaha 1200SX. A big motorcycle, converted to run on hydrogen, fossil fuels, or, in a pinch, solar power, it was a sleek, speedy machine, good on either roads or open land, and, when he needed it to be, easily concealable in whatever cover was at hand. After a caressing touch, thinking of all of the times this machine had saved his life, he covered it with its special camo-cover and bade it a silent goodnight.

The tools of his trade seen to, he relaxed a little, leaning back against the curve of the rotting concrete culvert, and did his best to shove the anger he felt down into himself; soon enough, maybe with the next bangers he ran into, he’d have need of all the aggression he could muster.

Chapter Four

This week on Historical Crime Busters, Mahatma Ghandi will try to solve the murder of a street prostitute and Hermann Goering faces off against a serial killer. Don’t miss the excitement!

—promo ad for TV show, UZS network, circa 2052

Justin was contemplating a very unappetizing meal of soy paste, Tabasco sauce, and warm tepid water when there was a shout from atop the vehicle. Someone on lookout was always stationed up there, the highest spot around, and at the moment it happened to be Mike Gervazien, a grad student from Virginia, who suddenly began shouting like a carnival barker:

“Hey, everybody!” he hollered, stamping on the roof. “Someone’s coming! Hey, hey! There’s somebody coming! Get out here! Hey!”

Tumbling frantically from the vehicle, they followed Gervazien’s pointing and saw, still some ways off, a group of forms, specks on the horizon, really, ahead of a plume of dust. Justin squinted into the noonday sun but the forms were too small to make out and he went back into the MedCenter for some trinoculars. Unfortunately, they were in the clean room.

“What’s goin’ on, Doc?” asked Lampert, the second Justin entered the room. “Did Triple A finally show up?”

“I don’t know what that is,” said Justin, distracted and fearful. “Mr. Lampert, please, just stay calm and don’t worry, alright?”

“Oh, OK,” the Old Man snorted. “I mean, what’s to worry about, right?”

Justin grabbed the trinocs, climbed back down into the searing sunshine and then joined Gervazien up on the roof of the converted RV. The tiny forms were a little closer now. Adjusting the trinoculars for bright sunlight, he raised them and focused in.

At first Justin wasn’t sure what he was seeing, but then the trinocs compensated for the glare. The approaching group came into even better focus and he could make out details in people’s faces and bodies. And then he almost dropped the trinocs from his shaking hands.

Maybe two dozen strong, riding in old, cut-down cars and motorcycles, the group looked like some kind of latter-day Huns, bedecked in furs and leather and bristling with pointy-looking things like spears and pitchforks, and what looked like guns. Lots of them. Worst of all, though, was the man who was apparently lashed into the front seat of the lead car, their own Dr. Leo Poole. Bloodied and apparently unconscious, the Director of the CDC flopped like a rag doll as the old sedan came jolting along. Of Dr. Gonzalez and the others, there was no sign.

His heart dropping into his boots, Justin dithered for a moment. Around him, down on the ground, the other team members were milling around nervously. What should they do? Justin tried to think, but the rising tide of adrenaline in his system didn’t make it easy. From what he could see, though, it seemed as if they had only two choices: fight or surrender. The first option wasn’t all that feasible when he considered that they had only two guns, a chainsaw, and some medical instruments with which to defend themselves, not to mention that none of them were much good at fighting. And if they did put up a fight, what would happen to the Old Man? At his side, Gervazien finally put the question to his nominal superior.

“What do we do, Dr. Kaes?” he asked, his voice high and strangled. “Huh? What’re we gonna do?”

Justin blinked and gave a small shrug. “We give up,” he said flatly. “We surrender.”

“What?!” yelped Gervazien, along with several of the others in earshot. “Surrender to them? They’re survies! They’ll take all of our things, all of our vehicles! And what about Mr. Lampert?”

“I am aware of all that,” Justin said, doing his best to keep his voice calm, “but we wouldn’t stand a chance against this gang. Our first responsibility is to keep Mr. Lampert safe, and if we try to fight, there would seem to be a good chance of his being injured or killed. If we surrender? Well, there would still be a chance that we can save him and get him to San Francisco, somehow.”

The others, all now gathered around the MedCenter, emitted various groans and oaths, but they obviously also saw the wisdom of his words. Their mission was clear, to get Lampert to California, and that had to come first, even before their own survival. No one was pleased with the prospect of giving themselves up to a heartless gang of survie thugs, of course, but they also could recognize that they were all but out of options.

Closer and closer came the cars and bikes, the cloud of dust behind them an ominous haze of orange and brown, until finally they slowed and came to a stop about a hundred yards from the CDC vehicles. Unsure of specific makes or models though he was, Justin saw that most of the vehicles were old, probably 20th-century gasburners.

“Stay calm, everyone,” he called to the others. “Just take it easy.”

Out of the lead car stepped three remarkable people who, after a few words with the larger group, came ambling over to Justin and the others. The first person was a man, about 6’6 or so, very thin, dressed in mismatched leathers, sporting a startling red Mohawk hairdo, lots of tattoos, and a long thin face like a bird of prey. The second was a short, somewhat pudgy African-American man in faded military cammo, with a shaved head that seemed to merge with his neck, hard eyes, and a presence not unlike a large chunk of rock. The third individual was a woman, average of height and slim, dressed in a curve-revealing orange bodysuit of some kind, with short black hair, big dark eyes, and the killer looks of a fashion model. Moving in a wedge, with the tall skinny guy ahead, they strolled forward and stopped about fifty feet away. Then the tall guy grinned and waved at them.

“Hey, ya’ll!” he said, showing yellowed teeth. “We’s the Bloodclaws. I’m Sharp, and this here is Mellowman and Teresa.”

“Um… hello,” Justin nodded. “My name is Dr. Kaes and we’re from the US Center for Disease Control in New Atlanta.”

“Heh, you too, huh?” said Sharp. “How many you dudes is there out here, anyhows?”

“We, uh,” struggled Justin, “that is, I see that you, uh, have our friend there, in your car…”

“Eh, him?” Sharp shrugged. “Yeah, see, we found him an’ a buncha other whitecoats, couple days ago. Had a fancy truck, buncha medical gear. Nothing much good for anything.”

“You found them?” said Justin, eyeing Poole’s unmoving form in the car. “But what happened? And where are the others?”

“They’s all croaked it,” said the short man. “Drove offa cliff in they fancy truck.”

“What?” said Justin, reeling. “Dead? All of them?”

“Yeh, all but this here dude,” said Sharp, jerking his head at the car. “‘Course, they didn’t all buy it rightaways, far as we could tell. Looked like a couple of ‘em crawled, like, outta the wreckaging. One of ‘em made it quite a ways, in fact. This here dude was still in the truck when we found him, hey? Gotta busted leg, looks like, and he needs some F and W, but he should live, I’d bet.”

“A crash, then,” said Justin numbly. “They crashed the truck.”

“Uh, yeh,” said Sharp, glancing quizzically at his companions. “That’s what I just said, hey? So we got him outta the truck, patched him up best we could, and he told us where you was, and now… well here we are, hey?”

“May we,” said Justin gesturing towards the car, “may we treat our friend? If he has a broken leg, we should attend to it as quickly as possible.”

“Huh?” said Sharp. “Oh, sure, sure. Go ahead. You dudes is whitecoats, eh?”

“Well,” said Justin, motioning Cass and two of her people forward, “I am a doctor, if that’s what you mean.”

“Yeh, that,” said Sharp, bobbing his head, completing the bird look. “Anyhows, we don’t got the, like, right gearage to fix him up.”

After a quick inspection, Cass and her people ran out with a litter and carefully moved Dr. Poole from the car to the MedCenter as both groups looked on. Justin noticed that the woman—what had the man called her? Teresa?—was staring at him. Nervously, keenly aware that she was without a doubt the prettiest and sexiest woman he’d ever seen, he glanced at her and she looked away. Confused and frightened at the whole situation, he left the two groups to stare at each other and followed the litter into the truck.

Trying to concentrate on his work, he gave Dr. Poole a cursory exam and found that indeed, the man had a fracture of the right femur. Not too bad, really, in that it was still all in one piece and still contained by the skin, but the swelling was alarming and Dr. Poole’s generally bad condition—sunburned, dehydrated, and malnourished—made it imperative that he be treated at once.

Problem was, he was an epidemiologist, and most definitely not a surgeon. He knew where everything was and how it was all connected, and they had a full surgical suite, but he hadn’t cut anything open since the learning dissections of med school, twenty years ago. The very idea of wielding the scalpel and forceps made him start to sweat. But what choice did he have? Were any of the others any better qualified? And besides, maybe he wouldn’t have to cut Dr. Poole open. Maybe they could set the leg first and then see how it went from there. Unsure of what to do, Justin was still vacillating when Dr. Poole groaned weakly and opened his eyes.

“Kaes?” he managed, through chapped, blackened lips. “Is… is that you?”

“Yes, Dr. Poole, it’s me,” said Justin, managing a smile. “You’re in the MedCenter. You have a broken leg.”

“Oh, God, that’s right,” grimaced Poole. “The crash… But, what about the others? Gonzalez? Michaels?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Justin said, hanging his head. “Apparently you were the only survivor.”

“What?” said Poole querulously. “No, that’s not right—there were others! Schyevsky and Michaels, they were going for help!”

Justin shook his head slowly. “According to these people out there, they apparently died in the attempt. Exposure, maybe, or dehydration. Perhaps they succumbed to wounds sustained in the crash. Anyway, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Jesus,” moaned Poole. “Those poor people! But what about Lampert? Is he still alright?”

“Yes,” Justin nodded emphatically. “We’ve managed to maintain half power here in the Center, and he is as well as can be expected for his age. And, judging solely by the way he complains, I’d say he’s not going anywhere soon.”

“Oh, thank God,” said Poole, slumping. “What about my leg? How bad is it?”

“Simple fracture. We still need to do some imaging on it, but, from what I can see, it hopefully will only require setting and a cast.”

“Well,” said Poole, “at least that’s some good news.”

“Yes, but you should rest now. We’ve got you on IVs for the dehydration and the morphadrine should kick in pretty soon, but there’s something I need to know first.”

“And that is?”

“These people, the ones who brought you,” said Justin, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “they say that they found you, that you’d crashed the truck. Is that true?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” said Poole, wincing. “I don’t recall all of the details, exactly, but I remember that we were being chased by some crazy maniacs on motorcycles, and then the road sort of petered out and, well, we just kept on going, right off a good twenty-foot drop. After that, things get kind of fuzzy.”

“But you were being chased? By Outlaws? Survies? On motorcycles?”

Poole nodded. “Three of ‘em, as I recall,” he said blearily. “Didn’t get a good look at ‘em. Usual road freaks, I suppose.”

And then Poole mercifully slipped into the arms of the drug; his eyes closed, his breathing deepened and became more regular, and his head lolled to one side like his neck was made of warm rubber. Justin had a great many more questions for the man, primarily to do with the away team’s efforts, but they would obviously have to wait. With an affectionate pat on the older man’s sun-scorched hand, Justin left Cass and her staff to take care of Poole, ordered a full set of imaging, and then left the chamber. He knew that he should get back outside, but he was so deeply enmeshed in his thoughts that he had to stop, lean against the MedCenter bulkhead, and try to puzzle things through.

These people, what had they called themselves? Bloodclaws? What should he make of them? Could they be trusted? They didn’t seem aggressive or violent, at least not so far, aside from the weapons that hung on them like Christmas tree ornaments. Maybe they were just regular folks, trying to survive in an unforgiving world. Maybe they could help out. Surely if he explained the importance of their mission, this Sharp person would understand and want to help.

Then again, maybe not. Maybe they were only pretending to be friendly. They were some kind of violent survie gang; the name alone told him that! And everyone knew about them. After all, these could have been, for all anyone knew, the very maniacs who’d chased Poole and the others off of the cliff in the first place! A knot of cold fear suddenly leapt into his throat. What should he do? Then a familiar and annoying sound, that of the Old Man, cut into his thoughts and he swore to himself and went to see what the problem was this time.

Moving quickly, he stalked down the length of the vehicle to the clean room and let himself in. As always, the climate-controlled, artificially lighted space was neat, spotless and more than occupied by its only full-time resident. The orderly named Greg was also there, sitting nervously in the hard chair, and rose as Justin entered.

“Dr. Kaes, I,” said Greg, then stopped, obviously terrified. “What’s going to happen? Those people out there—”

“People?” said Lampert suddenly. “What fucking people? Doc, this jackass won’t tell me anything. So c’mon, give. What’s goin’ on out there?”

“Dr. Poole has returned,” said Justin carefully. “Some local people rescued him, after the away team accidentally crashed the truck. Now, if you don’t mind, I don’t have time to—”

“Local people, huh? And these are, what? Like Joe Lunchbox and Sally Housecoat? Just regular folks, out for a drive or somethin’?”

“Well, no,” said Justin. “But they seem peaceful enough.”

“Uh huh,” said Lampert snidely. “And I bet that little Freaker chick in St Louis seemed pretty friendly to good old Chang, too! Right up until she stuck a shiv into his ribs! Damn it, Doc, when are you gonna start wising up? I mean, here, tell me this: how are these people of yours dressed? Are they wearin’ jeans and T-shirts? Business suits? White lab coats?”

Justin shook his head slowly.

“Didn’t think so,” said Lampert. “So what are they wearin’, Doc?”

“Well, leather, primarily. I have to admit, their attire is generally rather flamboyant.”

“Like I thought,” said the Old Man. “And they say that they rescued Dr. Poole? Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Ha!” barked Lampert. “Rescued my ass! Shit, Doc, I’ll lay ya two to one they chased the truck off the road themselves. The only reason they saved Poole was to see if he could lead ‘em to more goodies. Like this here fancy RV and the rest of your stuff.”

Justin frowned. “I have to admit, sir, that the thought had crossed my mind. But how can I determine if they’re telling the truth or not?”

“Tell ya what, Doc,” said Lampert, “you go out and take a real good look at these people. Look at their clothes, what they’re carrying, OK?”

“To what purpose?”

“Well, just this, dickweed: see if one or more of ‘em has something that came from Poole or the others. A lab coat would be pretty obvious, but it could be whatever, a stethoscope, some personal article, who knows? Just have a good long look.”

Justin frowned again and shrugged. “I didn’t see anything like that,” he said. “Certainly none of them was wearing a lab coat.”

“OK, great. But when they rolled up on ya, I betcha didn’t take a whole lotta time to check ‘em out, either, didya?”

“No, I suppose not,” said Justin. “To tell the truth, I was more concerned with Dr. Poole.”

“Uh huh. Now whataya say, Doc? Do ya maybe wanna go have a look?”

Justin chewed his lips for a moment and then nodded. “You make a good point, sir,” he finally said, grudgingly. “But if these people did attack the away team, do I necessarily want to walk out there and submit them to some kind of inspection? Wouldn’t that put them on their guard?”

“Heh,” said the Old Man, with a yellowing grin, “now you’re gettin’ the idea, Just In Case! Now you’re startin’ to think ahead just a little. Good for you!”

“Uh, thank you, sir,” said Justin. “And by the way, my name is pronounced Cays, as in a group of small islands. Yes? But I am still faced with the problem of inspecting these people.”

“Oh, just, you know, spy on ‘em,” Lampert said, waving one hand. “Check ‘em out when they don’t know you’re lookin’. You don’t have to fucking inspect ‘em, for shit’s sake. Just be casual, you know? Shit, can’t you just look out the window at ‘em?”

“Oh,” said Justin weakly. “Of course. Uh, I’ll do that…”

Leaving the Old Man to mutter curses about the general dearth of his beloved common sense and the orderly to his job, Justin left the room and went to the hallway, where a small latticed window looked out in the right direction. Carefully, he twitched the lattice open, about a quarter of an inch, raised his trinoculars, and carefully scanned the newcomers.

There were, he found, a great many things to look at: weapons of all kinds, from knives to swords to pistols, on up to rifles and shotguns. And though he was no expert, it looked to Justin like one guy was toting a rocket launcher. They seemed to favor leather, despite the heat, and sported a wide array of coats, jackets, pants, and boots of the stuff, colored primarily a dusty black and brown. Here and there he could spot a flak jacket, the old style that riot police used to wear, and even signs of body armor. Several wore helmets of one kind or another, one fellow in a bright red football model, and many had gloves or half-gloves on their hands.

Personal decoration seemed very popular, with tattoos a near constant, but there were also all kinds of little things stitched onto their clothing and hanging from their bodies: Bits of cloth, shiny pieces of metal, buttons and badges and pins of all kinds, as well as scraps of fur and teeth and bones, harvested from unknown creatures. All in all, a very flamboyant group indeed, but no more so than some he’d seen in New Atlanta. And, thankfully, there was no sign of anything that would have belonged to anyone on the away team. Feeling suddenly a bit better, he was about to lower the trinocs when something caught his eye and he came up short. What was that?

Holding his breath, he dialed in the trinocs to maximum and peered desperately into the display, but the object in question—a shining cross on a chain—was too small and the man wearing it moved around too much for him to accurately make it out. The trouble was that one of the away group, Richard Michaels, a med student, had worn a silver crucifix. He’d shown it to Justin one day when they’d both been bored and had said that it’d been a First Communion gift. But was this the same thing? Couldn’t this biker fellow simply own something similar? Maybe. But maybe not. He’d have to get closer to find out.

Finally expelling a pent-up breath, he turned from the window, chewed his lip for a moment, and then nodded once, firmly, and went out of the MedCenter. Outside, the heat was stifling, at least 90 degrees, and the sky was an absolutely clear bowl of light blue. Way up in the air, hundreds of feet above the baking landscape, a pair of birds—buzzards?—floated listlessly on the gentle winds.

As soon as he emerged, the other CDC people clustered around him, silent, but with varying expressions of anxiety on their faces. Trying to look confident and calm, Justin waved them back and, trying hard to look casual, strolled over to the motley gang. As before, the tall thin man called Sharp came to the fore as spokesperson. Justin did his best to focus on the man’s face, but his eyes kept straying to the man with the cross, a short, ugly little guy with a long beard, a shaved head, and an array of knives across his leather-clad chest.

“Greets, Doc-o,” said Sharp, smiling and waving. “How your friend, there, hey? Get him fixed up, didja?”

“He will be fine,” said Justin. “I… I suppose we owe you our thanks.”

“Ain’t none thing,” grinned Sharp, a bit wolfishly for Justin. “Just lucky we found him, heh?”

“Yes,” said Justin, now openly staring at the cross around the short man’s thick neck. “Just lucky.”

“Anything the matter, there, Doc-o?” asked Sharp, a steely tone creeping into his voice.

Hastily, Justin tore his gaze from the scowling short man and back up into Sharp’s thin countenance. “No, no,” he said, trying to smile. “Of course not! It’s just been a difficult experience, as one might expect.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Sharp, frowning slightly. “Seen some troubles, have ya, hey? Well, it’s a tough ol’ world, now, ain’t it? Since the Big Sick, I mean. Rough for ever’body.”

“Yes,” said Justin sadly. “Of course.”

There was an uncomfortable sort of pause. Around them, there were only the sounds of the wind, the scuffling of boot-shod feet, and the distant yelps of a wild dog. Justin was careful not to stare at the short man or the cross, but allowed himself a couple of quick glances, just enough to see that there could be no doubt. It was Michaels’ crucifix.

Which meant that the Old Man was probably right and that they hadn’t simply come across Poole and the others; they’d probably been the reason for the away team’s deplorable fate. They were survie Outlaws and would in all likelihood soon show their true colors by finally drawing all of those weapons and making so much ground meat out of Justin, the Old Man, and everyone else, preparatory to taking all of their vehicles and gear.

Suddenly his heart was hammering at his ribs, he was sweating in a way unrelated to the heat, and the world sort of wobbled around him as he struggled to maintain equilibrium. He tried his best to not let this show, of course, but it was no use. Sharp noticed his stricken mien almost at once.

“Sa’matter, Mister?” he asked, taking a step closer to Justin, who took a corresponding, faltering step back. “All’a sudden, you don’t look so strack, hey? Are ya sick? You peoples don’t got the Sick, do ya?”

“The sick?” echoed Justin thickly, his brain shrilling alarm and thrashing uselessly at what he should be doing. “Oh, you mean the Plague? No, no, none of us is infected with plague.”

“Oh,” said Sharp “S’good. But still, Doc-o, you don’t look too good. Kinda pale-like, hey?”

“Just…” struggled Justin, “the heat, I think. I’m not used to it, you see.”

“Oh, I hear that, heh,” said Sharp, bobbing his head again. “This heat’s fit to fry yer brain-case, hey? But, hey, you lucky, heh? Y’all got that mongo fancy truck, got a generator goin’, maybe even some AC in there, hey?”

“Um…” Justin said, backing up. “Well, we represent the Center for Disease Control, as I said… and we, uh…”

“Disease control?” said the short black fellow Sharp had called Mellowman. “That’s a fuckin’ laugh-and-a-half! Disease control my fuckin’ ass!”

“Quiet,” Sharp told his colleague, not unkindly, and turned back to Justin. “So you is Feds, huh? Not so many o’ them left no more. But you still ain’t really said, hey? What are y’all doin’ out here, anyways?”

Justin thought madly of something good to say, some plausible lie. Then a thought occurred and he snatched at it and ran.

“I, uh, can’t talk right now, I’m afraid,” he said, trying to seem calm. “I have to see to Dr. Poole. He’s badly injured. He may need an operation.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Sharp, arching an eyebrow. “So you can do that, heh? All right in that truck?”

“Um, yes,” Justin allowed, backing away. “But now, if you’ll excuse me…”

Feeling the eyes of both the Bloodclaws and his comrades on him like heat lamps, he turned and, trying to walk slowly, headed back to the MedCenter. He was almost to the vehicle when Sharp called over and he stopped and turned back.

“Yes?” he asked, having to raise his voice to be heard.

“How long you gonna be with that?” called Sharp. “The operationing?”

“Well, uh,” said Justin, rubbing his neck, “I can’t exactly say. There may be complications.”

“You mean probs, hey?” Sharp said. “I hear that. Always probs, heh. But uh, don’t y’all take too long, right-up? I got somethin’ I wanna talkta y’all ‘bout. So uh, zoomy-zoom, hey?”

Justin blinked, both at the odd slang and the veiled threat, and nodded. Then he turned and, his legs weak and rubbery, climbed into the MedCenter. Erin Swails was there, just inside the door and, eyes wide with apprehension, she buttonholed Justin as he came in.

“What’s going on, Dr. Kaes?” she asked shakily. “What are we gonna do?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Justin, scowling. “I’m not sure.”

“Oh,” said Swails, “I see. Well, uh, can I ask when exactly you might be sure? Just curious, you know? Because, uh, from the looks of those guys out there, they don’t exactly seem like patient, forbearing types.”

“I know,” said Justin, pushing past Swails gently. “I know that, alright? I just… I need to talk to someone.”

“Who, him?” said Swails, jerking her head toward the clean room. “Lampert? What do you wanna talk to him for? All he ever does is eat, sleep, and complain!”

“Yes, that’s true,” said Justin. “I know he can be difficult, but he is also a very wise and cunning old man. Now, if you please, I feel a need for haste.”

“Hey, by all means,” said Swails, giving him a strange, nonplussed sort of look. “If you think it’ll help…” And with a shrug, muttering softly, she retreated into her tiny com center.

Lampert was awake and sitting up when Justin came into the chamber and gave a crooked smile by way of greeting.

“So, Doc,” he said, “what’s the story? See anything interesting on your new pals out there?”

Justin frowned. “Yes,” he said darkly. “And I don’t think they’re any pals of ours. One of them was wearing a personal item of Dr. Michaels’. I’m sure of it.”

“Which means… ?” goaded the Old Man.

“That you are likely correct,” said Justin. “That these people attacked our away team. Very possibly, they killed them.”

“Bingo. And now what’re you gonna do? Before they decide they’ve had enough bullshit outta you and that it’s time to get serious, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” said Justin desperately. “After all, what can we do? We don’t have the wherewithal to fight them. We could still surrender, I suppose.”

“And what? Appeal to their kinder, gentler side? Naw, that’s out. Seriously, forget it. But here’s the deal Just In Case: when you get dealt a shit hand in poker, there’s only two things you can do—fold or bluff. And I don’t think you wanna fold, do ya?”

“As in give up?” asked Justin. “No, of course not.”

“Then ya gotta bluff,” said Lampert, lying back. “You gotta lie to ‘em. Scare ‘em off, see?”

“I could lie to them,” Justin nodded, “but as for scaring them off, how could we do that? What would scare people such as this?”

“Oh, lotsa stuff, I’d bet. They’re young, right? Mostly? In their teens, twenties?”

Justin nodded.

“Then they’re stupid,” Lampert concluded. “Easily bull-shitted. So let’s see… what would scare ‘em? Well, you could tell ‘em there’s a big-ass bomb in the truck and if they screw with you, you’ll blow ‘em all straight to hell. That might work. Oh, wait, I gotta better idea! Get this: just show me to ‘em! Tell ‘em I’m like, thirty years old but that I got some new kinda plague or somethin’. You know, really talk it up, how deadly it is and everything. That oughta scare ‘em!”

“Hmm,” said Justin, thinking. Both ideas seemed equally desperate and just as crazy, but on the whole, he preferred Lampert’s second plan, if only for the fact that it kept him in his element, as a physician, and away from any possible explanations about explosives or demolitions. And besides, to these kids, the Old Man’s wizened appearance would probably be frightening. On the other hand, it exposed Lampert to some not inconsiderable risk, something they’d very much tried to avoid, plus, he’d already told Sharp that none of them was infected. But maybe the threat of some new plague… Finally, he decided to chance it; what choice did they have?

“Alright,” he told the Old Man. “We’ll tell them that you’re a plague victim. That if they don’t clear out, they will be sure to catch, oh, let’s call it H5N3. And that we’re all infected with it. That should impress. Do you agree?”

“Sounds good to me,” said Lampert. “So should I come on outside or do you wanna bring ‘em in here for a visit?”

“Well,” Justin considered, “I would like to keep them out of the MedCenter if possible. The sight of all this high-tech gear might be more than they could resist. So, all in all, I think your coming outside would be the more advantageous. If you feel up to it, that is.”

“No problem,” said the Old Man, throwing aside the bedclothes. “Just get me some clothes, though, OK? I wanna scare these kids, not make ‘em die laughin’.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Justin, amazed all over again that someone so spindly and frail could actually get out of bed and walk around. “We’ll find you something.”

And so it was that Justin ushered the Old Man, baggily clad in someone else’s pants, shirt, and white lab coat, down from the vehicle and into the sunlight.

“Who’s this, hey?” said the tall banger, Sharp, as he approached and gestured at Lampert. Mellowman and Teresa followed a few paces behind. “Some new whitecoat y’all had hidden away in there or sumpin?”

“Uh, no,” said Justin, assuming his most authoritative Doctor’s voice. “I’m afraid that’s not the case at all. Now, as I recall, earlier, you asked what we were doing out here. Well, now I’m offering you something of an explanation, yes? You see, this is Mr. Lampert and he has, unfortunately, contracted a brand new strain of plague, called H5N3. In fact, it is very likely that all of us from the CDC have contracted it. Now, in cases like this, it’s often fortuitous that… um, that is, I uh…”

Suddenly Justin realized that he’d run out of lies; having told the basic story, he was now totally unprepared to back it up. His mind had gone blank and, wincing under Sharp’s intense stare, even the most basic elements of epidemiology had suddenly fled. Added to that was the fact that he’d never been a very good liar, even about innocent things, and suddenly he was floundering. Badly. He was about to panic when the Old Man (bless his shriveled old heart), sitting there in the hot sun looking like some kind of gnarled pink ape, shaded his eyes with one veined hand and spoke up.

“One thing’s for damned sure,” he said, talking to the lead Outlaws, “you do not wanna catch this shit. Lemme tellya. Hey you, Mohawk! How old you think I am? Just a guess.”

Sharp peered at Lampert, a mixture of curiosity, fear, and something else on his thin features. He looked over his shoulder at his companions, but they both just shrugged. The twenty or so other Outlaws shifted from foot to foot and muttered. Finally Sharp turned back to Lampert and gave a tough-guy shrug of his own.

“Dunno, dude,” he said. “Yer real old, so… fifty? Sixty?”

“Ha!” said Lampert, transforming a laugh into a very convincingly raspy cough. “Not even close! I’m only thirty years old! That’s what this new plague’ll do to ya! Ain’t that the shit? I mean, just look at me! I’m a goddamn walkin’ skeleton!”

The color drained from Sharp’s face and a note of agitation and alarm came into his voice. Some of the other Bloodclaws had begun to back away.

“But…,” Sharp said helplessly, “but you others don’t look sick, hey. Just this old fuck. And y’all said before that you didn’t have the Sick, so what’s the deal-o on that? Huh?”

“It’s a secret,” said Lampert conspiratorially. He motioned Sharp to come closer, but the young man stayed firmly in place. The Old Man glared up at him.

“Aw, you know how these government types are,” he said. “Or were, I guess. Always up to some kinda crazy secret shit, conducting experiments and all. And these other folks don’t look sick yet, but they are. Trust me. It just takes some time to get to ya.”

“So,” said Sharp, his brow wrinkled in thought, “this here’s some kinda new Sick?”

“You got it,” nodded Lampert. “Brand spankin’ new. And I don’t know about you, but if I was young and healthy, I’d stay the fuck away from anybody that had it. ‘Cause I’m here to tellya, it is no fucking fun. At all. You just waste the fuck away.”

But all Sharp had really registered was the word “new” and a stricken, dread-filled look now crossed his face. In fact, Justin saw with some satisfaction, the young man was terrified. Unwilling to lose face before his gang, though, he attempted a graceful—if hurried—departure. Behind him the others were already climbing into or onto their vehicles.

“Well hey, folks,” Sharp said, walking backwards, “good luck on that, hey? And I hope yer pal in there’s OK and all. No like, chargin’ for the help or nothin’. But, uh, we gotta get on our way, hey? Gotta get back onna road, hey? Like zoomerating time, heh.”

He’d backed up to his own car, an ancient but imposing-looking gasburner, and now climbed into it through the drivers-side window. There was a moment of nervousness for Justin as he watched Sharp have what looked like a rather heated discussion with Mellowman and Teresa, but finally Sharp seemed to get the best of the other two and, in a great roaring of dust and gasoline fumes, the entire gang turned around and drove back the way they’d come. In a matter of minutes, they were gone and the landscape was quiet again.

For the most part stunned to silence, the CDC group stood and looked at each other for some time. Justin watched the receding dust cloud, shook his head, and looked down at Lampert, who showed his yellow teeth in what passed for a smile.

“Toldya they’d be stupid,” he grinned. “Ignorant, at the least, but nowadays? Without little things like schools and such? Stupid, too. Well, anyhow, they’re gone. For now, anyway. But somebody’ll come for ya, that’s for sure. These dumb fuckers’ll tell people, those people will talk, etcetera, and sooner or later, somebody smart’ll hear about it and they’ll come lookin’. Just a matter of time.”

“Hmm, yes,” said Justin gravely.

“But hey!” said Lampert, mock cheerful. “Ya got ridda the dude in the Chevy Impala right? So that’s somethin’.”

Justin frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said, “chevy impala?”

“The car, Doc,” said Lampert wanly. “Vintage ‘32 Chevrolet Impala? One o’ the last great gas-burners?”

Justin just blinked. Lampert sighed and waved a hand in dismissal.

“The one Mohawk was drivin’,” he finally explained. “A classic old car, that’s all. Forget I mentioned it. The point is, the guy drivin’ it—and his little group—are no longer an issue.”

Justin frowned again. “Cold comfort. We still must find some fuel and get you to California.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Lampert, heading for the MedCenter. “One day atta time, Just In Case. One fuckin’ day atta time. Now if you’ll all excuse me, I need to lie down before I have a fuckin’ stroke from this goddamn sun. Oh, and don’t bother to thank me for saving all of your asses. Let’s just call it a little payback for all the hospital care. Not to mention all that yummy dog food.”

And with that, he slammed the MedCenter door behind himself and was gone. In his wake, the CDC group shook their heads in bemusement, grinned at their sudden deliverance from the Outlaws, and then went stolidly back to their jobs.

For his part, Justin took up Lampert’s vacated chair, and sat there, staring at the Oklahoma hills and thinking, until the sun set the western sky afire. Why had Lampert helped them? Sentimentality? Altruism? Not bloody likely. So what? All Justin knew for certain was that if he could find some way to exploit it, whatever it was, it might make things a lot easier. After all, a patient who wants to live is generally a whole lot easier to keep alive than one who wants to die.

Finally, as the sky turned a deep shade of blue like velvet, Justin sighed and got up from the chair. Whatever Lampert’s motivation or past experience, they were safe for the time being. Tomorrow they would start all over again, trying to find some fuel for their vehicles, but as for tonight, as in the right now? Well, right now he needed something to eat, something to drink, and some uninterrupted sleep. Putting Lampert from his mind, he tried to put a brave look on his face and went to join the others.

Chapter Five

What are little boys made of?

Snips and snails,

And puppy dog tails,

That’s what little boys are made of.

—nursery rhyme, traditional

The Kid didn’t have a name. If he’d ever been given one, he didn’t know what it was. Likewise, he had no idea how old he was, where he was, or how he’d gotten there. All he really knew, in fact, was existence, the day-to-day fight for survival. All he was sure of was that he had to eat and to drink and to stay warm at night and cool during the day. These were the only things that mattered. Still, some part of his keen but stunted mind wondered sometimes about the things he found, the buildings and strange metal boxes with wheels, the flat black land, and those funny trees with the wires on them that lined the flat black places. But that was for rest time, when he’d eaten and drank and was warm and dry. Usually he was hard at work, just meeting the basic necessities.

Like right now. Crouched in the shade of a thorn bush, still as a boy carved from stone, he watched and waited for his food to poke its head out to be snared. He’d been there for a long time now—the sun was almost at midday—and was getting kind of angry and sad (but mostly hungry) when suddenly a hopper’s head and upper body emerged from the hole. Quick as a snake, the Kid jerked on his snare, a piece of shoestring, and the animal was caught. Jerking like it had been electrified, it thrashed and struggled, but he was quickly on it with a rock and the deed was soon done and he had a nice fat hopper to eat. With skilled hands (he’d learned early on not to eat the insides, the gloopy, smelly parts that made you sick), he tore open the animal’s belly, reached in, scooped out all of the guts, and flung them aside. Then he tore off the skin, which came away from the body like a very tight glove, all the way over the head and long ears, and laid it aside for future use. Finally, stomach growling, he took up the hopper and ate, tearing great chunks of bloody meat from the carcass.

As he ate, he eyed the landscape warily, his practiced eye noticing everything that moved, but there was no sign of danger, and he relaxed a little and savored the tangy, sharp flavor of the raw flesh. Sometimes life wasn’t so bad.

When he’d eaten all he could, he belched loudly, wiped his bloody hands in the dirt (and then on some leaves and then on his hopper-skin robe), took up the new pelt, and headed for Home. Anyone watching would perhaps have noticed his passing, but they would have had to be watching closely and, had they spotted him, they likely would have thought him an animal.

His home was what anyone else would have called a hole, a cavity he’d found in the side of a cliff that measured maybe four feet wide and ten feet deep. It smelled terribly, but to the Kid, with no reference points on issues like hygiene, it had a familiar musk, a safe smell that he trusted. It was a good spot, better than the old log he’d slept in for a long time, mainly because it was close to water; the Stream, the source of all things aqueous and a vital lifeline, was just a short walk away.

Crawling into the space, his knees saved from the jagged rock by layers of hopper skins, he tossed what was left of his lunch to one side, had a long drink from an ancient Styrofoam cup of brown water, and then lay down for a rest. Yes, he’d earned it. And he still had half a hopper for later! Sighing deeply, he smiled, a strange, grimacing sort of gesture, lay back, and pondered a few of life’s enigmas, like the wire trees and the flat black lands and what they might mean.

Chapter Six

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—ad for Securo-Max service, circa 2048

According to Justin’s wristwatch, it was exactly 2:34 AM when he was jarred from a deep sleep by Erin Swails. Groggy and befuddled, he looked around, still almost smelling the antiseptic and blood from his dreams, and then reality crashed in on him and he jerked to full consciousness.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded. “What’s happening?”

“Sorry to have to wake you,” said Swails, whispering so as to not wake up the others, bedded down nearby. “But there’s something I think you’d better listen to.”

“What? Listen? To what? Something on the waves?”

“Oh yeah,” said Swails. “Just come with me.”

Grumbling, feeling thick and disoriented, he followed Swails to the Com center, where she sat at her station and, nodding at the computer, turned a nearby knob. This produced the sounds of a conversation, probably on old-fashioned land lines, judging from the static, between what sounded like two people. At first both voices seemed foreign to him, but after a few minutes Justin realized that one of the speakers was none other than their erstwhile Good Samaritan, the Mohawk-sporting Sharp. What was more, he didn’t particularly like what either party had to say:

“And I says,” one voice—the unknown party—was saying, “the stupid-ass Redclaws don’t know what the fuck they’re doin’ without me around! Why din’t ya jus’ blast ‘em? Set ‘em on fuckin’ fire!”

“It’s Bloodclaws, assfuck,” said Sharp, the other voice. “Blood. Claws. Gots it? And we ain’t stoopid, neither. We jus’ don’t like gettin’ the Sick, hey? Y’all can’t spend Credits when yer takin’ a dust nap, can ya? An’ besides, what good would thatta done? Then nobody gets their gear, hey?”

“They’re sick!” said the other voice emphatically. “They needs to be teened and burnt out! Ya want that shit floatin’ around, gettin’ everybody sick?”

“Hey, look-a-here,” said Sharp. “You mighta been in charge, but you ain’t no more, hey? You’s laid up there in Sidetown since the crash an’ now I says what’s what. Them whitecoats ain’t hurtin’ nobody, an’ they ain’t goin’ nowheres. Way I figure it, we just keep our yappers tight about the whole thing and just wait, hey? Sooner or later, they’ll either die of that New Sick they got or they’ll run outta food and starverate. And then we jus’ walk right up and takes alla they shit. Easy, hey?”

“Huh,” said the other voice grudgingly. “Maybe you right. But what if someone finds out? The Church, or them crazy Demon fuckers from down south? And what if the whitecoats find one’a the stashes? Ain’t there one right close to ‘em?”

“Yeah,” said Sharp, “but they’s outstaters. They ain’t smart enough to find it. Expecially ‘cause they don’t even know it’s there! Heh heh! And don’t worry: Nobody’s gonna talk. Not to the Brothers or nobody else. Trus’ me.”

“Shit,” said the other. There was a pause, then: “OK, fine. Don’t burn ‘em out. But will ya do one fuckin’ thing for me? Huh? Just keep an eye on ‘em, OK? Don’t let ‘em get away. Got it?”

“I won’t fuckin’ let ‘em get away,” said Sharp crossly. “I already gots somebody watchin’, hey? If they squat and strain, I’ll fuckin’ hear about it.”

“Good,” said the other. “Well, later, dude.”

“Later,” said Sharp, and the connection ceased.

Justin blinked and looked at Swails.

“That was him, yes?” he asked. “Sharp?”

“Sounded like it to me,” shrugged Swails.

“And he was speaking of us?”

“Pretty sure…”

“Hmm,” said Justin, scratching the stubble on his chin. “And they’re watching us, as they intend to wait us out. Until we starve.”

“Or die of the New Sick,” pointed out Swails. “Which isn’t too likely, considering there’s no such thing.”

“Yes,” said Justin. “And they want to keep us a secret. From other gangs, ostensibly.”

“There’s a gang called the Church?” Swails asked dubiously.

“I don’t know. I’ve certainly heard of stranger names for Outlaw gangs. Remember the ones back in New Atlanta? The Bozo Nightmares? The Jack Draculas? Or what was that other one, the Transex-Hitlers? A name like the Church wouldn’t be out of the question.”

“I guess,” she said. “A gang’s a gang. No matter what crazy thing they call themselves.”

“A rose by any other name…”

“But what about that stash they mentioned?” asked Swails. “You heard that part, right? They said they had a stash. Near us. A stash of what?”

“Who can say? But they certainly did not want us to find it, did they?”

“No,” said Swails, “and that means it’s something good. Hell, maybe there’s fuel! Maybe water and food!”

“Maybe,” Justin nodded. “I certainly can’t think what else they might stash. Weapons and ammunition, perhaps?”

“Maybe all of the above!” Swails said eagerly. “Doc, we gotta find that stash!”

“It would appear so,” he said. “And the sooner the better.”

“But we’re being watched. If we go looking for the stash…”

“Hmm, yes,” Justin frowned. “There is that. Well, I’ll need a little time to think about this. Thanks for the heads-up, Erin.”

“My job,” she said, with a slight lift of her shoulders. “Let’s just hope it amounts to something.”

“Indeed.”

Leaving Erin Swails to her digital wizardry, most of which he didn’t fully understand, Justin was very tempted to go immediately to the clean room to wake the Old Man. It was plain that they were in a tough spot (again) and surely Lampert would know what to do. But then he stopped, shook his head, and went back to his own mini-lab. Why should he, a highly educated and not altogether dim-witted individual, ask nasty, cynical old Mr. Lampert what to do? He was capable of dealing with it all on his own. He could figure this out.

But turning the problem this way and that, Justin could see no real solution. If they tried to retrieve the stash—whatever it contained—they would be seen and the Bloodclaws would come for them. And burn them out. And if they didn’t look for the stash, or at least some other source of fuel, they were as good as dead. Either way, the mission would be a failure.

Hours ticked by as he wracked his brain, but lack of sleep and proper nutrition made it laborious work and finally, as the sun was just peeking over the burnt landscape, he conceded defeat; he just didn’t have a clue as to what their next move should be. But he did know someone who would. Swallowing his pride, he went to collect Lampert’s breakfast from the galley.

“So what?” said the Old Man, spitting food. “Whatta ya tellin’ me for?”

Justin, having explained the overheard conversation, sighed and gave Lampert what he hoped was a beseeching look.

“I would value your opinion, sir,” he said. “Your advice.”

“Oh yeah?” snorted Lampert. “Well, that’s real flattering, Doc. But what makes ya think that I wanna help?”

Justin thought about that for a moment and then shrugged.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Maybe for the same reason that you helped us get rid of the Bloodclaws?”

“Uh huh. And why do you think I did that?”

Justin frowned. “Self-preservation?”

“What, like I’m afraid to die? Oh, hell no! If I thought those screwy kids woulda put me outta my misery, I’da told ‘em the whole stupid truth! Naw, I got my reasons. But anyhow, the fact of the matter is that I’ve kinda come to like you eggheads. Sure you’re dopey as shit when it comes to some real basic things, and you all behave like the stick up your ass has a stick up its ass, but you’re really not so bad.”

“Yes, well,” Justin blinked. “I’ll take that as a compliment. But will you help us? There has to be some way of retrieving this stash, whatever it is.”

“Aw, shit that’s easy,” said Lampert glibly. “Just cause a distraction. Get whoever’s watchin’ ya to look the other way while somebody slips out to look for the stash. But here’s the problem, Doc: You don’t know where it is, exactly. After all, “nearby” to these Road Freaks might be a hundred yards or ten miles! And in which direction?”

“Hmm, yes,” said Justin soberly. “That’s a good point. But what can we do about it?”

“Well, not a lot,” said the Old Man. “The only pragmatic sorta thing to do would be to go out and grab onea these kids and get ‘em to talk. Make ‘em tell ya where the stash is. But then, you’re all doctors and shit, so that’s probably out, huh?”

“You’re speaking of torture?” Justin asked, eyebrows raised.

“More or less.”

“Then yes, that is most definitely out. No torture.”

“Figured,” said Lampert disgustedly and paused as if in thought. Then: “Well, the only other thing I can think of is to just go out and look. Do the ever-widening circle kinda thing.”

“But the watchers—”

“Will notice,” finished Lampert. “Yeah, that’s right. Even if you went out and crept around in the dark, they’d see you eventually. So that is a puzzler. Hmm. I might need a little time to think this over, Just In Case. Not an easy nut to crack.”

“I see…” said Justin, a bit deflated. “Well, I will leave you to think then.”

“No, no!” said Lampert. “Don’t go. C’mon, siddown and talk with me. It uh… helps me think. Really.”

“If you say so,” Justin said reluctantly, thinking that his time might be better spent. But then he shrugged and took a seat. “So what would you like to talk about, sir?”

And so Lampert set in again, another long-winded batch of nostalgia, most of which seemed to center on an extinct professional sport called NFL. Justin sat patiently and listened, but he’d never heard of any of the people Lampert was talking about and he had little or no enthusiasm for sports in general and none whatsoever in “football”, so it was with some difficulty that he stayed focused. After maybe ten minutes of hearing all about a lot of dead men who used to play a dead sport, he was starting to zone out. Lampert, ever perceptive, did not fail to notice.

“Whasamatter, Doc?” he said abruptly. “Ya bored? Got somewhere to be or somethin’?”

“No, of course not,” said Justin, trying not to sound patronizing. “It’s just that this football and its players are foreign to me. One might say it was before my time.”

“Shit, ya got that right,” said Lampert. “You wouldna even been born when most o’ these guys played! Well, I guess that would be kinda boring for ya. Sorry.”

“Not at all,” said Justin. “It’s just that I have a lot on mind.”

“I bet you do,” said the Old Man. “And by the way, do you eggheads have a metal detector in all this gear? By any chance?”

“I think so,” said Justin, trying to recall if they did or not. “But what would… Ah! We could use it to search for the stash. Is that what you were thinking?”

“Maybe,” grunted Lampert. “Just thinkin’. And those fancy binoculars you got. What’s up with that extra do-dad on the top?”

“Well, they’re actually called trinoculars, and the thing on the top is the IR/UV sensor.”

“Huh,” said Lampert. “So you can see in the dark. Neat.”

Justin was going to ask why he wanted to know about the trinocs, but the Old Man effectively cut him off by lying back in bed and closing his eyes. His meal, a half-can of Pampered Pooch dog food and some miso-flavored Krillo-chips, sat half-eaten on a tray on his lap. For a moment Justin eyed the remains, his stomach growling at the smell of meat, however debased, but he controlled the urge to grab it and wolf it down; the Old Man needed the nutrition a whole lot more than he did. Still, he couldn’t help feeling a little put out. After a long moment he finally had to say something.

“Mr. Lampert?”

The Old Man stirred, opened his eyes and looked up.

“Whuh?”

“Oh, it’s just your meal,” Justin said, moving the tray back into place. “You should eat.”

“Meh,” Lampert grimaced. “I don’t want it. Not hungry.”

“But you must eat. Your recent convalescence has left you very weak.”

“Uh huh. But I still ain’t hungry. You want it?”

Tamping down the impulse to snatch up the food and shove it into his mouth, Justin shook his head and smiled.

“No sir,” he lied. “This food is for you. Please, try to eat.”

Lampert eyed Justin with that penetrating stare again, just for a moment, and then gave a shrug and reached for his fork.

“I suppose,” he grumbled, spearing a delicious-looking chunk of what was probably horse meat. “After all, alls you poor sons o’ bitches got is that soy paste. I guess I should be thankful.”

Justin waited as the Old Man methodically polished off the food, chewing like a machine, and then drank off a glass of purified water.

“Ah,” he said, putting down the glass. “There. All gone. Happy? Do I get a gold star or anything?”

“Would you like one?” asked Justin, smiling thinly. “Or perhaps a balloon? Maybe a lollipop?”

“Naw, I’m good,” Lampert chuckled. “Sure wish you guys had some cigarettes, though. I sure could use a smoke.”

“Yes, well,” said Justin, “I am afraid I can’t help you there. None of us smokes.”

“Yeah, I guess not, bein’ doctors and all. Funny, though. I woulda thought they’d have banned cigarettes. Sure seemed like they were gonna, last I recall.”

“Oh, they did,” nodded Justin. “In 2044. It was a Constitutional Amendment. But, like alcohol prohibition back in the 1920’s, it didn’t last. People smoked anyway and a large black market and gang culture quickly sprang up. Well, anyway, the amendment was repealed in 2046, and we’ve had cigarettes ever since. Apparently, from what I’ve heard, they have become a rather valuable commodity. I have even heard that they’re used as currency in some places.”

“I’ll bet they are!” Lampert nodded. “Lotsa other hard-to-get shit, too, probably, like all the shit they don’t make anymore. Yup, supply and demand, Doc. Supply and demand. Well, I guess some things never change.”

And off he went again, this time at great length on the quality and availability of various consumer goods; cigarettes, gasoline, foodstuffs… Justin tried to act like he was interested, but after a good hour he was fed up.

“Um, Mr. Lampert?” he interjected, when the Old Man paused for breath.

“What?”

“Have you thought of anything?” asked Justin mildly.

“About what?”

Justin suppressed the urge to scream. “About our situation,” he said, through clenched teeth. “How to find the Bloodclaw’s stash.”

“Oh, that,” said Lampert blithely. “That’s easy…”

“Yes? And?”

Lampert opened his eyes and gave Justin a sort of smirk. “Have a party!” he said, inexplicably.

Justin shook his head. “I don’t understand. A party?”

“Yeah,” said Lampert. “A nice big, after dark-type bonfire party. Then, while everyone’s dancing and reveling and whatever, send one or two o’ your crew out with the metal detector. I’d also advise bringin’ a gun of some sort, but that’s up to you. Shit, I still say you should go grab whoever’s out there watchin’ us, but if you guys are gonna be all wussy about it.”

“A party…” said Justin, thinking. “Well, I suppose that might work. But who’s to say that the watcher, whoever it is, isn’t sitting right on top of the stash? What then?”

“If that’s the case,” said Lampert, “you’re humped. And you’ll hafta take out the watcher. That, or I guess you could just sit here and starve to death.”

“Good point,” Justin nodded. “And let’s hope that is not the case. Still, it seems awfully dangerous.”

“Ya gotta better idea?” asked the Old Man petulantly. “Because I can just shut the fuck up and lay here, if that’s—”

“No, not at all!” Justin hastily interrupted. “It’s a fine plan! And I do appreciate your thoughts. It’s just that…” He trailed off, frowning and shaking his head.

“Just that what?”

“Well, just that I’m not entirely… comfortable with sending someone to do such a thing. After all, they’re doctors and nurses and students, not soldiers.”

“Gonna hafta make do, I guess,” shrugged Lampert, and then yawned. “Use the best ya got. Anyways, I’m gettin’ pretty shagged here, Doc. I could use a little nap.”

“Oh, of course…” Justin said, remembering that this was a patient to whom he was speaking. “You need your rest. I’ll check on you a little later.”

“Whatever.”

Feeling testily that he’d been dismissed somehow, Justin shrugged, got up, dimmed the lights, and quietly let himself out. In the corridor he found Barbara Cass waiting for him. The chief nurse looked impassive and stoic as always, her plain, somewhat pasty features set in their usual neutral expression. She handed Justin a video board as he approached.

“Dr. Poole’s imaging,” she said, nodding at the board. “Thought you’d want to see it right away.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Justin, taking the device.

“So how’s the Old man today?” she asked.

“Oh, fine…” said Justin absently. “Still kicking…”

“And what about the rest?” asked Cass. “Food, water, gas…”

“I’m working on that,” said Justin, a bit nettled. “But right now, I think I’d better review these test results. If you’ll excuse me?”

“Of course, Doctor,” she said, moving aside to let him pass. “I’ll attend to Mr. Lampert.”

Nodding, Justin left her to it and went to his lab cubicle and sat down at the table. With a thumb he flipped the video board from standby mode to active, scrolled down past dozens of entries for “Lampert, H.” to “Poole, L.” and then tapped the screen to bring up Dr. Poole’s chart and relevant tests and imaging. Of primary interest were the radiation scans, which showed that, as suspected, the injury to Dr. Poole’s leg—specifically his right femur—was not all that bad; it was a fracture, but it didn’t go all the way across the bone and there didn’t seem to be any signs of splintering or complications. They should be able to simply set it and cast it up. Well, at least that was some good news.

Absently, preoccupied with his latest chat with the Old Man, he switched off the v-board and set it aside. Mulling it over, he decided that Lampert’s plan had merit and that, furthermore, it was pretty much the only course of action left. They simply had to have supplies. The sticking point was that the mere thought of sending someone out on this kind of mission made him break out in a cold sweat. And even if he could screw himself up enough to order someone to go skulking about in the night with a metal detector, who would he choose? And even if he picked someone, they’d be more than within their rights to laugh in his face and tell him to go straight to hell.

Chewing on a cuticle, he thought about it, but nothing particularly useful came to mind. Finally, after much deliberation and soul-searching, he decided. He knew just the man for the job. Then, pushing the whole bundle of twisted thoughts into the back of his mind, he went to see to Dr. Poole.

Chapter Seven

Tonight on Prison Brawl, presented in HDS, two top teams face off as the Leavenworth Assassins go head to head with the Pelican Bay Panthers in the divisional playoffs! After last week’s loss of Big Bob Skullcracker, can the Assassins bounce back to beat the west-coast Cinderella boys of Pelican Bay? And can Panthers star Eyeball Simpson overcome his latest brutal shanking? Plus, tonight is Kid’s Night! All kids under twelve watch for free! Watch Prison Brawl in amazing HDS tonight!

—TV ad for popular team sport, various networks, circa 2056

Sergeant Lumler walked into the Jolly Breakfast Café, took his usual seat in the back booth, and waited for Santiago. The place was quiet; just him, a very old man at the counter, and the tinny sounds of a hidden radio, broadcasting another of the Governor’s endless speeches. At this hour, almost everyone else was off at work. Down at the big algae works, most of them, the poor slobs. Well, everyone had a job to do…

Even without the distinctive black uniform of the Police Force, complete with a snappy peaked cap with a gold badge denoting his rank, Douglas T. Lumler was, at 6’5 and nearly 300 pounds, an imposing figure. Heavy-browed, stubble-chinned, and porcine-eyed, ponderous of action and thought, he was probably best described, physically and otherwise (but never to his face), by the word thick. Not fat in any way, not flabby or chubby or soft. Just thick. And dressed in his uniform, as he was now, complete with polished black combat boots and shoulder-mounted two-way radio, he was, to the 2,000 or so citizens of New America anyway, nothing less than terrifying. They all knew what it meant to be arrested by the PF; a quick trip to the Interrogation Center. Which explained why he hadn’t yet seen a waitress.

“Hey!” he hollered, and banged on the table. “How ‘bout some fuckin’ service here?!”

A skinny, wide-eyed young black woman in a pale blue uniform dress appeared from the kitchen and skittered over to the table, order pad and pencil in hand.

“What, uh… what can I get you, sir?” she asked, eyes on her shoes.

“Coffee, black,” said Lumler. “Two.”

The girl nodded and moved off. In about three seconds she was back with a pot of the hot brown liquid that passed for coffee these days and a pair of chipped, mismatched mugs. Setting them on the table, she then hovered nervously by the counter.

Lumler poured, took a sip, grimaced at the taste, and looked out the café’s front window. It was a fine early summer day. Lots of sun, not too hot. Across the way, a work crew, six men and women in distinctive brown Skilled Worker coveralls, was busy tearing down some lamp posts. Nearby, a Tech, differentiated by his orange vest and hard hat, watched the proceedings. Absently, not really paying attention to the words, he listened to the hidden radio:

“The following,” said the usual deep, officious voice, “is an official announcement from the Governor of the Sovereign State of New America, the honorable Jackson S. Armstrong. All citizens, your attention, please.”

“My fellow citizens,” came the familiar high, ever-so-slightly lisping tenor of the Governor, “good day. I come to you today with a most important message. As you all know, loyalty is one of the great founding principles of New America. Through loyalty, we have created this society. Through loyalty, we have survived the Great Sick and the upheavals of the Fall. Through loyalty, we will face the future.

“For without loyalty, what do we have? Without unity, without a fealty to the greater good, what are we? Nothing better than the animals or the violent gangs who roam the countryside. Without loyalty, we are nothing.

“Now, it has come to the attention of New American authorities that there are certain members of our society who, for whatever misguided reason, seem to feel otherwise. Out of greed, out of personal pride, or out of sheer maliciousness, these individuals seem to regard loyalty and duty as somehow restrictive or contrary to their own petty beliefs. They see the individual as somehow more important than the greater good. Sadly, they see loyalty, one of our most precious assets, as oppression.

“But I come to you tonight to say that these individuals, few as they are, shall not prevail! They will not drag New America down with defeatism and negativism. They will not infect their fellow citizens with pointless pre-Fall nostalgia or spread their lies about your Leader and his government. No, these individuals, who I will go so far as to name as nothing less than traitors to New America, shall never prevail.

“To this end, I now announce the formation of a new campaign, which will be designated Operation Undying Loyalty. This campaign, to begin at once, will be carried out by the Police Force and will entail a thorough and intensive search of all suspected domiciles and businesses. All citizens will, out of obvious necessity, be required to provide their Identicard and answer any queries that authorities may make. All citizens are also required…”

But then Lumler saw the small, thin, white lab-coated form of his friend coming down the street and quit listening; he’d heard all that crap before, anyway.

A former veterinarian, Santiago was a designated Medico, one of the precious few left in all of the world who knew anything about the healing arts. A most valuable man. He and Lumler had become friends after Lumler had saved Santiago’s life in a street brawl. They met occasionally, just to chew the fat.

“Hey, Doug,” said Santiago, shaking Lumler’s hand as he took his seat. “How’s the cop business?”

Lumler scowled. “Oh, it’s great,” he said bitterly. “Just great.”

The waitress came over to see if they wanted anything more. Lumler waved her off and she retreated to the kitchen, out of earshot. Not that any sane citizen of New America would want to be seen eavesdropping on a PF man, but Lumler had to be careful about these things. Now that he and Santiago were effectively alone, he scowled again and shook his head.

“Yeah, great,” he said again, “that is, if you like workin’ for a fuckin’ psycho nutcase.”

“Bad, huh?” said Santiago. “Pretty intense?”

“That ain’t the word for it,” said Lumler, rolling his eyes. “I mean, Christ! The man’s supposed to be the Chief of Police and he’s… shit, I don’t even know what he is! All I know for sure is that Mr. Hanson Knox is one creepy, loony motherfucker.”

“Damn,” said Santiago appreciatively, nodding. “So like, what’s wrong with him? Survie Syndrome? Some kinda paranoia thing or what?”

“Oh, he’s paranoid, alright,” said Lumler. “But then, he’s a PF man. We’re all paranoid. Goes with the territory. Never know when you might get knifed in the back or set up in an ambush. No, this dude is just a straight-up violence freak. Gets off on pain, you know? I mean, you gotta be tough with people. I unnerstand that. Like the Governor says: Without order, we are nothing. Right? We gotta keep things in line, ‘specially now with the War and all. But this Knox dude… Shit, you wouldn’t believe the shit he does to people! He calls it interrogation, but…” he paused and scrubbed his jaw, then shook his head. “Aw, fuck it. I said too much already.”

Santiago sipped his brew and nodded some more. The radio in the back somewhere kept up a steady crackle of Official Announcements. Outside, there was a metallic groan and then a loud crash as a lamp post came down. Santiago, watching, sadly shook his head.

“Too bad,” he said. “You know, I bet this was a pretty nice little city, back in the day. What did they call it again?”

“Lawrence,” said Lumler distractedly. “Lawrence, Kansas. Used to be a big college town.”

“Huh,” said Santiago thoughtfully. “Well, not anymore. Now it’s an armed fortress, thanks to the Governor.”

“Well what’s he ‘sposed to do?” demanded Lumler. “Goddamn gangs an’ deformos attacked us, you know! Ain’t like we went lookin’ for a fight.”

“No, I guess not. But did they have to tear up all the park benches and playground equipment? All the street signs, all those trees? And now the lamp posts?”

Lumler shrugged mountainously. “Gotta have a strong defense,” he said. “All the way ‘round. Whole perimeter. Them deformos are sneaky. You leave ‘em a way in, they’ll find it. An’ anyway, what good are things like benches and shit if yer overrun by freaks?”

“Yeah, guess you’re right,” said Santiago. He sipped. “You see that piece in the Patriot the other day about the attack on the South Sector?”

Lumler snorted. “Yeah. Sounded like a real clusterfuck.”

“Makes you wonder what they want.”

“Who, the deformos?” said Lumler. “Hell, that’s easy! They want what we got. What they ain’t got. What everyone wants.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

“Peace,” shrugged Lumler. “Order. You know, a society.”

“Peace, yeah,” nodded Santiago. “I guess the Governor has seen to that.”

“Had to,” Lumler said simply. “Ain’t nobody else gonna do it. Nobody else wanted to lead these people. But wait up. How come you only read about that attack? Yer a Medico. An’ there had to be casualties, so how come you weren’t down there?”

Santiago grinned. “Other duties, my friend,” he said. “Over at the 6th Street STD clinic. Thank God.”

“Huh,” grunted Lumler. “Yeah, lucky you. Well, like the Great Man says: We all have our part.”

“Yup,” said Santiago dolefully. “Just how things are in this brave new, post-apocalyptic world of ours, I guess. And don’t get me wrong: The Governor is a great man! Without him, well, we wouldn’t be sitting here talking about it. But don’t you… wonder sometimes?”

“About what?” asked Lumler darkly. He didn’t like this kind of talk.

“Well, take this new boss of yours, Knox,” Santiago said. “You yourself say he’s crazy! I mean, do you think it was a smart move, making a crazy man the Chief of Police? Hell, do you even know what this Knox guy was Before?”

“No,” scowled Lumler. “Nobody knows. Ask me, he was prob’ly some kinda mental patient.”

“See? Now I ask you again: Was that a smart move?”

Lumler frowned deeply and held his tongue. Even if no one could hear him, speaking ill of the Governor was about as smart as taking a picnic in the Rad Zone. Especially for a PF man. But he had to admit; Santiago was right. For the present, he allowed a shake of his wide head.

“I dunno,” he said bleakly. “I mean, hell, maybe I’m wrong about Knox. Who knows? Maybe he’s just, whatchacallit? Eccentric.”

“Uh huh,” said Santiago skeptically. “You just keep tellin’ yourself that.”

“Hey, get bent, OK?” Lumler growled. “Shit, it’s easy for you. Yer a Medico. Nobody’s gonna touch your precious ass! But me?” He looked around reflexively and lowered his voice. “Shit, you know as well as I do, if anybody heard me sayin’ somethin’ against the Governor I’d be on the front line so fast it’d make my fuckin’ head spin! An’ personally? Fightin’ deformo freaks—deformos with guns, even—well, friend, that just ain’t my idea of a good time!” He leaned back and glared across the table. “So you can just put a lid on that shit. Say what you want when yer around yer Medico buddies, but when yer around me?”

“OK, OK,” said Santiago, patting the air. “Take it easy! I was just gassin’ is all. We’ll just drop it, alright? No harm done?”

Lumler looked around again. There was no one who could have even possibly heard his outburst, aside from the decrepit old specimen at the counter (who was about three years older than God and probably deaf as a brick, if not asleep), and so he relaxed a little and sat back in the booth. He eyed his friend and then gave a short laugh.

“That’s what I like about you, man,” he said. “Always thinkin’. Where you from, anyway? Never got a chance to ask.”

“Tacoma,” said the other. “Born and bred. Lived there my whole life. Had a nice little practice, too. Specialized in large animals. Horses, mostly.”

“Family?”

“A wife and a daughter,” said Santiago. “Both died of the Sick.”

Lumler nodded. If this had been Before, he would have offered some sort of condolences to the man for his loss, but since everyone had lost someone dear to them in the Fall, making it a sort of shared pain, a commonplace occurrence, he didn’t bother.

“What about you?” asked Santiago, looking at Lumler over his mug. “I know you’re from around here, but what else? What did you do Before?”

“Not much,” said Lumler honestly. “Worked in a warehouse. Had an apartment.”

“Any family?”

“Just my mom,” said Lumler. “An’ she died oh, what? About a year before the Fall.”

“Missed all the fun, huh?” smiled Santiago grimly. “Well, good for her.”

They sipped the acrid brew and watched the work crew as they moved on to the next lamppost. Santiago took out a plastic baggie of shredded tobacco and some papers and deftly rolled himself a smoke. The smell of it, once lit, was like burning paper and dung.

“You heard of this character they call the Hunter?” asked Santiago, exhaling smoke. “Little guy, shaved head, like, heavily armed?”

“Only rumors,” said Lumler. “We’re supposed to leave him alone. The Police, that is. All I heard about him is he was some kinda big-shot bounty hunter before the Fall. But it don’t matter, anyhow. He won’t be around long.”

“No? Why’s that?”

“Some kinda job,” said Lumler, frowning in concentration. “The Governor gave him some kinda, I dunno, a mission or somethin’.”

“What mission?”

“Find somebody,” shrugged Lumler. “What he does, ain’t it? Like the name says: Hunter.”

“Yeah, but who? Is it somebody here, in New America?”

“Doubtful. If the Governor wanted to find somebody here, he’d use the PF to find ‘em. Naw, what I heard was, he’s supposed to find some kinda Medico. Or group of Medicos.”

“Doctors?’ said Santiago. “Out there, in the wasteland? That’s weird.”

“Yeah, I guess,” said Lumler. “But you doctor types are like pure gold these days. Maybe the Governor just wants more of ya.”

“Could be,” Santiago said, crushing out his smoke on the floor. “With the War and all, we sure as hell could use the help.”

Lumler grunted and nodded, about to summon the waitress for more brew, when suddenly his radio chirped and then the voice of a dispatcher—Janice, he thought—came on:

“Sergeant Lumler, please report.”

Taking the receiver from its Velcro holster, Lumler thumbed the send button.

“Lumler here.”

“Sergeant Lumler,” said the woman officiously, “report at once to Interrogation Center Two. Repeat: Report at once to IC number Two. Acknowledge, please.”

“Acknowledged,” said Lumler. “On my way.”

“Confirmed,” said the dispatcher. “Dispatch out.”

Lumler shrugged at his friend. “You heard the woman,” he sighed, “duty calls.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Santiago, getting up. “Got a whole slate of check-ups today, over at the Big Time.”

“The whorehouse?” scoffed Lumler, donning his cap and rising. “Nice. Shit, how do I get to be a Medico?”

“Well, there’s the problem, my friend,” said Santiago, holding the door. “No colleges, no med schools, no doctors. They just don’t make ‘em anymore.”

“Yeah,” grimaced Lumler. “Jus’ like everything else.”

Chapter Eight

At Burger Dude, we don’t care about bad publicity, all these namby-pamby tree-lovers saying how good old Beef is so bad for their precious environment. No, what we care about is getting you the burger you love. Not krill or soy, not algae or cellumax, just 100% guaranteed Beef! So come on down to Burger Dude today, where we know what you want!

—TV ad for fast food chain, circa 2055

Lying flat on his face in a ditch, some prickly plant stabbing him in the groin, and his legs aching from exertion, Justin thought that maybe he hadn’t picked the right man for the job after all. He’d done a fine job on Dr. Poole’s leg, from what he could tell, but this, running and tripping and falling down into pricker patches and onto sharp rocks as his comrades sang and danced around a bonfire, hoping that a shot wouldn’t suddenly ring out, preparatory to a bullet slamming into his head, well, that was obviously well beyond his capabilities. In fact, there was really only one thing that was even more beyond them, the guts to make someone else do it. And so there he was.

Swearing to himself, sweating despite the chill of the night, he dug out the trinoculars from the heavy satchel on his back and uncapped the lenses. Careful to not look back at the fire, he adjusted the little wheel on the top for the conditions and scanned the nearby landscape. The UV scope revealed nothing, just rocks and bushes and dirt, but the IR showed several heat-blobs. He peered closely at these shapes, but decided finally that none was large enough to be a human being. Probably rabbits or some other kind of rodent. Satisfied, he re-capped the trinocs and returned them to the satchel.

Next he took out the case with the metal detector (actually a medical device used to find bullets and other matter in wounded bodies), unpacked it, switched it on, and went to work. This entailed stooping down, almost crawling, and waving the stupid thing over each square foot of dirt and rock in the wild hope that the little light on it would suddenly flash red. And, having covered only a few dozen square yards in almost two hours of effort, already very tired, achy, and generally scared stiff, all for a few old cans and pieces of waste metal, he was starting to wonder if Lampert’s plan had been such a great idea after all. Matter of fact, it was starting to seem downright ludicrous. Doggedly, though, he kept at it; what else could he do?

An hour later, having fruitlessly swept another ten square yards or so, he was about to pack up the detector when suddenly something crashed heavily onto his back, he was driven face-first into the dirt, and, before he could even wonder what the hell was happening, everything went black.

When he came to, intensely groggy and with no idea how long he’d been out, he was lying flat on his back, staring up at a starlit sky so full of little points of light as to seem almost a solid blanket. Bemusedly, he reflected that this was at least one good result of the Fall; he had certainly never seen stars like this in New Atlanta!

He smiled a little, but the meager effort cost him a terrible pain in the back of his head and he winced and shut his eyes. What was he doing, lying on the ground like this? Where was everybody? Why did his head hurt so badly? And then, recalling his colleagues, their prized patient, and their mission, memories came pumping back into his battered brain and he remembered it all. But what had happened? What had hit him?

Experimentally, he opened one eye, trying to ignore the pain in his head, and looked around, but all he could see were some moonlit bushes and rocks and a couple of slim tree trunks. But then the tree trunks moved and he saw that they were actually someone’s ankles. Terrified, he clapped his eye shut and tried to seem like he was still unconscious, but whoever the ankles belonged to was having none of it.

“I know yer ‘wake,” said a very soft voice, as the feet stopped next to his head. “No use in playin’.”

The voice was, unexpectedly, that of a woman and he thought that it seemed somehow familiar, but between the pain in his head and the desperate nature of his situation, neither fact seemed much to matter. Gingerly, he re-opened one eye and peeked up.

Standing over him, black against the starry sky, was Teresa, the young woman from the Bloodclaw gang. She was dressed as he’d seen her before, in tight leathers that more than accentuated her curves, and holding a sawed-off shotgun lazily in one hand. He couldn’t see her face in the dark, but just the shape and outline of it reminded him of how stunningly beautiful she was. Momentarily alarmed that she was not alone, he opened his other eye and looked quickly around, but there were only bushes and rocks. If there were more Bloodclaws anywhere nearby, they were not making themselves obvious.

Trying to ignore the pain in his head and feeling, for some reason, a bit more at ease knowing that his assailant was female, he tried to smile at the young woman.

“Uh… hello,” he said lamely, his voice rough. “Teresa, isn’t it?”

“S’right,” she said, nodding. “An’ what yer tag, whitecoat?”

“My tag? Oh, yes, my name. I’m Dr. Justin Kaes. I’m from the Center for Disease Control in New Atlanta.”

“Yeh,” said the young woman, cutting him off. “We heard’a all that gink an’ ploop a’ready. Don’ care about none a’ that.”

She went quiet, but he could feel her staring at him. For a long, uncomfortable moment he waited, but when she didn’t seem inclined to say anything more, finally spoke up.

“So, um,” he struggled, “if you don’t mind my asking, was there some reason you attacked me? What… what are your plans? For me, that is.”

“Heh,” said Teresa wryly. “I got plenny plans for you, Medico. Dontcha worry ‘bout that. Now you just lie still for a coupla ticks. And then we need’a get movin’.”

“Moving?” said Justin warily. “Um, where are we going? I can’t just leave my people and—”

“Shuddup,” she said, again cutting him dead. “Jus’ do what I say an’ ya’ll be jus’ juicy, right? But you do one dumb thing, like tryin’ to rabbit, and I letcha have both barrels of this here scatgun. Got it?”

“Er, yes,” he blinked. “I think I understand.”

He waited again as she went through his pack, grunting appreciatively, before slinging it over her shoulder. Then she stood up, waved the gun at him, and gestured towards the inky landscape.

“Right,” she said. “Now zoom. That way.”

“But where are we going?” asked Justin desperately, struggling to his knees.

“That way,” she said again. “Now get goin’.”

With a grunt, his head threatening to split, he got to his feet, wobbled a little, and then stood up. Gingerly, he felt of the back of his head and found a nice-sized lump but, thankfully, no bleeding. Probably only a slight concussion.

“You live,” said Teresa. “Just tapped ya a little on the bean, heh. Now c’mon. Walk.”

And so walk he did. For what seemed like many miles, given his aching head and leaden limbs, he trudged along, over rocks and bushes and across ravines and old abandoned roads, all the while keenly aware of the shotgun muzzle at his back and that, with every step, he was moving farther away from Mr. Lampert, his colleagues, and his mission. Around them the night was quiet, with just a hint of low wind, and, though there was no moon, the stars were so bright that he could see at least a few feet in front of himself. Finally, just as he was considering asking for a break, shotgun or no, Teresa poked him in the back with the gun and gestured down a dry creekbed.

“There,” she said, pointing. “Go.”

Big bushes of some kind soon crowded in on them and then overgrew the creekbed, but a tunnel-like passage had been made and, after a quick hesitation, he dipped his head and moved down into the darkness. They went another twenty yards or so, not far, before he came up short at what looked like a solid wall of corrugated metal. Here Teresa produced a small flashlight and gave it to him.

“Shine it here,” she said, tucking the shotgun under one arm.

Doing as directed, Justin flipped on the light and, following her gestures, pointed it at what he now saw was a door set into the wall of metal, secured with a stout chain and a combination lock. In the bright light, he could see that she was as beautiful as he’d remembered from their previous encounter; indeed, despite the traces of grime and oil and whatnot—or maybe because of them—she was, without a doubt, the prettiest woman he’d ever seen. High cheekbones above a firm but not overbearing jaw, a thin, perfectly tapered nose, huge, lustrous eyes, almost black in color, and a thick-lipped, almost exaggeratedly sensuous mouth. And this crowning a body so perfectly curved and proportioned as to be almost maddening in its perfection. Just being this close to such a wonder of female human beauty made Justin a little lightheaded. Either that, or the huge contusion to his skull.

“What you gleepin’ at, meat?” she said, and Justin hastily looked away, trying not to blush. “Just hold that light. And don’t look!”

Turning his head to the surrounding underbrush, he waited until he heard the lock snapping open and the chain being moved. Somewhere nearby, something made a rustling noise as it moved through the bushes, but he couldn’t see anything to account for it. Probably another rabbit.

“OK, c’mon,” said the woman, and Justin turned back to see that she’d opened the door and was now motioning for him to enter. “In here.”

Warily, Justin walked across the threshold and into the pitch-black space, finally stopping when he bumped into something with his shins. He turned back and saw Teresa, limned by starlight, shut the door behind them. He was about to say something about light when she flipped a switch near the door and took care of it.

As far as converted sheet-metal shipping containers went, Justin had to admit that this must be one of the nicest he’d ever seen. Furnished haphazardly but comfortably with a bed, a couch, a table and two chairs, plus a tiny kitchen set-up and a curtained privy, lit by several old table and floor lamps and floored with old carpet remnants, it had a distinctly female cast to it, despite the incongruity of the concept, and was clean, smelled slightly of something lemony, and reminded him oddly of the tiny Japanese flats he’d seen on TV and movies. Yes, for an old shipping crate, it was, if a bit girly in décor and rough around the edges, decidedly homey.

“Is this your place?” he asked, looking around.

Teresa didn’t say anything. After unloading the shotgun and stowing the shells in the bag at her side, she stowed the weapon in a convenient cubbyhole by the door and then slung her bag, a bulky messenger’s pouch, plus his own satchel, across a peg on the wall. With a shrug, she also took off her jacket and hung this over the bag. When she turned back to him, Justin saw that her top, a skimpy thing like a leather bikini, barely contained her perfectly round, jutting breasts. He tried not to stare, but suddenly he got the feeling that it didn’t much matter if he did or not; either she wanted him to look or she simply didn’t care if he did. Abashed, he looked away and tried conversation again.

“It’s very nice,” he said, nodding at the surroundings. “Did you furnish it all yourself?”

Again, she said not a word and he waited for a good minute before finally looking up. She was just standing there, hipshot, arms lax at her sides and absolutely ravishing, staring at him. Then she took two steps forward, threw her arms around his neck, ground her hips into his, and kissed him so ardently that he almost came in his pants, right there on the spot. And then they were on the bed and it was all arms and legs and soft, wet pressure.

Looking back on it, Justin would never be able to say for certain one way or another if he’d been raped. In some ways, one could certainly make the case because, technically speaking, he was kidnapped and forced to have sex. On the other hand, it wasn’t exactly what he could call unpleasant. After all, this was a very beautiful, very sexy young woman and if she was perhaps a bit rough for his tastes as far as love-making went, well, she was also the most vigorous and imaginative lover he’d ever had, bar none. Hell, she was a damned goddess. But still, the idea of her simply taking him like she had, giving him no choice… In the end, he’d usually decide that it just didn’t matter if he’d been raped or not; with a woman like Teresa, you took what you could get, and you loved it.

In the immediate aftermath of their first heated coupling though, sweat drying on his chest, the girl’s leg thrown across his thighs, he didn’t give it much thought. Next to him, Teresa stirred and, propping herself on one elbow, stared into his eyes. Again, he was struck, almost physically, by her beauty.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” she said, her voice husky. “I din’t hurtcha, did I?”

“Um, no,” said Justin meekly, flexing a few bruised muscles. “Not really.”

With a sigh, she lay back. “Din’t wanna wait,” she sighed. “Been’a while, heh?”

Unsure of what to say, he said nothing and waited, inhaling her scent, and stared at a framed poster on one wall for Pox Populi, the ultra-punk band. He recalled that they’d had one big hit, just before the Fall in the 60’s, called We’re So Sick. Crazy kids.

He also couldn’t help but think of the others back at the MedCenter, and what they must be doing and thinking. He was supposed to be back before dawn, whether he’d found the cache or not. What would the others do when he didn’t show? And what would happen to Lampert? Naturally, he wanted to ask his captor about her plans for him, but decided against it, at least for the time being; no sense in aggravating the one person upon whom his life depended. Besides, even if it was a somewhat guilty pleasure, it was terribly easy to forget his troubles and fears, however imposing, in the presence of such sensuous abundance. For now, he let things be and just lay back and breathed her in.

“So what New Atlanta like?” asked Teresa suddenly. “Ya got bangers there?”

“Gangs?” said Justin. “Oh, yes, plenty of those. Not like your group, but similar, I suppose.”

“Yeah? An’ what my group like, then?”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know exactly…” he said haltingly. “But to answer your question, yes, there are bangers in New Atlanta.”

“Heh, thought so,” she said sadly. “Guess that jus’ the world now. All bangers. Ever’where.”

“Not necessarily,” said Justin. “There are still places.”

“Like where?”

“Well, there’s the California Confederation,” he said. “And the New Hampshire Free State, from what I’ve heard. Possibly others, as well.”

“An’ they don’t got bangers? None at all?”

“That’s the idea,” he said, feeling very tired all of a sudden. “As a matter of fact, that’s where we’re headed. To California.”

“What for? Justa get away from alla bangers?”

“No,” he said slowly. “We have a mission.”

“Whassat mean? What kinda mission?”

He paused, recalling the Old Man’s harsh critique of his common sense and it occurred to him that he should watch what he told this woman; who knew what kind of tricks she might be up to? Maybe her fellow gang members were just waiting, maybe right outside, for him to say or do something stupid. Then again, if they really wanted information from him, they’d have gotten it already. The hard way. Finally, feeling her huge black eyes on him, he shrugged.

“We’re trying to save the world,” he said blandly. “More or less.”

“Hey, yeah?” said Teresa, with a crooked smile. “How’s y’all gonna do that, then? Seemsta me, it’s a’ready good an’ fucked. What chew whitecoats gonna do ta save that?”

“Well,” said Justin, choosing his words, “we hope to stop the plague. To develop a vaccine for it. A cure, so to speak.”

“You mean the Sick, heh?”

“That’s right.”

“Huh,” she said, grimacing. “Well, that ain’t never gonna happen.”

“No? Why are you so sure of that?”

“Cause it’s the end’a the world,” she said casually. “Like alla preacher-greep say. Ever’one knows that.”

“Hm, yes,” Justin nodded, humoring her. “I see.”

After another moment, he was about to ask her about her compatriots, the Bloodclaws, when he realized that she had fallen asleep. Slowly, he raised himself on one arm and stared at her, but, sure enough, she was sound asleep, breathing deeply and evenly through her nose.

He thought for a moment of doing something crazy like going for her gun or trying to escape, but then, thinking that this girl was probably almost as dangerous asleep as she was awake, he gave it up and lay back on the bed. In a moment, he was asleep.

Chapter Nine

Sanitation Records announces the new release by tod idol Timmy Branstsen, Don’t You Wanna Naptime With Me?! Critics are already raving about this toddler sensation! Buck Dilner of Rocking News calls it “a sure-fire smash hit bonanza” and Mike McManacle of Toddler Tunetimes Magazine gives it five stars! Even respected music critic Lance Prevlovsky of the New York Limited calls it “an amazing achievement for a five year old”! Download your copy of Timmy’s new disc today! Now available on Cranium-mate, only $79.99!

—ad for popular music release, 2049

He woke up the next day to bright sunshine pouring through the container door and the smell of what he could have sworn was coffee. A nightmare had left a sour, depressed sort of feeling in the back of his head, but he was almost used to them by now. Disoriented, he blinked in the bright light, shading his eyes, until he remembered where he was. And with whom.

“You finely up?” came the girl’s voice, and he turned to see her, sitting at the nearby table, naked as the day is long, and holding a steaming mug. “Wan’ some java-brew?”

Even more disoriented—after all, it was definitely not every morning that he woke up to a beautiful naked woman—he blinked some more and then swung himself from the bed.

“You don’t mean coffee, do you?” he asked, stretching perfunctorily. His head, while still throbbing lightly, felt much better.

“Sure,” she shrugged. “Why not?”

“Oh, well,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “I haven’t had coffee in a long time. Where did you manage to come by it?”

She shrugged again. “Traded. Cost two cartons, too. Ya wan’ some, or what?”

“Oh, yes please!” he said, nodding. “That would be lovely.”

Eyeing him strangely, she rose, retrieved a mug from a handy shelf, and poured him a cup from some sort of antique contraption called a Mr. Coffee. As she did, he couldn’t help but stare; the interplay of light and shadow on her perfectly shaped body was almost mesmerizing. When she turned back with the coffee, though, he hastily looked away. She set the cup in front of him on the table and sat down again.

He was busy savoring the coffee—which was, despite being acrid, lukewarm, and weak, the best thing to pass his lips in months—when he noticed that she was staring at him. Self-consciously, he sat back in his chair and blinked at her.

“Is anything wrong?” he asked warily.

“How comes y’all talk like that?” she asked. “Is it cuz yerra whitecoat?”

“Talk like what?”

“Like, I dunno, some dude in a ol-time 2D vid. Like yer the pres’dent er somethin’. All fancy an’ shit.”

“It’s…” he said, frowning, “just the way I speak. Sort of a dialect, you might say.”

“Naw,” she said. “I knows why. ‘S cuz you got edu-cation. Y’all went to school, heh?”

“Well, yes, of course. One has to to become a doctor!”

“Henh,” she said, making a face. “Thought so. See, I never got no school. I was born jus’ before the Fall, right? So no edu-cation for me.”

“That’s too bad,” he said, honestly. “You’re obviously a very intelligent person. You would have probably flourished in academia.”

“S’at mean? Floo-rished?”

“It means,” he smiled, “that you would have grown. Gotten smarter. Learned things.”

“You sayin’ I ain’t smart?” she said, dark eyes flashing alarmingly.

“No, no!” he protested, hands up. “You’re undoubtedly very smart! I mean, just surviving what you do, every day, well, that takes all kinds of smarts. Truly! No, what I was talking about was actual book learning. Reading, writing and arithmetic. Not to mention everything else, like art and poetry and music, the sciences, history, and politics…”

“Never learnt ta read,” she said sadly, the sudden anger just as quickly gone. “Write, neither. Don’ even know what arithmajig is.”

“Arithmetic,” he gently corrected. “It’s the use of numbers. Adding and subtracting.”

“Like how?” she said, turning to face him square on. “Show me.”

For a long moment he just sat there, bemused as could be. Here he was, sitting in a converted shipping container in the middle of nowhere, sipping real coffee and trying to explain the basics of math to the hot, gorgeous—not to mention totally nude—young woman who had recently kidnapped him. It made his head hurt. Or maybe it was the concussion. Or the almost frantic worry for his colleagues and their charge. At any rate, it was most certainly deserving of bemusement. Finally, he smiled wanly at her and jerked his shoulders. Why not?

“OK, I’ll show you,” he said. “But can you do me one small favor, please?”

“S’at?”

“Could you put some clothes on?”

They’d made it to the basics of multiplication—Teresa proving to be a quick and avid study—when suddenly she chopped the air with one hand and hushed him to silence.

“What’s wrong?” Justin asked.

“Shuddup,” she spat, head cocked, listening.

He did and waited as she listened. All he could hear was the wind and some birds; other than that it was very quiet. Just as it was almost everywhere, nowadays. He was musing on this, how the world had become a very quiet place since the Fall, when Teresa suddenly swore nastily and jumped up from the table.

“What is it?” he asked. “What do you hear?”

“Bike,” she said simply, angrily. “Maybe more’n one.”

Moving quickly, she went to the back of the container, flipped over some of the carpet, and then jerked up and open a trap door of sorts in the floor.

“Down here,” she said, jerking her head toward the opening. “C’mon, go!”

He walked over and peered down.

“Down there?” he said, eyes wide. “But why?”

“C’mon, don’ fuck aroun’,” she said, scowling. “Them’s bangers out there. Maybe even Brothers. An’ they comin’ this way. An’ dooya know what happen if they findja? Cause trus me, it won’ be like with me! Now c’mon. Get down there an’ stay total quiet, heh? Or do I hafta makeya?”

“No, I’ll go,” he said, not liking the sound of this. Gingerly, he crawled down into the space, which turned out to be nothing more than a hole, about four feet from side to side and about five feet deep, dug into the earth beneath the container. Then Teresa slammed the trapdoor shut and, other than a stray beam of sunlight through a crack, he was plunged into total darkness and the dense smell of raw dirt.

Resignedly, he sat down, as best he could in the cramped space, and waited. After a time he finally heard the wasp-like sound of motorcycles, which grew louder and louder before finally stopping, evidently somewhere very close. Next he made out the sounds of conversation between Teresa and what sounded like at least two others and, while he couldn’t hear exactly what was being said, he could tell that the visitors were questioning the young woman, and apparently at some length. At last, though, the motorcycles started up again and their noise retreated into the distance. Still he waited, for maybe another half hour, his legs starting to cramp, before the trap door was jerked open and, amid daylight that hurt his eyes, he was allowed to climb out of the hidey-hole.

“Who was it?” he asked, peeking out of the container, but Teresa didn’t say anything. Instead, looking worried, she shook her head and sat down at the table. He was going to try again but then decided against it; if she wanted to tell him who it had been, she would. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t. Simple as that. With a slight shrug, he went over and joined her at the table, where he sat in silence as she fretted and shook her head and muttered. Finally, after polishing off the cold coffee and having waited for a good fifteen minutes, he decided to chance it.

“What is it?” he asked her gently. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” she echoed, scowling. If anything, the expression only made her seem more beautiful, if possible. “What’s wrong, he say! Three outriders from the Wildwolf clan show up, askin’ ‘bout have I seen a normie name’a Doctor Case, and he ask me what wrong?! Sweet Jesus-aitch, what a Cem-head! And he thinks I dumb!”

“Well, how was I to know?” he asked defensively. “I was down in that stinking hole, you know. And, as I said earlier, I do not think that you’re dumb.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Thing is, we can’t stay here no more. I got to get you outta here, ‘fore they figure out where you is, heh?”

“But,” he said helplessly, “where do you plan to go? What are you going to do with me?”

“Zero,” she said cryptically. “He’ll know what to do with y’all. We go see him. See what he say.”

“And who—or what—is Zero?” asked Justin, not at all sure that he wanted to hear the answer.

“Baron Zero,” she said, as if explaining to a child. “Don’ tell me ya never hearda Baron Zero!”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Sheesh, where ya been?” she said, rolling her eyes. “Zero’s just the smartest dude around, that’s all. Prob’ly smarter’n you! They say he were this like, big-timer science-wiz, before the Sick.”

“Indeed? A scientist?” he asked, sitting forward. “Do you know in what field?”

“He ain’t in no field, doopy,” she said, rolling her eyes again. “He’s gotta, like, a whole great big house! Like in’a ol’ times.”

“No, I meant, what sort of science does—or did—he study? Biology? Chemistry? Astronomy?”

“Don’ know ‘bout none’a that,” she pouted. “Jus’ some kinda science, hey? The ‘portant thing is, he real smart and he alway knows what to do with this kinda thing.”

Justin nodded, thinking that he’d seen this sort of post-Fall reverence for science before, in several of the survie groups they’d encountered; it was almost as if they thought of it as magic, some kind of arcane lore now lost to the past. Interesting. But this was hardly the time for puzzling about it and, thinking that this legendary figure might be a potential ally, being a fellow scientist and all, he shook off the puzzlement and re-focused.

“Where is this Baron Zero?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Not so far. Day or three.”

“And when we do meet with this Zero person, what then?” And then, the really Big Question: “What will happen to me?”

“Prob’ly sellya,” she said simply, with no more emphasis than if she’d been describing getting rid of a used bicycle. “Prob’ly get top dollar fer a whitecoat.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “Did you say that you intend to sell me?”

“At’s right. So?”

“Well, the problem there,” he said desperately, “is that you don’t happen to own me!”

“Fuck I don’t!” she said, fixing him with an icy stare. “I own you same’s anything, like this here place, like my boomstick, like all my other stuff. Aintcha never heard’a finder’s keepers?”

“Yes, but,” he stammered, “people don’t own other people! It’s… well, it’s just not done!”

“Huh,” Teresa grunted. “Sez you. I seen plenny o’ people get bought an’ sold. Jus’ the way things be nowadays. Least with peeps who worth anythin’. Ain’t nothin’ personal-like about it.”

Blinking, utterly at a loss and unsure of what to say, Justin slumped into his seat. So slavery had made a comeback, it seemed. It stood to reason, perhaps, in a barter-based economy devoid of actual currency, but still, it was no easy thing to wrap his head around the idea that he was now just another tradeable good. That he was owned.

But that was secondary to the real issue: he was being separated from Lampert and the others. What would happen in his absence? Would they go on? Would they come looking for him? Would they be attacked by survies or starve to death or, or… Angrily, feeling impotent and disconnected, he forced himself not to think about it.

Oddly, he found that it also hurt his feelings no small amount to think that she could simply get rid of him like that, with no compunction or remorse, after what they’d shared. Didn’t their making love count for something? Had she no feelings for him? But then, he mused, probably she did not. To her, the casual sex was undoubtedly just that: Casual. And nothing more. Still, it kind of stung his male pride.

“Aw, suck ‘er up,” said Teresa, noticing his chagrin. “Maybe it won’ be so bad. Maybe y’all can still be a whitecoat, or one’a Zero’s thinkers or somethin’. Y’all got skills, hey? They won’ put you on no food gang.”

“Thinkers?” he said numbly. “What are Zero’s thinkers?”

She frowned in concentration. “They’s… well, they greeps what think, hey? Other smart dudes like Zero. Know all kinda ploop, I hear.”

“Uh huh,” he said, feeling as deflated and flat as a punctured beach ball. “Yes, well that doesn’t sound so bad. But what about my friends? I really would like to rejoin them. If that’s possible.”

“Well it ain’t,” she said firmly, and turned to look him straight in the eye. “Now hear up, heh? ‘Cause here is the straight-up, six o’clock sitch: you is mine now. I caughtcha, yer mine. An’ even if you is good at fuckin’ and gotta big cock, I can’t afford to jus’ keepya ‘round for that. So we gonna go see Baron Z, see what he say, an’ go from there. Ya got it? No goin’ back to yer friends, no more fancy whitecoat trucks an’ such. I don’ give’a stinkin’ ploop about none’a that, anyhow. Forget it. All I know is: you mine now. Unnerstand?”

Numbly, feeling his face flush at the crude, back-handed compliment, he nodded at her woodenly and raised and lowered his shoulders about an inch.

“I understand,” he said wanly. “I just thought…”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

She glared at him inscrutably for a moment but then relaxed, grinned in a wickedly adorable way, and slapped him lightly on the arm.

“You see,” she said lightly, rising from the table. “You be better off. Better’n wit’ them Sick greeps back in they trucks. Well, anyways, we gonnna be leavin’ soon as night come. So you prob’ly wanna get some sleepin’. Gonna be a long walk.”

He said nothing, reeling at this twist of events, and simply sat there in shock. He was wondering about a great many things—such as what would happen to Lampert and the others, what would happen to him, what would happen to humanity without a vaccine for the Plague, and so on—and all but oblivious when he felt her nimble hands on him, none too gently undoing his belt and pants. Surprised, shocked, and suddenly incredibly aroused despite it all, he looked up at her.

“Time ‘nough for this, though,” she grinned, rubbing her bare breasts on his arm and chest. “Now c’mon. I gotta gets you in me while I can.”

And then he didn’t think about much of anything but making love to the ravishing, nubile young woman in his arms.

Chapter Ten

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Two days later, stumping along on a very dusty road in the middle of the night, having spent the intervening time stewing and growing more angry and resentful as they went, it occurred to Justin that he might at least try to escape. He’d weighed the pros and cons of the idea carefully through the last 48 hours’ worth of walking, eating, and sleeping on the hard, rocky ground, and, all things considered, had finally decided that anything Teresa might do to him if he did try to escape couldn’t be a whole lot worse than a life in slavery, and so it was worth a shot. The only trouble was that he simply couldn’t work up the nerve to try it.

They’d walked during the night and had slept most of the day. Teresa explained that this was because it avoided both the day’s heat and the attentions of other bangers and survies. She also had told him that Baron Zero’s place, whatever that was, was located on the outskirts of what had once been the city of Vinita, Oklahoma and that it would take them at least three night’s trekking to get there.

“Gotta be wareful, hey?” she’d said. “Lots’a bangers’d wanna get they claws on you.”

“Yes,” he’d said glumly. “You must protect your investment, I guess.”

And now, after two long nights and restless days, he’d had about enough; they’d gone precious miles from Lampert and the others, he was tired, in deep-down way he’d never experienced, sore of muscle in his feet and legs, thirsty, hungry, and just plain bored. Yes, it was time to try to make a break for it.

He’d been looking for the right place and time all night—or morning, if one wanted to be technical—trying not to seem obvious or nervous, and it was probably about three AM when he thought he had just the place. Cursing to himself, he was going to try it, just bolt off into the underbrush and hope for the best, when suddenly Teresa called a halt.

“Hold up, hey,” she said.

He did, and turned back to find her in what had become a fairly common stance during their trip, that of intense listening, with her head cocked at an angle. Try as he might when they stopped like this, Justin never heard anything other than ambient sounds of wildlife and nature, but he’d learned to trust her hearing; more than once they’d avoided unknown potential trouble by virtue of its acuity.

“What is it?” he whispered. “What do you hear?”

“Quiet!” she whispered back. “Jus’ shuddup, hey?”

Justin shrugged and waited, scanning the landscape ahead of them for some sign of life, but to him there was just the barren ground and the sounds of wind and a far-off coyote. He waited for a good five minutes and then turned back to see what Teresa was up to, only to discover that she was gone. Without so much as a rustle of the underbrush, she’d vanished as completely as if she’d never been there at all.

Mouth abruptly agape, utterly mystified at this amazing disappearing act, he cast about, here, there, and everywhere, but the girl was simply not there. Scratching his head, he turned in a full circle, peering into the bushes and dark spots, but she was nowhere to be seen. What the hell? Where had she gone? And why?

“Teresa?” he hissed at the darkness. “Are you there? Teresa?”

Nothing. Not so much as a peep. He tried again, louder this time, but still nothing. What in the world? He was still standing there, wondering whether he should go on or go back or maybe just wait, when he heard the sound of motorcycle engines. Coming up on their trail, they were approaching quickly, judging from the sound, and in no small number. In a matter of moments, the noise went from a faint whine to a loud, angry clamor like a swarm of vary large bees.

Frantically, torn as to what to do, he looked around quickly and then, choosing a particularly large bush that looked like a good spot, began to run for cover. Maybe he could simply hide and whoever was coming would just pass by.

He’d gone about ten steps, about a third of the way to the bush, when suddenly the night erupted in noise and light as the gang of cycles—at least a dozen, of various size and shape—burst over a nearby hill. For a split second, he froze in the harsh lights and then the dusty horde of shrieking machines was all around him, a blur of light and motion and noise, and he recognized that he was trapped and gave up, hands in the air in the universal symbol of surrender.

Around him, the motorcycles slowed, wound down, and then, one by one, came to a halt, all facing into a circle with him at the center. Justin was tempted to shield his eyes in the glare of the headlights, but kept his hands up; no sense in provoking these people, whoever they were. And what had become of Teresa?

At some signal, presumably, the bikers now all shut off their engines (but not the lights) and the ensuing relative silence, broken only by the pinging noises from the cooling machines, was, in its way, more imposing than the din. Then one of bikers detached himself from his mount and came forward from the shadows.

Expecting someone like one of the Bloodclaws, festooned in tattoos and leather and weapons, he was surprised to see a man in a uniform, a brown suit of clothes not unlike those once worn by State Patrolmen, with a matching brown helmet coated in fine pale dust, a thick black leather belt and smart knee-high jackboots. Justin couldn’t see a badge anywhere, but other than that, the man was the very image of latter-day civil authority. In short, a cop.

But how? There were no functioning police forces these days, were there? He’d never heard of any survie cult that went for that sort of thing. So who—and, more importantly, what—was this man? He was going to do something inane like wave or hold out his hand to shake, but instead simply stood and waited as the man approached.

He walked up to Justin, stopped a few feet away, and tipped up the plasteel facemask on his helmet. A pale, mustached, Caucasian, non-descript sort of face that seemed to be not so much expressionless as incapable of expression looked out.

“Hello, brother,” said the man, his voice bland, unaccented, and as emotionless as his face.

“Er… hello,” said Justin tentatively, lowering his hands a bit and trying out a thin smile. “Brother?”

“May I ask your business here, brother?” asked the man sternly.

“My what?” said Justin, blinking. “My business? As in, why am I here?”

“I’ll ask the questions, brother,” said the man, blandly but not un-menacingly. “Please state your business.”

“Well, to be honest,” said Justin, confused and not a little intimidated, “I don’t even know where “here” is. Somewhere in Oklahoma, I think, but then…” he shrugged. “And as to why I’m here, well, that’s something of a long story, I’m afraid.”

“Is that so?” the man said. “Well, you’ll have plenty of time to explain it.”

With that, the man turned on his heel, barked “take him” to his companions, and the next thing Justin knew, he was handcuffed to the back of a motorcycle, riding precariously behind another, similarly brown-clad police-type man as they sped through the dusty, bone-jarring darkness.

So bewildered by this time that he almost couldn’t grasp what was going on, he simply tried to keep his place on the bike, his eyes clamped shut against the dirt and bugs, and not think about it. The only thing that kept going through his head was the old cliché about out of the frying pan and into the fire. Only with him it was more like out of the frying pan and into another frying pan. And then into a bonfire.

When, after what seemed like hours, the group of bikes finally came to a halt, it was full daylight, maybe an hour after sunrise, and Justin cracked open his dust-crusted eyes to blearily survey his new surroundings. Having no idea where he’d ended up and therefore with no preconceptions, the scene he now beheld was nonetheless far from encouraging.

Before him was what Justin could only think of as an armed compound; tall chain-link fencing, topped with barbed wire and other sharp-looking things, surrounded a group of maybe two dozen squat buildings. Armed men, all dressed like his captors, stood and strolled around the perimeter and others kept watch from twenty-foot tall wooden towers at each corner. A gate of sorts, mounted on a rolling base, was surmounted by a large, hand-lettered sign which read:

St. Alferd’s Church of the Holy Redeemer. Faithful Only, Others Shot On Sight.

Still rubbing dust from his eyes, Justin read the sign twice, to make sure of what he was seeing (Saint Alferd? Probably a misspelling of Alfred. But shot on sight?!), before the gate opened and one of his captors gave him a fairly good shove in the back and propelled him rudely into the compound.

Here, he soon saw, the paramilitary feel of the place only increased. Every man he saw wore some variation of the same drab uniform, was armed in one way or another—some quite heavily—and all around the buildings and fence were sandbags, firing ports, and various defensive constructions that gave the place the overall feel of an Army base. Over on one side he saw a group of children playing on a set of playground toys, supervised by a pair of gaunt-looking young women, but other than these few, the camp seemed populated exclusively by men.

He had no time to mull any of this over, though, as his captor and escort guided him, none too gently, towards the largest of the compound’s buildings, a two-story affair that was, given the huge cross hung up over the main entrance, obviously some kind of church. Again, he was prodded forward before having a chance to really look at it and soon he was in the cool, dark spaces of the building’s interior. His captor shoved him along through a big open area filled with folding chairs that was obviously the main worship area to a sort of side office, where he was told to sit on a hard metal chair before an empty metal desk. He did and the man left, closing the door behind him and leaving Justin alone.

Clean and all but devoid of decoration, the small office had only the door, no windows, the desk, two chairs, and, behind the desk on the wall, a big cloth banner, dark red with embroidered white lettering, which read: And as they were eating, Jesus took bread, and blessed it, and brake it, and gave it to the disciples, and said: Take, eat; this is my body. And he took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying: Drink ye all of it; for this is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many for the remission of sins.

It wasn’t long, only a few minutes, before the office door opened again and another man came in and took the chair behind the desk. Like most of the men he’d met here, this fellow was largish and obviously well-fed, if not actually overweight. Unlike the others, this man seemed to have undergone some sort of terrible accident, as his face was horribly scarred, from crown to chin, in a way that bespoke crude, amateur, possibly improvised surgery. One eye seemed almost scarred-over, the lips didn’t meet correctly, showing broken teeth, and one ear was conspicuous in its absence. All in all, he wasn’t much to look at, but Justin had seen some pretty horrific things in the last few years; this didn’t particularly phase him. Then again, it was hard not to stare.

“Greetingsh, brother,” said the man, his voice deep and resonant but also saliva-riddled and gargled. The “s” sound in particular seemed to give him a lot of trouble. “My name ish Brother David. I am the Schief of Shecurity.”

“Uh, hello,” said Justin awkwardly. “My name is Dr. Justin Kaes.”

“Yesh, I know,” said the man, approximating a smile.

Justin goggled. “You know who I am? But how?”

“Unimportant,” said Brother David simply. “And not why I wanted thish meeting.”

Seeing that this man was going to direct the conversation, one way or the other, and that he wasn’t about to let on any more than he wanted, Justin waited as he paused and stared with his one good and one questionable eye. Trying to look something like tough, Justin stared right back until the general air of discomfort reached an intolerable level and he finally had to look away. Evidently this pleased—or a least placated—Brother David and he resumed speaking.

“Here is the shituation, Dr. Kaesh,” he said phlegm-ily. “You have treshpasshed on the shovereign territory of the Church. Ash a reshult, you have been taken into cushtody and will, pending judgment by the counshil, be held here. In time, you will probably learn more of thish plashe and the Church, but that ish not my concern. And now, I bid you God Blessh.”

And with that, he got up to leave.

“But wait!” said Justin urgently.

The disfigured man paused and stared at him again as he reeled in astonishment and struggled to form words. Then, seeing something in Brother David’s glare that didn’t invite questions, he gave it up and shrugged.

“Very well,” he said. “At this point, I’m frankly too tired and hungry to discuss it. Is there at least somewhere where I can lie down? Perhaps get some water?”

“Of coursh,” nodded David. “Brother Shteven will show you to your temporary quartersh.”

As nonplussed as he’d ever been, utterly lost for words and equally devoid of thought, struck numb, as it were, Justin just nodded and waited for whatever came next.

The first man he’d met, evidently Brother Steven, replaced Ugly David and led Justin out of the office, through the big, church-like building and then across the dusty, sun-seared compound. As they went, Justin could feel the eyes of this place’s denizens on him but was past caring why they should be so curious; probably just normal xenophobia, he thought.

They finally came to a low cinderblock building much like all of the others in the compound. Brother Steven unlocked the door, using a key from a ring on his belt, and then shoved him through the darkened portal, where he stumbled hard and fell heavily and painfully to the floor. Behind him, the thick metal door clanged shut, plunging him into cool semi-darkness.

Groaning, he rolled onto his side, all but spent, and lay there for a moment, wondering if there might be some water in this place, before it dawned on him that he was not alone. Frightened all over again, in a very shrill and immediate way, he scrambled awkwardly to a crouch and backed up against a wall.

And then, rolling out of the shadows in an old-fashioned wheelchair, appeared the one person in the whole world whom Justin would have bet he wouldn’t find in a prison cell inside some kind of armed religious survie compound, Mr. Howard P. Lampert.

“Hiya, Doc!” said the Old Man, grinning. “Welcome to the fuckin’ party!”

That did it for Justin. His jaw dropped, his eyes bulged, his brain gave a disbelieving shriek and tried to run away and hide somewhere. And then the world spun around 360 degrees, everything went black, and he fell to the floor in a dead faint.

Chapter Eleven

He’s big! He’s angry! He’s got a gun! And he’s back! In the new film from Netstar Pictures, Big Angry Man With a Gun VI! Starring Danny Claque, Louisa-Jane Blenchner, and Milton Ferretly as the Big Angry Man! With a Gun! Don’t miss the thrills!

—ad for popular film series, 2054

When he woke up some indeterminate time later, the first thing Justin thought of was Teresa. Having slept next to her for the last few nights, he’d become accustomed to waking up with her as well, so that now, rousing from a troubled, painful slumber, he would have liked nothing better than to snuggle against her warm, soft skin and go back to sleep. Unfortunately, this was not at all to be. Treacherous memory reared its ugly head and, in a rush of fearsome, overly-vivid flashes of recall, he remembered where he was.

Suddenly alert, despite the fog in his brain and the pain in what felt like every muscle, he sat up and looked around. He was still in the cinderblock building, a dungeonesque space with only two small, slit-like windows, a metal door, a row of six old army cots, a toilet, a free-standing sink, a cheap table and three flimsy chairs, and not much else. That is, if one didn’t count the people.

Sitting in his wheelchair, maybe ten feet away, was Lampert, grinning like a gargoyle and staring at Justin with what might be called a twinkle in his eye. Behind the Old Man, sitting on the cots, were three of the CDC crew, namely Erin Swails, Nurse Cass, and Orderly Greg, in addition to another raggedy, long-haired younger man whom he’d never seen before. Of these, only the young stranger and the Old Man seemed anything less than depressed; his compatriots were as glum as could be.

“Mornin’ Doc,” said Lampert, nodding. “Feel better now? We saved ya some breakfast.”

“Mr. Lampert,” said Justin, just to make it seem more real to himself. “What are you doing here? How did you get here?”

“These screwheads grabbed us,” said Lampert, jerking a thumb. “Two nights ago. Just rolled up on their bikes and shoved guns in everyone’s faces and, well, there ya go. They brought us here.”

“But who are they?” asked Justin, creakily gaining his feet. “I saw the sign out front. Something about Saint somebody and being shot on sight, but other than that…”

“Some kinda paramilitary outfit, looks like,” said Lampert, with a slight shrug. “Who knows? They sure as shit ain’t tellin’. Least not so far. Shit, the only guy we’ve even really talked to is the fat guy who brings us food, and he’s about as friendly as a dog turd, so,” he shrugged again, “like I said, who knows?”

As Lampert spoke, the professional in Justin noticed that the Old Man seemed in good health, at least for a 102-year old, and as mentally sharp as ever. No worse, apparently, for the wear. So that, at least, was good news.

“What about the others?” Justin asked. “Is Dr. Poole alright?”

“We hope so,” said Cass bleakly, slumped on a cot. “But they separated us when we got here, so we’re really not sure. We haven’t seen any of the others for, oh, about a day.”

“What happened to you, anyway?” asked Swails, on the next cot. “We thought you were dead!”

“Oh, no,” said Justin. “I was kidnapped.”

Suddenly he was embarrassed, realizing he hadn’t thought about what to tell people about Teresa and their rather unique relationship, and felt his face go three shades of red. Hurriedly, hoping to gloss over the awkward moment, he went on.

“Yes, see, one of the Bloodclaws sort of attacked me,” he said, “while I was searching for the stash. She knocked me out and took me prisoner.”

“She?” grinned Lampert. “Did you say she?”

“Uh, yes,” said Justin. “It was Teresa, the young woman who was one of the three, whatever, leaders of the Bloodclaws.”

“I remember her,” said Lampert, still grinning. “Geez, she’s a biscuit, Doc! I mean, hell, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t mind gettin’ kidnapped by a gorgeous young thing like that! An’ that’s comin’ from someone who’s recently been kidnapped. So what happened? C’mon, give!”

“Well, she held me captive,” said Justin, nettled and precise, “and was planning on selling me, apparently to the highest bidder, when we were set upon by these brown fellows. She ran away, they got me, and here I am.” He barreled on before Lampert could say anything else. “But what do these men want from us? Do we know? Have they said what they’re going to do with us?”

“Oh, oh pally,” said the long-haired stranger from his shadowy corner. “You do not wanna know.”

Glad of the diversion, Justin walked over. “I’m sorry,” he told the young man, “we haven’t been introduced. My name is Dr. Kaes.”

The man looked up insolently at Justin through long, clumpy brown hair. His eyes were blue and very bright, dominating a thin, handsome face marred by dirt, beard, and the sort of wan complexion developed only in prisons and hospitals. He wore a ragged pair of jeans and an old woolen shirt, once red and blue plaid, with beat-up cowboy boots, and smelled gamily of unwashed human. Now, after sizing Justin up for a second, he gave a small smirk and nodded.

“I’m Bowler,” he said. “Pleased to meetcha.”

“Do you know about these people?” asked Justin.

“Oh yeah,” said the other, nodding grimly, “you could say that. I been here almost a year now.”

“And what about them?” pressed Justin. “What are they going to do with us?’

“Well, first off,” said Bowler laconically, “they’ll try and convert you. Try and get you to all be members.”

“Convert us? So they’re a religious group?”

“Oh yeah,” nodded Bowler. “Big time evangelical-types. Real bible-bangers. But that ain’t really the problem.”

“Oh? And what is?”

“Well, see,” said Bowler pensively, “they got what you might call some pretty extreme ideas about things… big things.”

“Like?” said Justin, growing impatient.

“Like,” said the other, “did you happen to notice it’s all men?”

“I saw a couple of women, outside,” Justin said. “And some children.”

“Slaves,” said Bowler sadly. “Breeders. And when they can’t breed no more? They go same as anybody they don’t need or who don’t convert. Gulp! Down the hatch.”

“The hatch?” said Justin, a sick sensation growing in his belly. “What hatch?”

“Lemme make this plain, man,” said Bowler intensely, sitting up on the edge of his cot. “OK? I’ll just spell it out for y’all. The Brothers of St Alferd are nothin’ more or less than cannibals. They eat people. Do ya hear what I’m sayin’? And if you don’t join ‘em, you men will get killed and eaten, too. You women, well, you won’t get eaten right off. That is, unless ya can’t have babies. Then you’ll get killed right off. And, you know, eaten.”

As the others gasped and moaned and broke into panicked sniffles, Justin, grimly recalling the gospel quote on the office banner, felt the sick feeling burgeon to nausea and shook his head at what this rather unnerving young man was telling them.

“Eat us?” he said incredulously. “They actually eat other human beings?”

“Actually, factually,” shrugged Bowler. “However ya wanna say it, they eat people. Yes.”

“Good Lord!” Justin exclaimed, tottering on his feet. “That’s… that’s… barbaric! It’s incredible!”

“Yeah, it sure is,” said Bowler glumly. “I myself had never heard of ‘em. That is, until a big gang of ‘em grabbed me and hauled me here, to this shithole. See, I was tryin’ to get to California. I heard they got like, real towns and stuff. Normal people, not just bangers and survies.”

“Yes,” said Justin absently, struggling vainly to make sense of this bizarre new development. “That’s where we were headed as well.”

“No shit?” said Bowler. He slumped back onto his cot. “Well, it looks like we ain’t gonna make it now.”

There was a sort of shocked silence for a moment, but the Old Man found his voice soon enough, and, shockingly, burst out in laughter.

“Bwa ha ha!” he chortled. “That’s rich, I tell ya! That’s a fuckin’ good one! Evangelical cannibals! Can you believe it? Man oh man, just when you thought human beings couldn’t get any fuckin’ worse! Well, one thing’s for sure—they’re welcome to me! Shit, if they can find more than about a pound o’ stringy, gamey old meat on these bones, they are fucking welcome to it! Know what I’m sayin’? Good a way to go as any. But holy shit! I guess you didn’t see this comin’, eh Doc? Fuckin’ Christian cannibals?”

Dazed and sickened, Justin shook his head slowly. “No,” he said thinly. “I have to admit, it comes as quite a shock.” Then something occurred to him and he turned back to Bowler. “But what about you? If what you say is true, why are you still here? Why haven’t they eaten you?”

“I passed the first test,” Bowler said quietly, downcast.

“Test?” asked Greg, the orderly. “What test?”

“I ate some of it,” said the young man. He looked up, a desperate look in his eyes. “I was starving, man! I had to! And besides, I never took the second test! That’s why I’m still here!”

“Dare I ask about the second test?” said Justin, suppressing a shudder.

“Yeah,” said Cass. “What about that?”

Bowler gave a shrug. “What they call the Sacrament. What you and me would call killing. See, they wanna make sure you’re, I don’t know, dedicated or whatever. So they hand you a knife and tell you to do the dirty work. Sorta proving yourself, I guess. Anyhow, that’s sure as shit where I drew the line. No way. And since then, they just keep me here. I guess they figure I’ll give up, sooner or later.”

“And do you continue to consume human flesh?”

“Only once a month,” said Bowler. “When they make me. Otherwise, we get other stuff to eat. Eggs, fish sometimes, bread and cheese, some fruit. It’s not like these guys only eat meat.”

“I see,” said Justin. “Only when they make you. And I take it that you are not going to change your mind? You aren’t going to take the second test?”

The young man snorted and shook his head. “Fuck no!” he said. “Why would I wanna join these freaks? Shit, from what I seen, these guys are about as fun to be around as a gang of Plague-ies. No, soon as I can, I’m gonna bust outta here. These guys are seriously fucked up.”

Suddenly Greg the orderly (what was his last name, anyway? wondered Justin) stood up from his cot, drew Justin off to the opposite corner of their cell, and, his voice strangled and tense, hissed into Justin’s ear.

“Dr. Kaes,” he said tersely, “you shouldn’t listen to anything this man says. He could be one of them, planted here to lie to us.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Justin evenly. “He seems harmless enough. He didn’t kill anyone, after all.”

“So what?!” Greg spluttered. “He’s still a cannibal! All of these people are insane, Dr. Kaes! They eat people, for God’s sake! We can’t trust any of them! And besides, who knows what this man has done? He could be lying about all of that!”

Justin frowned. “Well,” he said, “I’ll take that into consideration. At present, though, I’m afraid it doesn’t much matter. One way or the other, we seem to be trapped here.”

Muttering angrily, the orderly went back to his cot and Justin, recalling Lampert’s saying something about breakfast, went over to where the Old Man sat before the table and chairs. On the table was a cafeteria-style sectioned tray, loaded with what looked like the most wonderful breakfast Justin had ever seen: eggs, toast, bacon, not to mention a big pitcher of water. Suddenly his mouth filled with saliva, his stomach gurgled angrily, and, before he even knew it, he’d taken a seat, dragged the tray and pitcher to himself, and fallen to with a will, stuffing the food into his face as fast as both hands could operate.

Yes, it was cold and the toast was kind of soggy, but to someone who’d eaten soy paste for the last month or so, it was pure culinary bliss and he didn’t stop until the last bit of bread was used to sop up the last bit of congealing egg. Then he sat back, suddenly tired and achy again, and gave a satisfied sigh. Maybe he could get in a nap. Then he noticed Lampert, sitting across the table, smirking in a strange way, and something terrible dawned on him. The Old Man, perceptive as ever, saw his dismay at once and gave a chuckle.

“Don’t worry, Doc,” he said sardonically, “it was bacon. Pig bacon, I mean. Leastways, we’re pretty sure it’s bacon.”

“Oh God,” said Justin, his stomach roiling. “I just ate it, without thinking. Oh Jesus, are you sure it’s, what you said? Pig’s bacon?”

“Like I said,” Lampert shrugged minutely, “we’re pretty sure. I dunno, I guess if I had to say, I’d compare it more to venison. Tasty, though, whatever it is.”

Justin retched, his diaphragm muscle going into spasm all on its own, but he swallowed hard, forced it back down, and glared at Lampert.

“You might have warned me,” he said crossly. “Then again, I should have thought of it myself. I was just so hungry! At any rate, I think that I’ll avoid the bacon from now on. Or, for that matter, any meat. I’d recommend the rest of you do the same as well. No telling what sort of terrible things these people might try to give us.”

“Hey,” said Erin Swails wryly, “we didn’t eat any of it. Well, except for cannibal Bob over there.”

Nurse Cass and Greg both nodded. Bowler scowled and looked away. Lampert just shrugged again.

“Yes, well,” said Justin, swallowing gorge. “I suppose that was wise.”

Trying to sort things out, he sat forward at the table, elbows out, and tried not to think about his breakfast. He was still trying to sort out the ramifications of their straits and what, if anything they could do and making absolutely no progress whatsoever when he noticed that the Old Man was staring at him. Blandly, blinking once languidly, he stared back.

“Yes?” he said tersely.

“Oh, nothin’,” said Lampert. “I was just thinkin’ is all.”

Justin sighed. Oh no, he thought. He knew that this sort of exchange almost always preceded another of the Old Man’s rambling dialogues. Oh well. He had little else to do at the moment. Still, tired and traumatized as he was, he wasn’t sure he could listen. He sighed again and gave up.

“Thinking about what?” he asked unenthusiastically, lowering his head to the table.

“Oh, lots o’ stuff,” said Lampert. “Like how you’re gonna get out of this little predicament, for one thing. But it also occurs to me that these cannibal dudes aren’t really all that different from any other Christian religion.”

That got Justin’s attention; he sat up and looked at the Old Man with raised eyebrows.

“How so?” he asked. “After all, most Christians do not eat people, now do they?”

“Maybe not literally,” said Lampert. “But speaking metaphorically, well, it seems pretty applicable to me. I mean, what did any church ever provide for its patrons? Sure, there were charitable-type organizations, folks that built houses or ran food shelves or whatever, but those kinda things are hardly the exclusive domain of religion, either, considering all of the secular relief agencies. So what did they really give people?”

Justin shrugged. “Hope?” he replied. “A sense of well-being? Among other things.”

“False hope,” said Lampert pointedly. “They promised an eternity of bliss, right? In heaven, that is, after you die. But what about the here and now? Did they really help with that?”

Justin sighed and lowered his head back to the table. “I suppose you may be on to something,” he admitted. “Though what I fear is that these men are simply using Christianity—or some warped version of it—to justify their cannibalism. It allows them some psychic comfort. But then again, what’s the point? After all, our sitting here arguing about it isn’t going to change anything, is it?”

“Nope,” said Lampert sadly, “won’t change one single fucking thing. I just think about this kinda stuff. That’s all.”

“Uh huh,” said Justin. “Well, do you suppose you could think of something else? Like perhaps some way of getting us out of this place?”

“Oh, I already thought all about that.”

“You have?” Justin said, looking up hopefully.

“Sure,” said the Old Man. “And I’ve come to one conclusion: we are fucked. If somebody from outside don’t come for us, we are gonna get eaten, like so many sides o’ beef. The end. Roll the credits.”

Justin groaned and re-lowered his head. “No offense, Mr. Lampert,” he said. “But maybe you should just keep these little musing of yours to yourself from now on.”

“Hey, you asked!” said Lampert crossly. “But if that’s how you want it, fine. I’ll just keep my fool mouth shut from now on.”

I sincerely doubt it, thought Justin; you haven’t managed to do that yet! To the Old Man, though, he smiled wanly and shook his head.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “It’s just been a very long, very strange couple of days and I am not myself at the moment. Please forgive me.”

Lampert grumbled a bit and then shook his head. “S’okay, Doc,” he said magnanimously. “You didn’t mean nothin’. And I guess it’s not every day o’ the week a guy gets kidnapped twice in as many days. You’re probably entitled to bein’ kinda touchy.”

Coming from the Old Man, it was practically empathetic, but Justin was far too worried to take much notice. What were they going to do? What would become of them? Suddenly a wave of despair and self-pity washed over him. What had he done to deserve this? All he’d ever wanted was to help people, to help in the fight against disease and suffering, yet here he was, a captive of cannibals, slated for the cook pot. Worst of all, it seemed like they’d finally failed. After all they’d been through, all the sacrifices they’d made and the hardships endured, their mission had ultimately come to its end in this middle-of-nowhere militant survie camp. The hell of it was, these brown-clad morons would probably kill and eat Mr. Lampert with no idea that they’d just doomed humanity’s only chance at ending the Plague, and they’d never even know. A sudden, puny scrap of hope popped into his head and, choking back the despair, he sat up at the table.

“What about their leadership?” he asked. “Do we know who’s in charge here?”

The others all generally nodded, but only Bowler spoke up.

“That would be the almighty Brother David,” said the young man. “You know, the dude with the face that looks like a melted Halloween mask?”

“Ah, yes,” said Justin. “I met with him when I first got here. By the way, do you know what happened to him? How he acquired such awful wounds?”

“Accident,” shrugged Bowler. “Or so I heard. Some kinda car crash, maybe a fire, I don’t know. But really, that’s just rumors. Who knows for sure? I sure ain’t gonna ask him.”

“Hmm, yes,” said Justin. “He does seem somewhat aloof.”

“If by that,” said Bowler, “you mean crazy as a bat in a whirlwind, then yeah, he’s aloof.”

“A-ha. And what about guards?” Justin asked. “Is there someone posted outside?”

“Night and day,” said Bowler. “One dude, plus his shotgun, that is.”

Nodding, Justin thought about it for a moment and then went over to the heavy metal door and banged on it with the side of his fist. This made about as much noise as a pillow hitting a pile of soap suds, so he tried again, this time with a kick. Nothing happened for a moment, so he kicked some more. Then a voice called from without:

“Hey! Quit that bangin’! Yer buggin’ the shit outta me! Ya hear? Cut it out! Or else!”

This didn’t sound terribly promising. Justin stepped back from the door, hesitating, and then, despite his better judgment, forged ahead.

“I want to speak to Brother David!” he hollered. “Can you hear me? I need to talk to your leader! It’s very important!”

He waited, but whoever was outside didn’t reply. Instead, he heard some non-descript mumbling, some scuffling noises, and then nothing. He waited some more, but still nothing, just the few faint sounds of the greater compound.

“Nice try, Just In Case,” said Mr. Lampert, after a little while. “Take me to your leader, eh? Gonna try an’ reason with him, right?”

“That’s the idea,” said Justin. “Maybe if I explain our mission he’ll—”

“He’ll what? Let us go? I kinda doubt it, Doc. These guys seem like just about the screwiest screwheads that ever were. I mean, you’re welcome to try! Hell, knock yerself out. But I wouldn’t count on that ugly fucker just lettin’ you walk outta here.”

Justin grimaced, controlling his temper with some effort, and then turned to the Old Man with what he hoped was a stern expression.

“One never knows,” he said. “And it would seem to be worth the effort. Unless you would prefer simply waiting around to be eaten, that is.”

“All the same to me,” said Lampert. Folding his arms across his lap, he sat back into himself and lapsed into a sullen silence.

With a sigh, Justin went back to the table, sat down, and tried to think. Eyeing his compatriots slumped listlessly on their cots, he contemplated giving some kind of a pep talk, about how they weren’t done yet and how there was always hope, but the inanity of it was so bitter and obvious that the sentiment died before it was even really conceived. No, this was no time for mock optimism. He was still sitting there when the door to their cell suddenly clanged and then swung open.

“Dr. Kaes,” said a voice from outside, “come with me, please.”

Blinking in the bright sunlight streaming into the room, Justin hesitated, glancing at his cohorts, young Bowler, and Mr. Lampert for a moment, and then swallowed a hard lump in his throat, rose from the table, and went to the door.

Outside there stood a man, dressed like all of the others in drab brown and just as unremarkable, holding a pistol, a thick, complicated-looking weapon, the likes of which Justin had never seen, which he waved around by way of emphasis.

“C’mon, you,” said the man lifelessly. “Let’s go.”

“May I ask to where?” said Justin meekly.

“You wanted to talk to Brother David, right?” said the man. “Well, it looks like ya got yer chance. Now c’mon before I get sicka yer worthless ass an’ empty a clip into it.”

“Uh, yes, OK,” said Justin falteringly. “I’m coming.”

As before, he was led into the church-like building and the Spartan office and told to wait. He sat down and did so, eyeing the banner on the wall with new-found interest (and not a little revulsion), until, after a few minutes, Brother David came in and took his place at the desk.

“You wanted to shee me?” asked the terribly warped face atop the brown-clad, rotund body. The man really was grotesque. Justin might have even felt some sympathy for him if he hadn’t been a crazed cannibal.

“Uh, yes, I did,” said Justin, crossing his legs. “I have something very important to discuss.”

“Shuch as?”

“Well, it’s a bit complicated,” began Justin, “but the fact of the matter is that I represent the US Center for Disease Control and Prevention in New Atlanta. And we—my colleagues and I and the old man, Mr. Lampert, that is—are on a sort of mission, a very important one, which is currently, shall we say, a bit derailed, as you can see.”

If David could still manage facial expressions, he didn’t bother with one now. Instead he sat and listened to Justin’s little speech like a chunk of wood and, when Justin had lamely sputtered out, continued to do so. A long, uncomfortable moment passed before the man finally spoke up.

“There ish only one misshion,” he said juicily. “And that ish the Lord’sh. There ish only one important thing, and that ish almighty God. Do you undershtand, brother?”

“Well, frankly, no,” said Justin honestly. “You see, our mission is not of a religious nature. It’s more of a medical emergency. What we hope to do is to use—”

David cut him off with a violent shake of the head.

“You musht forget all of that,” he said, sternly yet mushily. “You are with ush now. There ish no other world for you. In a few daysh, after you have contemplated, you will be given the opportunity to join the Church. If you choosh to join, you will live here the resht of your daysh, in peash and harmony. And if you choosh not to join, well, then alsho you will abide here the resht of your daysh. Sho, ash you can shee, there ish no more for ush to shpeak of.”

“But I beg to differ, sir,” said Justin, trying to sound authoritative and docterly. “If you would simply hear me out, I’m sure—”

“No more talk,” said David, rising from his chair. “You musht go now. Contemplate what I have shaid. Shoon, your time will come.”

And with that, leaving Justin to stammer and blink, he walked out. In a moment, the guard, undoubtedly Brother Someone, came and prodded him from the office, across the compound, and back into the darkness of the cell. He’d been gone all of ten minutes. Wanly, he looked over at his cellmates, who all looked questioningly back at him. Disgustedly, he walked over and sat down again at the table.

“You’re absolutely right, Mr. Bowler, Brother David is not a sane man.”

“Toldya,” said the young man. “There’s just, like, no reasoning with these dudes.”

The rest of that day was a long, dull and yet incredibly worrisome time for Justin, as he sat and brooded, wondering if he and the others would be alive at this time tomorrow. Finally, bored and restless, despite all his worries, he decided that even chatting with Mr. Lampert was better than just sitting there fretting and went over to where the Old Man had laid himself out on one of the cots. Lampert’s eyes were shut as he approached, but now slid open and the familiar piercing blue orbs stared up.

“Whassup, Doc?” said Lampert. “Somethin’ goin’ on?”

“No, nothing important,” Justin said. “I was just kind of… worried out, I guess you might say. Or, to put it another way, I’m just plain bored.”

“Yeah,” said he Old Man, bracing his bony arms behind his head, “this hotel’s not too big on the amenities, is it? Shit, no pool, no cable TV, nothin’.”

Justin smiled. “Yes, it is somewhat primitive,” he said. “And the staff leave a lot to be desired.”

“Ha!” Lampert barked. “Is that a joke, Doc? For real? Not too bad for a first try, I guess! Well, don’t quit yer day job just yet.”

“I won’t,” said Justin. “But, in our present situation, I’m afraid that it doesn’t matter very much whether I’m a doctor, a lawyer, or a stand-up comedian. All would be equally useless.”

“Yeah,” said Lampert. “And that is kinda weird, now you mention it.”

“What is?”

“Oh, just that these brown guys aren’t interested in the fact that you’re doctors and nurses. Seems to me, you’d be in demand! After all, how many survies runnin’ around out there are MDs? Can’t be too fuckin’ many.”

“Well, that’s undoubtedly true,” Justin said. “But, for whatever reason, this Brother David seems unimpressed, to say the least. Maybe they have their own medical staff, or maybe they simply don’t believe in medicine. There were several pre-Fall religious groups who forbid all medical treatment as sinful and a desecration of the human body.”

“Uh huh,” said the Old Man. “They had Christian Science, they had the whole Dianetics, L. Ron Hubbard gig. I’m pretty sure Rastafarians, too. But from the look of these weirdos, I’d say they’re probably just into some kinda wild-ass Evangelical thing. Latter-Day Saints, some kinda twisted Mormons, maybe. Sure as shit ain’t Rastas! The point is, they obviously don’t need doctors.”

“No,” said Justin, “and, to tell the truth, that comes as something of a relief.”

“Oh yeah?” said Lampert, opening one eye to peer at Justin. “Why’s that, Doc?”

Justin shuddered. “Because,” he said, “the mere idea of working with these people makes my skin crawl. Ugh.”

“Yeah,” said the Old Man. “They are a repugnant bunch, aren’t they?”

“Indeed,” said Justin. “Repugnant is just the word.”

Chapter Twelve

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

All the king’s horses and all the king’s men

Couldn’t put Humpty together again!

—nursery rhyme, traditional

Thanks to an amazing survival instinct, the Kid woke up just moments before the Rippers came at him. Another minute and he’d have been torn to bloody shreds. He’d been curled up in his cave, a bright moon high in the starry sky and the cool air of the night caressing his face, when some part of his mind, never really asleep, jolted him to consciousness and he scrambled to knees, looking around for the source of danger. Quickly enough, he picked out three stealthy shapes moving silently toward him along the stream bank, heads low on the scent and eyes aglow in the wan moonlight. They were Rippers alright; he could see their shaggy tails and their sharp white teeth. They were on his trail, too, from the looks of them. Any second now, they’d pick up his smell and then…

Reflexively, he grabbed his best weapon, an old tire iron, and scrambled free of his home. Better to be out in the open, even if it meant that they could get at him, than to be trapped in the cave. He crouched low and, as silently as the Rippers themselves, crept off into the undergrowth, where he knew of a good tree that even Rippers couldn’t climb.

Or such was his plan. But when he got to where he thought the tree was, there was no such thing, just skinny saplings and weeds. A thrill of fear running up his back, the Kid cast about, but the light was dim and the place was unfamiliar. For a long moment he hesitated, unsure of what to do. Normally his instincts were dead on and generally led him directly to safety when things like Rippers came prowling in the night, but somehow this time they’d failed and now he’d have to improvise.

He was about to backtrack, to regain the relative safety of the cave, but when he turned slowly to move, he saw that it was too late; the Rippers were right there, trotting swiftly toward him, tongues lolling wetly, ears flat, and eyes narrowing into fighting slits. Sharp adrenaline flooded his system as they leapt to the attack and he almost dropped the tire iron and ran, but, knowing that it was now kill or be killed, he stood his ground and met their charge.

He impaled the first one on the pointed, sharpened end of the tire iron and, howling weakly and coughing blood, it fell limply to the dirt with two feet of metal embedded in its chest. Unfortunately, the tire iron went with it, lodged in bone, and suddenly he was unarmed as the other two Rippers came on. They were less aggressive, of course, having seen their leader so suddenly dispatched, but they didn’t run away, either. At the very least, they wanted the dead one’s corpse.

His eyes never leaving the two circling Rippers, he reached down and jerked at the tire iron, but it was no use; he’d have to brace it with his feet to get it out. He risked a glance at the ground nearby and, spying a good-sized rock, darted down and picked it up.

Feeling a little better for the weapon, crude as it was, he snarled at the Rippers and gave a guttural hiss. “Go away!” he thought. “Leave me alone or I’ll smack you with this rock!” But, utterly devoid of even the basics of language, all that came from his mouth was a series of high grunts and snarls.

The Rippers understood him well enough, though; warily, their haunches up, they backed away to a safer distance, some ten or fifteen feet into the weeds and small trees. Winding up hard, he threw the rock at one of them and then grinned savagely when he was rewarded with a sharp yelp of pain. Quickly, he launched five or six more rocks in the same general direction, but there were no more yelps and he waited for a moment before hearing them slink off into the bushes. Before too long, they’d blended into the darkness and were gone.

Breathing hard, the Kid sat down on the ground next to the dead Ripper and caught his breath. It hadn’t been that much of a fight—not like taking on a Howler or a Screamer, or even a pack of Biters, but it was still more than a little unnerving to wake up in the middle of the night with three predators coming for you. But then he shrugged; why worry about it? He’d won, the Rippers were gone, he’d suddenly acquired some more food, and that was that. At least for now, for this time.

After a long look up at the mysterious stars and the friendly horn of the moon, he slung the dead Ripper over one shoulder, staggering a little at first under a weight almost the same as his own, and, staying alert to anything that might have smelled the blood, scuttled back to his cave to butcher his victim.

Chapter Thirteen

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—TV autocar ad, circa 2050

Justin came to in almost total darkness with someone’s hand clamped over his mouth. Reacting completely on animal instinct, he flailed crazily, trying to shake whoever it was, but it was no use; his assailant was too wiry and strong to beat and, weakened as he was, he was forced to give up. Then something came to him—a scent, like a mix of flowers and leather—and, confused but suddenly hopeful, he relaxed.

“Teresa?” he tried to say, but only a muffled grunt escaped his lips. Then the hand was removed and a hiss came from the person on top of him and he realized that, against all odds, it was in fact his erstwhile captor.

“It is you!” he whispered. “But how did you get in? What are you doing here?”

“I stealin’ you back!” came the young woman’s urgent whisper. “Now c’mon. We gotta get outta here, right zip.”

His cellmates had by this time noticed the commotion and now rose up in the dark from their cots like phantoms.

“What’s going on?” demanded Nurse Cass. “Who is that?”

“Yaah! They’ve come for us!” squealed Greg, backing off of his cot.

“Shut the fuck up!” hissed Teresa, waving her shotgun their way. “Ya hear? Just stay real, real quiet, hey? Or dooya want them cannibo dudes to hear ya?”

“Yes, please,” whispered Justin urgently. “Keep your voices down! This is Teresa, the one I told you about. She’s, well, she’s apparently here to rescue us!”

The others quieted down some, but were far too excited by this sudden good news to be silent. Teresa, though, wheeled on Justin.

“Not them,” she said stonily. “Just you, Case. Now get goin’!”

“What?” Justin stammered. “You… you won’t help these people?”

“That’s right brain boy,” said Teresa harshly. “They no good to me. Only slow us down. Now quit yappin’ an’ go. Out that window.”

He considered for a moment, but it was never really something upon which he had to decide. Squaring his shoulders, he tried to look Teresa in the eye (not an easy thing in nearly complete darkness) and, keenly aware of the ramifications, said:

“No. I won’t leave without the others. You’ll just have to shoot me.”

There was a sort of shocked pause as no one said anything for a moment, and then Teresa erupted in a torrent of curses and ranting.

“Aw, god shit damn it all to hell!” she hissed. “I shoulda knowed you’d do some doopy-ass shit like this! I go to all this here trouble, bustin’ ya out, and you don’ even wanna go! Is you zaned or somethin’? I mean, damn! These fuckers are gonna eatcha! Dontcha know that? They gonna skin ya like a hopper and cook ya for dinner!”

“I know that,” nodded Justin, swallowing hard. “But I will not leave without Mr. Lampert and the others. It’s as simple as that.”

Seeming to think this over, Teresa turned and took a few angry paces, muttering to herself. Then, out of nowhere, a whole world of noise and light and sudden violence erupted and time seemed to slow to a crawl.

First, the overhead lights, a couple of old but very bright fluorescents, snapped on, nearly blinding him. Then their cell door whipped open, revealing a stocky, brown-clad figure wielding a shotgun.

“What the fuck’s goin’ on in—” roared the man, but before he could finish his sentence, there was a tremendously loud boom from just behind him and the air filled with acrid smoke as Teresa fired a blast that, in less than a blink of an eye, tore open a great bloody chunk of the man’s chest. Ka-Boom! Like a rag doll, spraying bodily fluids, the man lifelessly slumped forward to the floor.

Next, there was a lot of noise, people screaming and whatnot, and some hoarse yelling from outside the building. To Justin, it all sounded like he was wearing earmuffs and he vainly shook his head to try to clear the ringing in his ears from the gunshot and the stinging smell of cordite from his nose.

Then he was moving, shoved along by Teresa, to the other side of the cell, where he saw that one of the small windows was breached; the stout bars had been bent to the sides like they were licorice whips. To his surprise, he saw that he was the next to last to leave; only he, Greg, and Teresa remained.

“Where are the others?” he asked, bewildered.

“A’ready gone!” barked Teresa. “Now go! Out the damn window!”

He went, clambering up and through the aperture. Outside, clustered fearfully around Mr. Lampert, were Erin Swails and Cass. Of Bowler there was no sign. Frantically, Justin turned back to the window, as from within, out of view, there came the loud reports of more shotgun blasts, overlapping and combining into a sort of booming roar. A wisp of smoke came from the window. And then Teresa, bounding like a champion gymnast, came flying out, rolled once on her back, and landed on her feet.

“Move!” she commanded, pointing toward the perimeter fence. “Go now!”

“What about Greg?” Justin demanded.

“Gone!” she spat back. “Dead as shit! An’ if ya don’ wanna be dead too, we got to go!”

From within the compound, Justin could hear all sorts of commotion—men yelling, a siren, a couple of gunshots. Naturally, he was torn; he owed it to Greg to see what had become of him, but he also owed it to the greater world to get Mr. Lampert out of this place. Unfortunately, he had no time to think it over. Already, Teresa and the others were moving off into the darkness. With a final, rueful shake of his head, he ran after them.

What followed was a painful, nightmare flight over rough terrain that seemed to go on and on, for hours at least, if not for days. At least it gave Justin no time to think about what had happened to poor Greg.

Clearing the St. Alferd’s compound proper, thanks to a neat hole Teresa had evidently clipped in the chain links, they simply pelted away into the night. Cass took the first shift at carrying Mr. Lampert and toted the Old Man in her arms like a new bride for the first long leg, maybe a couple of miles. Teresa kept them away from anything that seemed like a road and instead directed the little band into dense undergrowth and dark ravines. And all the time, seemingly just behind them or just off to one side, there was a constant din from their angry pursuers as the cannibals combed out on motorcycles and on foot in an obviously organized effort to recover their human livestock.

Just at the point where Justin was sure he’d collapse, Teresa called a halt in a thick stand of some thorny bushes. As he and the others lay on the ground panting (except for Lampert, who just grunted a little), she peered through the bushes for a time before finally turning back to the group.

“How did you managed to free us?” he asked her, trying to catch his breath. “How did you bend the bars?”

“Old car jack,” said Teresa. “An’ a good bolt-snipper. Piece’a pie.”

“And what happened to Greg?” he asked. “At the end, there.”

“Who?” said Teresa. “Oh, that four-eye greep back at the camp? Yeah, he got blasted. One’a them St. Alferd cannibos got him with a scat gun, right inna head. Boom! Dead.”

“Oh God,” said Justin miserably, scrubbing his stubbled face. “I was afraid of that. The poor man.”

“Hey, shit flies,” Teresa shrugged. “Happen alla time. One day yer fine, jus’ bompin’ along, and then: Blammo! Yer dead as road kill. Ain’t mean nothin’.”

“Not to you, perhaps,” said Justin, trying to keep the scorn from his voice. “But to the rest of us… well, let’s say it’s a loss that we will keenly feel.”

Teresa simply shrugged, her lovely face unreadable in the dark.

“And what about my other colleagues?” asked Justin. “My friends, I mean.”

“What about ‘em?”

“Can we, I don’t know,” struggled Justin, “can’t we go back for them?”

Teresa gave a rude snort. “Not fuckin’ likely! And anyhow, what’s with all that “we” shit? I the one’s did all the rescuin’ back there! Not for me, you all be carved up like cluckers by now!”

Justin sighed deeply and hung his head as a fresh wave of despair washed over him. So that was that. Dr. Poole and all of the rest of the CDC crew, plus all of the gear and vehicles, were gone. They were as gone as any of the others who’d fallen along the way, sacrificed to their hopeless mission, and now he and the other survivors were left with no transport, no supplies, no idea where they were and only the vaguest notion of where they should go. He could now number his possessions with fingers, as they consisted entirely of what he was wearing: a pair of boots, a pair of socks, some underwear, a pair of chinos and a light blue button-down shirt. And that was it. No med-kit, no gun, no survival gear, not even a knife. In short, they were, as Mr. Lampert would say, good and fucked. Sighing again, all but overloaded, he fell onto his back and stared up at the impersonal, starlit sky.

“Yer sad, hey?” asked Teresa softly, kneeling down next to him.

“Yes,” said Justin. “I am. Very sad.”

“Cuzza yer friends?”

“Yes. They’re good people. Good friends, good colleagues.”

Teresa was silent for a moment. Then: “I lost some good friends, too.”

“Oh?” said Justin tiredly. “Well, I’m sorry for your loss. I suppose that all of us have shared that experience, what with the Plague and all.”

“True that,” she said sadly. “Me, it was my BMF, Clanky. He was a good dude. Mech-head, ya know? Fix anything. Ran the juice line to my place. He got runned over an’ greased by a Wildfist dump truck, out on route twelve. Last spring. Yeh, I miss ol’ Clanky.”

Justin said nothing and stared at the stars. After a long pause, Teresa stood up and jerked her head.

“C’mon, Case,” she said. “We still gotta long way to go before sun-time.”

“But to where?” asked Justin. “Where are we going?”

“Same place we was goin’,” she said. “Baron Zero’s.”

Five minutes and a few sips of brackish bottled water later, they were back on their feet and stumbling through the dark. At least it was Erin’s turn to carry Mr. Lampert.

Chapter Fourteen

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Tastes like meat but it’s not a cow!

Krillo-loaf in five tasty ways!

Oh, Krillo-loaf is here to stay!

—ad jingle for Titan Agrofood product, circa 2048

Bright sunlight, dappled by the leaves overhead, burned into his eyes when he woke up and when he tried to move, even to roll over onto his side, he found that he was so stiff and sore that he wasn’t all that certain that he’d ever move again. Groaning, he fell back, shut his eyes again, and tried to go back to sleep, but other parts of his body—the ones that needed food and water and to go to the bathroom—were not at all amenable and so he groaned again and began to work on getting himself up off of the ground.

“S’amatter, hey?” came Teresa’s voice from above him, mixed with the calls of birds and the rustle of leaves. “Ya ain’t sick, hey? Or didja break somethin’ maybe?”

“No, nothing like that,” said Justin painfully, flexing an arm. “I’m just very sore. From all of the… exertion last night.”

“Oh, that,” said Teresa disdainfully. “Aw, you be a’right. Jus’ gotta get up and move aroun’. You see.”

“If you say so,” Justin groaned yet again. For a while he concentrated on simply moving each pain-shot limb. Gradually the worst of the pangs and muscle spasms passed and he opened his eyes and looked around.

They were in a small forest, one of many that dotted the otherwise rolling, grass-hilled landscape hereabouts, and the sky above was cloudless and as blue as a robin’s egg. Maybe a hundred yards away, the remains of an asphalt road, half-hidden in weeds and grass, could be seen, and from somewhere not far away came the gurgle of a stream. It was a very pretty little spot, all in all, and the weather was as mild and pleasant as any he’d ever felt, but the crush of fears and uncertainty in his jumbled thoughts and the pain in his body left him all but unable to notice. At the moment, it was just another anonymous spot in the middle of a threatening and impersonal nowhere.

The others, Teresa excepted, were all lying on the ground, side by side, and still asleep. Teresa was standing nearby, next to a big tree, peering intently at something with a pair of trinocs. His trinocs, he reminded himself. Trying not to grunt or moan, he rolled to his side, then to his knees, and finally struggled to his feet. It wasn’t much worse than being beaten with a baseball bat. Tottering only slightly, he walked over to Teresa.

“What are you looking at?” he asked, squelching the urge to add “with my trinoculars”.

“Couple things,” said Teresa. “One, we got someone on our trail.”

“What?” said Justin. “But I thought you said we lost the Brothers?”

“We did. Them cannibo greeps stay close to they base. Real close. But this ain’t one’a them. Don’ know who it is, but Brothers use bikes and burners. This one on his feets.”

“Oh. So what will you do about it?”

She shrugged. “Keep my eye open. An’ if I gets the chance, double back an’, you know, take care of it.”

“I see,” said Justin. “But you said a ‘couple of things’. What else?”

“That,” she said, and pointed in the opposite direction.

Following the gesture, he saw with some surprise that there was a large building of some kind—maybe a factory—not two hundred yards away. Of course, abandoned buildings of all sorts were not uncommon sights, even out here in the country, but almost all were burned out, burned down, looted and wrecked by someone or, left to the forces of nature, simply falling down all on their own. Such structures had become largely just a part of the landscape. This place, though, this seeming factory, was, aside from the ubiquitous overgrowth of weeds and trees, apparently fully intact; the roof was still there, there were no signs of there having been a fire, and the doors and windows were unbroken and closed.

Like most survivors, Justin had developed an eye for abandoned buildings and the potential goodies they might hold. A food store of any kind was always the best, of course, even if much of the canned stock was starting to burst from the presence of tiny bug parts and bacteria in the food, but a hardware store was almost as good, and a sporting goods store was a sort of bonanza. Storage facilities—places like U-Store-It—were prime targets for pilfering as well, but Justin personally disliked them; it was just too sad to dig through some poor dead person’s personal, often family-oriented things. Baby clothes, family photo albums, holiday decorations, and the like. But any building in this sort of state, apparently unmolested, was a potential source of resources and not to be overlooked.

“Interesting,” said Justin, squinting in the sun. “Can you read what that sign says? The one out front?”

Teresa slowly lowered the trinocs and looked at him.

“You tryin’ fer funny?” she said, a hard, angry cast to her flawless features. “Ya think that a goof, hey?”

He’d forgotten; she couldn’t read.

“No, no!” he said at once, genuinely sorry. “I… I just forgot. Truly, I meant nothing by it!”

She glared at him for another moment before handing over the trinocs.

“Look for yerself,” she said sullenly,”Mr. Edu-micated Whitecoat.”

“Teresa, I swear,” Justin said, “I meant no offense. I simply did not remember that you haven’t yet learned to read. Honestly.”

“Whatever. Jus’ gimme back them trinocs when yer done.”

Making a mental note to watch what he said to Teresa from now on when it came to her lack of schooling, Justin raised the trinocs and focused in on the factory sign, but the painted letters on it were half effaced and the ones that remained were partly covered in dirt and grime.

“Well? What’s it say?” Teresa said impatiently.

“I can’t tell,” said Justin, squinting at the sign. “It’s partly obscured.”

“What that mean? Ob-skewered?”

“It means,” said Justin, switching off the trinocs and dutifully handing them over, “that it’s been erased. Wiped out. Only part of the letters are still there.”

“Huh,” said Teresa, frowning. “So you can’t read it?”

“Well, I can see that it says “Kram-something and sons,” then “CA Incorporated”, but that’s it. Anyway, it looks like a factory of some kind to me, and in pretty good condition.”

“Yeah,” said Teresa. “Some kinda place that make things, right?”

“Exactly. But what did they make? Should we go and have a look? After all, there might be things we could use in there.”

“Mebbe,” she shrugged. “And mebbe more’n that. Like, one time, I knew this girl, name’a Jilly? Well, she come across somethin’ jus’ like this one time. Big building, out in the country, hey? And it looks like no one usin’ it. Nobody aroun’, no sign o’ life at all, jus’ like this here. So anyhows, Jilly figure why not, right? Go have a gleep. Turn out, they a whole nest’a rattlers in there. Ga-jillions of ‘em. So? Ya never know what might be in somethin’ like that.”

“Yes, I see,” Justin said. “But what happened to Jilly?”

“Oh, she got bit an’ cacked,” said Teresa laconically. “Ugly, too. All bloat over and shit? Blech!”

“The poor girl,” said Justin sadly, wondering just how many of Teresa’s friends had met such ends. “But still, we could at least have a look.”

“We will,” she said. “Once them others wakes up. But I just sayin’, ya never know.”

“Yes, we should be careful,” said Justin. “But, um… right now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to, uh… answer the call of nature. Is there somewhere specific I should go?”

Teresa shook her head. “Talk normal!” she said. “I don’t know what the fuck you sayin’ sometime. Call’a nature?”

Justin sighed and gave up. “I need to shit,” he said tersely, thinking: Is that plain enough? “Is there a hole or something? A designated latrine?”

Teresa snorted. “Out here?” she laughed. “Dream again, doopy! Jus’ go over there somewhere, away from here.”

Having seen to this little necessity, Justin walked down a slight slope to the nearby stream bank and washed up a bit in the cool, brownish water before heading back to their makeshift camp. When he got there, he saw that the others, roused from sleep, were all up and seeing to breakfast. Since this consisted of some hard, crusty bread and warm stream water, it didn’t take too long.

“So what’s the plan, Dr. Kaes?” said Cass, after some listless small talk. “What are we going to do?”

Justin winced a little and looked slowly over at Teresa, who was standing there, arms crossed and smiling at him.

“Yeah,” she said wryly. “Whatcha gonna do now? What the plan, hey?”

“Um, well,” Justin said weakly, “that all kind of depends, doesn’t it? You seem determined to head for this Baron Zero’s place. Is that right?”

Teresa nodded. “Yeh. That’s my plan, anyhows. And that means it yer plan, too. Get me? As in you and me. I don’ care what them others do.”

“Yes, I understand,” said Justin, looking back to Cass, Swails, and Mr. Lampert. “So you see, it would seem that we have little choice in the matter. Without Teresa, we’d be lost out here. We need her help. And, what’s more, she tells me that this Zero person used to be a scientist of some kind. Maybe he can help!”

Cass and Miss Swails, looking as ragged and tired as he felt, crossly gave Teresa some hard looks, obviously none too happy with the situation but unable to mount any effective protest, while Mr. Lampert just grinned and nodded.

“Helluva plan, there, Doc,” he said. “Good job.”

Justin scowled miserably. “These are, I’m afraid, the conditions which prevail. And we are forced to deal with them as best we can. Now, if everyone’s had something to eat and drink, there’s an abandoned factory of some kind nearby that we’re going to investigate. You two stay here with Mr. Lampert and then we’ll continue on our way.”

“Yeah, great,” said Erin Swails hopelessly, “and then we’re off to see the Wizard.”

Once they’d crept through the tall grass to within fifty yards or so, they could see that the factory was deserted; there were no tire tracks, footprints, or other signs of human or even animal activity. The doors, from the regular-sized on up to the big loading docks, were all locked tight and the windows were almost all intact. They circled the edifice, looming like a small mountain on the grassy plain, kicking up grasshoppers and butterflies and then, arriving back at the front, paused to eye up the best way of forcing entry. Justin was staring up at the factory’s windows when he tripped over something in the knee-high grass. Stooping down, he pulled out an embossed sign, maybe three feet by two, which read “Kramer & Sons Candy Canes, Inc.”

Justin dropped the sign back into the grass and, despite himself, let out a coarse laugh.

“Wouldn’t you just know it,” he said, shaking his head. “Of all the crazy things…”

“What it say?” asked Teresa, peering down at the sign.

“This,” he said, waving at the building, “is a candy cane factory! Not a food warehouse or an outlet clothing store or an autocar plant. Not an arms depot or a medical clinic or… or anything that might be of any conceivable use to us. No, these good people, back in happier days, made candy canes.”

“What that? Some kinda stick made outta candy, heh?”

“Yes, exactly. Little red-and-white striped sticks of peppermint candy with a hook on one end so you could hang it on a Christmas tree.”

“Huh,” said Teresa dubiously. “Well, whatever. It candy, right? Ya can eat it, hey?”

“Oh, I guess so,” said Justin. “It’s just that out of all the manufacturing concerns in all of America, why did this one have to turn out to be, of all things, a candy cane factory?”

“Like I said,” she shrugged, “ya never know. Now let’s bust in there and see if they’s any candy left!”

Moving quickly and efficiently, she took a foot-long pry bar from her messenger’s bag and went over to a side door, applied the bar to a crack and, in no time, had jerked and pulled it open. Putting away the pry bar, she switched back to her shotgun and, waving him to follow, slowly advanced into the building.

It was dark and the air was warm and close inside, and from the instant Justin crossed the threshold, the scent of peppermint filled his nostrils. There were various large, open areas, most filled by huge automated machines and assembly lines, and a few smaller office-type spaces, all liberally coated in dust and shrouded in thick spider webs. They walked slowly and warily around the place until, near the back, they found what they were looking for, the absolute mother lode of candy canes. Stacked in boxes with the company name and logo emblazoned jauntily on the sides, ready to be shipped, were literally millions of the things. Teresa gave a sort of happy shout and immediately tore into the packages.

“Hey, these’re good!” she said, chomping. “Sorta minty, like you say. Real sugary, too!”

“I’m glad you like them,” said Justin wanly, sitting nearby, “but they’re really not very good for you.”

“Why not?” she asked, stopping to glare at the candy. “It ain’t like poison, hey?”

“No, nothing like that. They’re just not very nutritious. There are not a lot of good things in there, as far as food is concerned.”

Teresa shrugged and grinned. “Well I like ‘em,” she said, stuffing another into her mouth. “Real nice an’ sweet.”

Justin, lacking much else to do, went over to the boxes, took out a pack of candy, opened it up, and stuck a cane into his mouth. Instantly, his under-used salivary glands gushed at the sweetness and mint and, despite his usual dislike for sweets, he popped the rest into his mouth and crunched it up. Then he grabbed another. And another. He was reaching for a fourth when he realized that he shouldn’t eat too many at once or risk getting sick to his stomach and put it back. Besides, they had tons of the things.

“Better watch out,” he told Teresa. “You don’t want to eat too many of those or you’ll get a stomach ache.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said disdainfully, crunching happily away. “Don’ worry about me, Case.”

“Yes, well,” said Justin, “if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go get the others.”

“Huh?” she said. “Oh yeah… them.” She shrugged. “Suit yerself. Jus’ keep an eye open, hey? Don’ forget, we got some greep on our ass, right?”

“Yes, I remember,” he said. “And I’ll be right back.”

On the walk back to the others, for a split second he thought of collecting them and running away, of taking the opportunity to escape Teresa while she was busy gorging on candy canes, but then gave it up as hopelessly useless; with Mr. Lampert, they wouldn’t make it two miles before Teresa would figure out they were gone and come after them. And besides, how would they survive without her? No, now was not the time to try that.

Needless to say, none of the others was too thrilled that they’d found a huge cache of candy canes—as opposed to something like a fully-stocked supermarket—but the prospect of something—anything—other than soy paste and pet food to eat somewhat made up for it.

Mr. Lampert insisted on making the walk down to the factory by himself and did so, albeit slowly and carefully, and within another ten minutes, they were all together again in the dusty, cobwebbed, barn-like building. Along the way, there was no sign that Justin could see of anyone following or spying on them.

He led the others to the storeroom, where they found Teresa still gorging herself on refined sugar. Cass and Swails immediately fell upon the candy, but the Old Man stood back with Justin and watched the carnage.

“Candy canes,” said Lampert. “What a weird-ass fuckin’ thing to stumble across. Well, I suppose they had to make the things somewhere. Me? I could never stand ‘em. Even when I was a kid.”

Justin tried to imagine Howard Lampert as a child, some sort of little, wizened, miniature version, perhaps, but some fundamental part of his brain was either too tired or too unimaginative to even begin picturing it and he quickly gave up and smiled down at the Old Man.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m not especially fond of them, either. But they are essentially raw sucrose and, in lieu of anything else, do provide some much-needed calories.”

“Yeah, I ‘spose,” said Lampert, looking around the place. “Makes ya wonder, though, don’t it? All these candy canes, just sittin’ here like this?”

“What do you mean, sir? What’s to wonder about?”

“Well, look at ‘em all,” said the Old Man. “All stacked up on pallets, shrink-wrapped and everything, all ready to go. I mean, what happened here? Just one day nobody showed up for work? Or the truck line that was supposed to pick ‘em up didn’t show? I dunno, I guess maybe it just gives me the creeps.”

“Hmm,” said Justin. “Yes, it does have a sort of ghostly feel to, it doesn’t it? But maybe that’s just because most of the buildings we find are wrecked or burned. Here there are still all the signs of, well, of humans at work. Signs of life.”

“Guess you’re right, Doc,” nodded Lampert. “Got sort of a Mary Celeste feel to it.”

Justin was learning about this purportedly famous ghost ship from the 19th century, in Lampert’s roundabout way, when he noticed Teresa abruptly drop the candy cane she’d been about to eat and then, emitting a low groan, clutch her stomach.

“Err,” she said, her gorgeous features twisted. “I don’ feel so strack.”

Justin smiled and shook his head. “I told you not to eat too many,” he said smugly. “Your system isn’t used to processed, refined sugar. At least, not that much of it. But don’t worry. It will pass. You may feel a bit ill for a time, but it will wear off.”

“Errgh,” said Teresa. “How long that take?”

Justin shrugged. “I’m not sure,” he said, rather enjoying himself. “I’m no expert on gastro-intestinal problems. But I’d say, oh, a few hours, most likely. Unless you throw up, of course, in which case it would be much faster.”

Teresa groaned again and, her perfect complexion going pale, suddenly staggered from the room. A few seconds later, they heard the sounds of violent retching. Having noticed this, Cass and Erin Swails each wisely had just one more before leaving the stacks of boxes and coming over to Justin and the Old Man.

“She’s sick, Dr. Kaes!” whispered Cass avidly, sucking on a candy cane and eyeing the doorway. “Now’s our chance!”

“Our chance?” said Justin. “To do what?”

“To escape!” said Cass. “We could just run away, now, while she’s out of it! Or we could overpower her. There are three of us and only one of her!”

Justin shook his head. “We can’t,” he said firmly. “It’s just as I said earlier: We’d be lost out here without her. We need her help.”

Cass scowled and grumbled. “I suppose you’re right. It just galls me that we’re at the mercy of this teenaged survie. I mean, she’s just a kid!”

“A kid,” Justin pointed out, “who has managed to survive everything the Fall has thrown at her. Don’t be deceived by her age, Cass. She’s one tough, capable young woman.”

“Yeah, lady,” interjected Lampert. “I mean, it ain’t like I give a damn, but that little gal’s about your only hope now, what with no more trucks or food or any sorta clue as to where you’re goin’. If you had a brain in yer skull you’d see that. And besides, she’s fuckin’ hot!”

“Yeah, that doesn’t hurt,” said Erin pointedly. “Does it, Dr. Kaes? After all, she is very pretty.”

Justin felt himself blush slightly. “That has nothing to do with it. Because what she really is, at least as far as we’re concerned, is someone born and raised in this world. She knows it far better than we do. We simply can’t afford to be without her help.”

“Uh huh,” said Erin dubiously. “Well, you’re the boss.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” said Justin. “And I wish things were different. I wish Dr. Poole was still here, and Dr. Gonzalez and all the others as well. But they’re not. And for now? I fear we have little choice but to follow Teresa.” He paused with what he hoped was dramatic effect. Then: “Of course, I can’t force you to stay. I need your help with Mr. Lampert and I would be quite sad if you decided to strike off on your own, but still, I can’t make you come with us. If you want to run away… well, I can’t stop you.”

“We’re not going to run away,” said Cass, offended. “But it’s still galling.”

For her part, Erin Swails shrugged. “Don’t worry Dr. Kaes,” she said reasonably. “We’re with you. We’re just a little disconcerted.”

“Of course you are,” said Justin. “That’s only normal, considering what we’ve been through.” He paused to listen for a moment and caught the sound of continued retching. He turned back to the others. “Well, at any rate, it doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere any time soon. I think we should take the opportunity to get some rest. This place seems safe enough, so why don’t we all bed down as best we can. Then we’ll take it from there. OK?”

Erin and Cass both nodded, obviously relieved at this unexpected respite. Mr. Lampert, whose opinion wasn’t really being asked, just shrugged and kept silent. Justin, Cass, and Erin all spread out and, rooting around in the stacks of this and that, poking into old lockers and break rooms and offices, gathered what soft materials they could, made beds of sorts for each of them, and then, moaning and sighing, lay down for some much-needed rest.

Justin, thinking about it, had to admit that he actually believed what he’d told Erin and Cass; despite the fact that she’d kidnapped him and that she wasn’t even able to countenance going back to save the rest of the CDC group, he’d come to understand that Teresa might be their only remaining chance at success.

Chapter Fifteen

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Examining the ground very carefully, the Hunter surveyed the small camp that Justin and the others had just abandoned and decided that, finally, he was back on the right track. Indeed, they were probably very close, maybe even in that big factory building. Grinning humorlessly, oblivious of the splendid weather and pleasing landscape, he faded back into the undergrowth and waited. He did a lot of that.

He’d lost the CDC group after they’d fled St. Alferd’s and had spent the last two days catching up. He’d watched all of the goings-on over the last week, the dispatch of the search team (which he opted not to trail, deciding to stick with the main body), the arrival of the Motor gang, their inexplicable retreat before some really old man they trotted out from the big RV, and all of the various arguments and discussions. He’d also watched as the tall, good-looking guy who seemed to be in charge snuck off during some kind of crazy bonfire party. He was very tempted to follow the man, sure that he was up to something, but then had decided, again, to stick with the primary group.

It had been the next day that another survie gang, a bunch of brown-uniformed men on motorcycles, had suddenly come blaring out of the dawn to raid the CDC party. Here the Hunter had almost given up hope for the poor doomed scientists, but apparently the gang wasn’t interested in mere mayhem; instead, they’d packed up the whole bunch and all of their gear and vehicles, and herded them off like cattle. The Hunter had thought for a second about helping the CDC group at that point, maybe just opening fire at the raiders from his place of concealment, but there’d been at least thirty gang members and they came and went so quickly, victims in tow, that by the time he’d thought it over, everyone was gone.

And that, he’d told himself, was that. Game over. As he’d always expected it would, the CDC mission had failed. They’d had no idea how to survive, they’d come unprepared and now they’d paid the price. The end. Well, he thought, they hadn’t stood much of a chance, anyway. And if he’d lost a big fast bounty, at least now he could go find some decent work.

But then he’d stopped and considered. What was the whole point behind these poor CDC bastards, anyway? What was their mission? To bring some old man—undoubtedly the very geezer he’d seen at their camp—to California, so as to use his blood to make a vaccine for the Sick. So did this, their abduction, really mean the end? Was his job really finished if he hadn’t actually seen the Old Man die? No, he decided. He wasn’t quite done. He’d have to follow the brown men and see for himself what became of the Old Man, because if he didn’t and the old fart lived somehow and the Governor found out about it, his own reputation would be shot to shit. No one would want to hire a hunter who gave up.

And so he’d trailed the brown men, all the way to their quasi-military compound, and, again, had waited and watched. It hadn’t looked too good for the CDC people; from obvious signs, the Hunter could see plainly that their captors were cannibals. Most likely, they would kill and eat the whole CDC party with no more compunction than a dog with a bone. He’d seen cannibal survie gangs before and they almost always made short work of anyone unlucky enough to wander into their clutches. But still, something had told him to wait; who could say what wild-ass thing might happen?

And sure enough, some wild-ass thing had happened and, through his rifle scope, he’d watched on UV as it had gone down. The girl from the Motor gang, the really pretty one with the hot body, had, out of apparently nowhere, appeared and gone to work. In a flash, she’d snipped through the fence, bent out the bars of the cell where some of the CDC guys were being held, and vanished inside. He’d admired that; it took some guts to break into a survie compound, especially when they were as well-armed (and cannibalistic) as this bunch. Who was this chick, anyway?

Then the girl and a few of the others, including the tall guy who’d snuck off and the Old Man, had burst out of the place and, dodging shotgun pellets, run away. After a quick discussion with himself, he’d decided that the Old Man was his real target and had opted to trail the escapees, but it was at that point, leery of the mob of armed dudes on bikes, that he’d lost them.

It had taken another whole day to find their trail because, whoever the girl was, she sure as hell knew how to travel without leaving a trail. Indeed, he only rarely spotted one of her boot prints. But finally, thanks mainly to the other escapees, who were not so careful about where they walked, he caught back up and, just this morning, had finally laid eyes on them again. And so now he sat and waited and watched and listened. Sooner or later, they’d come out of this factory, whatever it was, and, with any luck, resume their trip.

This seemed like it had become a pattern. He would wait and watch, the CDC guys would get jumped or kidnapped or hijacked, and then he’d trail along in their wake until the next disaster. Except this time, the majority of them had been kidnapped and only a few had escaped; only the Old Man, two women, the tall man, and the girl remained. But, since his mission was to deliver the Old Man, one way or another, he was bound to follow the smaller group. Besides, the rest of the CDC people were probably all cannibal chow by now. And besides, he didn’t mind waiting and watching; it was his job.

He was musing these and other points when there was a rustling in the undergrowth nearby. In one silent motion, he hit the ground and whipped out his pistol, but it turned out to be just some guy, a pale, younger man with long hair, whom he’d never seen before. The man came within fifty yards of the Hunter and he was taking aim to blow the dude away, whoever the hell he was, but then the newcomer veered away and headed down to the abandoned factory. The Hunter thought about zapping the dude anyway, just to keep him away from the precious CDC remnants and any possible trouble he might cause them, but then decided against it. Whoever the guy was, he wasn’t obviously armed, he was just one man, and he sure as hell didn’t look like any kind of a match for the banger girl. As he watched, the young man crept up to the factory and crawled in through a window. The Hunter just shrugged; whatever the guy was doing, it was none of his business. Settling back into the deeper weeds, unmindful of the bugs and the heat, he waited and watched.

Chapter Sixteen

This week on Historical Crime Busters, the Duke of Wellington tracks down a vampire killer and Geoffrey Chaucer goes undercover to bust a porno ring. Don’t miss the excitement!

—promo ad for TV show, UZS network, circa 2052

Groggy as he was, just waking up, Justin did not fail to notice when suddenly, from off somewhere in the vast factory, there came a noise, like metal falling on concrete. It was a small noise, and normally he would probably have written it off as rats or simple settling of the building itself, but Teresa’s assertion that they’d been followed suddenly popped into his head.

A quick glance told him that Cass and Erin were still both asleep. What if this, the noise, was their pursuer, breaking into the factory? Or already inside? For a second he thought of going to investigate by himself but then, unarmed and aware of his own limitations, decided that he’d better tell Teresa instead. Oddly enough, he found her sitting with Mr. Lampert in a nearby office.

“Hiya, Doc,” said Lampert, as Teresa rose from a comfy spot on the floor. “How’s tricks?”

“Um… fine,” said Justin. “But I just heard something, out there in the factory. A noise, like metal falling on stone.”

“Yeh?” said Teresa warily, un-slinging her shotgun. “An’ it ain’t a rackety-coon or somethin’?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Justin said, almost whispering. “I just thought that you’d want to know.”

Frowning, she knelt and dug in her satchel before coming up with a small flashlight, which she deftly slid into a socket near the shotgun’s muzzle. Switching this on and motioning for Justin to stay where he was, she silently padded off into the maze of factory machines. For what seemed like a long time, there was no sign of her, just a faint gleam from her flashlight bobbing around. Justin was about to go see what she was doing when suddenly he heard her voice ring out from somewhere not too far away:

“OK, ya doopy greep,” she said, surprisingly authoritative. “C’mon outta there or I fill yer ass with lead!”

There were some scuffling sounds and then another voice, a man’s, called out:

“Don’t shoot! It’s just me, Bowler!”

Bowler, thought Justin? The young man from the cannibal’s compound? But what was he doing here? The last they’d seen of him, he’d vanished into the night.

Curious, and certain that Teresa had the situation under control, he walked across the factory floor and between some big machines to where Teresa stood, keeping guard with her gun on the spindly, shaggy-haired figure of Bowler. The young man looked up fearfully as Justin approached and then slumped in evident relief.

“Bowler?” said Justin. “What are you doing here? I mean, it’s obvious you followed us from St. Alferd’s, but why?”

Bowler shrugged miserably. “Got nowhere else to go,” he said. “Those goddamn cannibals took all my stuff, I got no weapons or food or transportation. You guys just gotta let me come with you!”

“We ain’t gotta do nothin’,” Teresa said. “If y’all want some chow, there’s all them boxes o’ candy over there. Yer welcome to that. But you ain’t comin’ with. Forget it.”

“Now, Teresa,” said Justin calmly. “Let’s not be too hasty about this. Maybe young Mr. Bowler here could be of some help.”

“Hey, yeah!” said Bowler avidly. “I can help out all you want, man! I mean, I ain’t a doctor or nothin’, but I’ll do anything you say! For instance, I seen you carryin’ that old man all over—I could do that! Or I can trap rabbits! I’m good at that. Or anything else! Just say the word!”

“Now, see there?” Justin said to Teresa. “You have to admit, another person to do the lifting would help out.”

Teresa only scowled and, her gun still leveled at Bowler’s chest, mumbled something under her breath. From behind them now came the sounds of Cass and Swails, aroused by the commotion and coming to investigate. They came rushing up, questions on their faces, but Justin waved them to silence and turned back to Teresa.

“What do you say?” he asked. “Personally, I would let him come along, but this is your show, so to speak. So what do you think?”

Sheathing her shotgun with a quick, savage motion, she glared at Justin for a long moment before finally throwing up her hands in the universal sign for exasperation.

“Hey, why the fuck not?” she said acidly. “First I got some old frack and two whitecoat bitches trailin’ me aroun’. Now I got this doopy greep, too? Well why not, heh? Let’s start a whole gang while we at it! A whole gang o’ old greeps an’ whitecoats an’ whoever else wants to go. Maybe some cripples or little kids or somethin’. Why not? But listen to this, Doc. An’ hear good, yeh? These others gonna hafta find they own food, got me? I ain’t gonna go H and G for them, no way, no how. Track me? They on they own.”

“H and G?” said Justin, ignoring the outraged muttering from Cass and Swails. “What’s that?”

“Huntin’ and gatherin’,” said Teresa. “Food run. Whatever you wanna call it, I ain’t gonna do for no four extra peoples. Gonna be hard enough for jus’ us two.”

“I understand,” said Justin. “But I’m sure we’ll manage somehow. After all, we certainly have a lot of candy canes; we can take a good supply of those and, if worst comes to worst, we’ll just have to survive on them.”

Teresa made a face. “Ain’t so sure I like them things no more. Jus’ thinkin’ about ‘em make me feel kinda blurpy.”

“Yes, well,” said Justin, smiling slightly, “I did warn you about eating too many. But is that your final word? Bowler can come along?”

“Like I said,” she growled. “Why not, hey? Same as for all these peeps. Long as they can keep up an’ get they own food an’ water. Anyhow, things gonna change, once we get to Zero’s.”

“Yes, well,” said Justin, “let’s just focus on getting there, shall we?”

Teresa just shrugged and walked away. Bowler, watching her go, came up to Justin and offered his right hand.

“Thanks, Doc,” he said. “I thought for a second she was gonna blast me!”

Justin shook hands and nodded. “Yes,” he said wryly. “She is a very volatile young woman, but she does seem to know her way around.”

“Yeah,” Bowler agreed, nodding, “but, uh, how’s about those candy canes?”

Justin smiled and waved. “Right this way.”

It was that same day, towards afternoon, when Justin came across a conversation between Teresa and the Old Man. They’d spent the day sleeping—in shifts, for safety’s sake—eating candy canes, and generally recovering their strength. All in all, a quiet and welcome period of rest. Justin was dozing, thinking of not much of anything, when he heard the sounds of quiet conversation and, curious, went to see who was doing the talking. As before, he found Lampert sitting in an old office chair with Teresa at his feet. She was holding up a ragged old poster for Lampert to read. Moving slowly and silently, Justin took up an inconspicuous position from which to eavesdrop.

“What this say?” asked Teresa, pointing at the poster, which was angled so that Justin couldn’t see it.

Lampert looked at the poster and then shrugged. “That’s Santa Claus,” he said. “And the words under that say “he sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake.” That’s part of an old song, what they used to call a Christmas Carol.”

Teresa lowered her head, seeming to think, before looking back up.

“Then he God, hey?” she said. “Fat dude inna red suit with white fur. That God. Ain’t that right?”

“Who, Santa Claus?” said Lampert jovially. “Oh no, you’ve got that mixed up. Not that it’s any great leap from one to the other, I suppose, but no. See they used to have something called Christmas, the 25th of December, that was this big holiday. And this guy, Santa, was sorta the spokesman for it.”

“Tell me ‘bout Krismis,” said Teresa. “And what a holiday?”

“Whew, you sure ask a lotta questions,” the Old Man grumbled. “Aw, but that’s OK, kid, I got nothin’ but time, anyway. Well, let’s see. Where to start? Well, a holiday was a day of the year, one specific day, see, when they celebrated something. Or remembered something. Like there was the 4th of July, where they marked the founding of America, and there was Valentine’s Day, 14th of February, to celebrate like, love and romance and such. But there were all kinds of days like that and what they generally meant to the average person was a day off from work. Maybe a present or some flowers. Now Christmas, that one was kinda different. Originally it was a day to mark the longest night of the year, what they called the solstice, and that went back to, oh Jeez, prob’ly the ancient Romans.”

“Who that? Romans?”

“Eh, that’s another story,” said Lampert. “Let’s just say they were a lot of people who lived a long, long time ago.”

“Like re-publicans?” said Teresa. “I hearda them once.”

“Who? Republicans?” laughed the Old Man wheezily. “Well, yeah, I guess they’re kinda the same. Just as extinct. But the Romans are much older. Like a couple thousand years ago. Real old.”

Teresa only shook her head in bewilderment.

“Like I said, it ain’t important right now,” said Lampert. “The thing is, Christmas was a real old holiday, but then, once Christians got control over everybody, it got turned into the birthday of Jesus. Now, have you heard of Jesus?”

“Sure,” shrugged Teresa. “Hippie dude, right? Got nailed up ona cross?”

“That’s the guy,” said Lampert, nodding. “Course, they didn’t really know for sure what day Jesus was born, since it happened so long ago, but the day itself, the guy’s birthday, now that was a big deal, naturally, and so they kinda just moved in on the date and took it over. But the thing was, this other guy, this Santa Claus guy, like on your poster there, he was a sort of holdover from the earlier traditions, from the old holiday. Understand?”

Teresa nodded. “Kinda like when ya use another crew’s colors once ya wiped ‘em out.”

Lampert’s brow arched. “Yeah? Well, I’ll take yer word for it. Anyhow, Christmas involved presents, see? People gave each other gifts, things they wanted, right? And this here Santa Claus, he was supposed to keep track of who was good and who was bad, all year long, and he’d like, determine who got presents based on who did what. Get it? OK, so the story was, he’d show up on Christmas Eve—that’s the night before Christmas—and leave presents for the good little boys and girls.”

“What about the bad ones?” asked Teresa feelingly. “What they get?”

“Well, nothin’,” shrugged Lampert. “Or, in some places, I guess they said you’d get a lump of coal. But it was all really just a way for parents to keep their kids in line. You know—be good or you don’t get no presents from Santa. Like that.”

Teresa lowered her head and absently scratched at a spot on her leather-clad leg. For quite a while, there was silence in the old factory. Then Teresa shook her head and looked back to the Old Man.

“I don’ get it,” she said. “How come this fat red-suit dude any different from God? He sound just the same, watchin’ to make sure ya do good, like, how the preacher johnnies say: don’t sin or ya go ta hell, hey? And if you don’t sin and do good, you get to go up ta heaven, where it all juicy, right? Kinda like gettin’ them presents, hey?”

Lampert laughed, but gently and without malice. “Oh, you got that right, kid!” he wheezed. “The only difference is, really, that people stopped thinkin’ of Santa as real and started thinkin’ that God was real. And the kicker is, neither one was real! Unless o’ course, you believe in God. Not that you shouldn’t, I guess. At this point, it sure can’t hurt.”

“I ain’t so sure no more,” said Teresa, shaking her head. “All this ploop ‘bout old times an’ Before the Fall an’ all, it kinda makes my head hurt, hey?”

Lampert patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, kid,” he said softly. “That’s perfectly normal, just means you’re learning. Hell, wait’ll I tellya about Halloween! Now that’s a good one! But, for right now, could you be a pet and get me a little glass of water? And maybe a candy cane or two?”

Justin withdrew from sight just as Teresa, nodding and frowning and eager to please all at the same time, hopped to it, for all the world like an obsequious waiter. Justin shrugged, intrigued—and, he had to admit, a trifle jealous—at the Old Man’s growing influence, and then cleared his throat noisily to announce himself and went to give Lampert his afternoon exam.

Chapter Seventeen

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It was another two days of hiking before they came to the outskirts of what was once the town of Vinita, Oklahoma and stopped in front of the sign. For Justin, this meant long hours of simply putting one foot before the other and trying to keep up the crushing pace set by their guide. The only good thing about the trek was that, by the third morning away from St. Alferd’s, he no longer woke up each morning feeling as if he’d been beaten. Muscles long unused—or never used—were becoming tight and strong, and the rest of his system, though deprived of real sustenance and subjected to undue strain, was beginning to adjust to this much more robust lifestyle. Oh, he was stinky, scratched-up, emaciated, and foot-sore, hungry, thirsty, and badly in need of a shave, but at least all of the exercise was paying off.

His companions, when they weren’t taking turns carrying Mr. Lampert, all seemed in as good spirits and health as could be expected, and Lampert himself, given the best food and never having to walk more than a few dozen steps, was likewise as healthy and cheerful (if it could be called that) as ever. And as for their guide/captor, Teresa never seemed, through all of it, to so much as notice the exertion; Justin never even saw her break a sweat.

Bowler, true to his word, made himself useful, both by carrying Lampert and, using a clever snare device of his own design, by providing an occasional jackrabbit. Spitted and roasted over a fire, these proved to be stringy and gamey-tasting, but, to their protein-starved systems anyway, seemed like the finest pheasant under glass.

The sign, which they encountered near a pair of burned-down strip malls on the edge of town, was quite remarkable. Surrounded by a double layer of barbed and razor wire, strung to about seven feet high, it had once been a billboard, advertising who knew what, of the typical sort seen throughout America. Now, however, the original message had been painted over and it was festooned with a whole array of antennae, cameras, and other, less identifiable, electronic devices, plus an assortment of lights. On the broad face of it were the following words, hand-painted in neat block characters at least six feet tall: Now Entering the Domain of Baron Zero.

“So, smart-pants,” said Teresa, staring at Justin, “what it say, anyhow?”

Justin told her, just as the sign was written, and she nodded wisely in response.

“See?” she said. “Told ya.”

“Yes,” nodded Justin, eyeing the sign. “But this seems somewhat foreboding. This Baron Zero person isn’t dangerous is he? That is, he’s not like the Brothers of St. Alferd?”

“Naw,” said Teresa. “Not like them C-heads. But dangerous? Well, yeah, I gotta say, he plenny dangerous, but only if ya fuck with ‘im. If ya follows his rules, you be OK. Anyways, it a lot easier to just showya. Now c’mon. I gotta talk to the sign.”

“What?” blinked Justin. “Talk to it? What do you mean?”

“I showya,” she said, beckoning him to follow. “They’s this box thing ya talk into an’ it talk back.”

“Ah, an intercom, then. But who’s on the other end? Who talks back to you?”

“Dunno. Somebody inside, I s’pose. Somebody who gleepin’ us through them cameras, right now.”

“I see,” said Justin, watching one of the lens-eyed gizmos track them as they approached. “Well, I suppose you know best. I take it you’ve been here before?”

“Once,” she said. “Long time ago. Now clam down, right? I gotta talk.”

Slowly and deliberately, hands raised to shoulder level, she walked up to the base of the sign, where an old metal-grilled speaker and microphone setup hung on a post just inside the wire. Cupping her hands, she shouted at the box:

“Hey! Anybody there?!”

At first nothing happened, but then there was a metallic crackle from the box and a voice, impossible to identify as male, female, young, or old, issued from the speaker:

“Who are you?” it asked imperiously, at quite a loud volume. “And what do you want?”

“Name’s Teresa,” she said evenly. “I been here before. Ask Eight-finger Bob.”

There was a pause, then the speaker said: “Eight-finger Bob is dead, my young friend. And you have a whole gang there with you. Who are they?”

Teresa swore under her breath. “They ain’t a gang,” she said. “I mean, jus’ look at ‘em! Ain’t none of ‘em even got guns!”

Again a short pause before the speaker crackled and said: “Who is the man with you? The tall one with dark hair?”

Teresa looked from the box to Justin and back again. “Oh, him? He a whitecoat! He how come I here, swear-tell the truth. Wanna see if Zero want him. Maybe make a trade, hey? Far as these others? Well, they on they own, kinda. So what the deal? Ya gonna let us come on, or should we turn back, or what?”

“Sure, come on,” said the speaker. “Keep going straight ahead for about a mile. Can’t miss it.”

And the speaker went silent. The cameras and other gear, though, kept right on tracking them, rotating on servos to watch them walk past. Giving Justin an inscrutable glance, Teresa led the way through the remains of the town.

“You know,” said Mr. Lampert, as Cass carried him through streets lined with burned-out buildings, “I do believe Miss Swails here was really on to somethin’. This really is like The Wizard of Oz, ain’t it? That intercom deal was just like the Wizard’s chamberlain. You know, the guy in the green suit who says how nobody gets in to see the wizard, not no way, not no how.”

“Hey, you’re right,” Swails mused. “I forgot about that part.”

“I fail to see,” said Justin irritably, “what possible significance the similarity could have to our present predicament.”

“Aw, lighten up, Just in Case,” said Lampert. “I was just makin’ small talk, OK? But this is just like The Wizard of Oz. Although, this don’t look much like the Emerald City, does it?”

“You can say that again,” said Cass. “But, if that’s the case, Mr. Lampert, and we’re in a similar situation, which one of us is Dorothy?”

“Heh,” grunted the Old Man. “That’s a good one, Cass.”

They all went quiet when the House—and, to Justin, it more than deserved the capital H—loomed into view. Surrounded by junk and piles of debris of all sorts, it sat in a huge clearing like an Old West fort or a medieval castle, rising to at least 100 feet above the rubble-strewn ground. Justin stopped as it came fully into his line of sight and, staring at the impressive mass, gave a low whistle.

Once an office building of maybe ten stories, the structure had been added to and altered so that the once-sleek glass and steel box was now bulging with roofs, cupolas, dormers, balconies, and other protuberances to the point that the original lines were all but lost. Beyond that, the building was remarkable for the profusion of antennae and satellite dishes and other do-dads that sprouted like plants, here, there, and everywhere on the edges and roofs. Looking closer, Justin saw that not all of the electronics were so benign; some looked like rockets, some like guns, and others, unfamiliar to him, were simply menacing. Slowly, he sidled over to Teresa.

“Teresa?” he said softly.

“Yeh?”

“What are all those things? I recognize the antennas and dishes, some of the sensors and whatnot, cameras and lights… but what are all those others? That big red thing that looks like a rocket, for example.”

“That?” she said, smiling wickedly at him. “That is a rocket. You right the first time! And the rest? Hoolie smoke, he got all kinda crazy weapons on there. Wavers, machine guns, lase-a-rays, screechers, slug-throwers. I heard he gotta plasma gun. Like I tol’ ya, ya don’ wanna fuck with ‘im.”

“I guess not,” said Justin, suddenly feeling the accumulated electronic eyes and eager muzzles focused on them.

“Now c’mon,” said Teresa. “We ain’t gonna stand aroun’ here all day.”

They’d closed to within fifty yards of the House when a big garage-style metal door suddenly ground open in one wall and a group of four armed and angry-looking people issued forth. Instantly, Justin raised his hands in surrender (as did the others, save Lampert), but Teresa whipped out her shotgun in one slick movement and, falling into a combat crouch, waved it back and forth at the strangers.

The apparent leader of the group, a tall, thin black man dressed in drab coveralls and loosely toting an impressive-looking rifle, was the first to speak:

“Hey, now,” he said to Teresa, “just take it easy, alright? Don’t get excited. Just hand over the gun, OK?”

Teresa said nothing and only scowled. The black man’s companions, two women and another man, all of early to late middle age and similarly attired and armed, kept their guns trained squarely on her. Their grim expressions spoke of a willingness to use them.

“Teresa, please,” said Justin desperately. “Do what they say!”

“I ain’t givin’ up my boomstick,” she hissed from one corner of her mouth. “Took me forever to get it, an’ I ain’t gonna lose it.”

“You won’t lose it,” said the black man. “We have a secure gun bin, right inside, where you can leave it. And you can pick it up when you go.”

“That sounds reasonable,” said Justin. “Doesn’t it?”

Teresa snarled something nasty under her breath but did finally lower the gun. With a resigned shrug of her shoulders, she turned the weapon around and offered the stock end to the black man.

“Here ya go,” she said crustily. “Jus’ make sure nothin’ happen to it, hey?”

The man took the gun and tucked it under one arm. “You got it,” he said, grinning slightly. “And don’t worry. Nothing’s gonna happen to it. I promise.”

“Oh, yeh?” said Teresa insolently. “An’ jus’ who the clack are you?”

“Name’s Cornell,” said the man amiably. He nodded at his companions, who seemed to have relaxed a fraction. “This here is Buffalo Steve, Karen, and Vivian. We’re sort of like the police here. Make sure everybody works and plays well with each other, eh? And, we screen all of the visitors that the Baron gets. And at the moment? That means you.”

“Ah, of course,” said Justin, nodding. “That also seems reasonable, doesn’t it, Teresa?”

She shrugged again. “S’pose so.” She looked to Cornell. “What next, dude? What the plan?”

“Well, come on inside,” Cornell said. “We just wanna ask a few questions, and then the Baron’ll wanna talk to you. After that? Well, you’ll have to see how it goes. Sound OK?”

“Sure,” said Teresa grudgingly. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Eighteen

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They were led by Cornell and the woman called Vivian, an intense, thin lady with short, spiky blonde hair and a thin, sharp-featured visage, first through an extensive garage, complete with hydraulic lifts and full tool kits, where a couple of vehicles were being worked on by a greasy crew of mechanics, and then into a long hallway with many doors lit by infrequent ceiling bulbs. At the end of the dim, sterile-smelling hall was a thick metal door marked Security, which Cornell opened and ushered them through. Within were a desk, some folding metal chairs, and an antique television set mounted to one wall. They all piled into the room (Lampert on his own two feet and Teresa warily, like an animal sniffing a trap), and Cornell closed the door behind them.

“Well, have a seat, folks,” he said pleasantly. “Though I’m afraid we don’t have chairs for everyone.” Once they’d all settled down, he picked up a clipboard and a pen and said: “OK, well, I just have a few standard questions. First, what are your names? Not necessarily your real names, if you know them, just what you’d like to be called, OK?”

Justin took the lead and offered his full name and title, and Barbara Cass and Erin Swails did the same. Bowler provided his moniker, not specifying whether it was a first or last name, and Teresa followed suit as Cornell jotted down their responses. That just left the Old Man, who was sitting, arms and legs crossed, on a chair, head down and apparently asleep.

“And who is this gentleman?” asked Cornell.

“Lampert,” grunted the Old Man, raising his head. “Howard Patrick Lampert. Blood donor.”

“How’s that?” said Cornell, cocking his head. “Blood donor?”

“Oh,” said Justin, interposing, “that’s just Mr. Lampert’s sense of humor. He’s actually a retired salesman.”

“Is that right, sir?” Cornell asked the Old Man.

“Yeah, whatever,” said Lampert irascibly. “For all I care, you can call me Daffy Duck and say that I’m a fuckin’ astronaut.”

“Ah, yes,” said Cornell, making a note. “And where are you all from?”

“Well,” said Justin, nodding at Cass and Swails, “these two are from New Atlanta, as am I. Mr. Lampert is from Minneapolis.”

“Me,” said Bowler, “I’m from Ocala. Florida, that is.”

There was a pause as they all waited for Teresa to speak up, but she didn’t say anything. Justin looked over at her and saw that she was both scowling and blushing.

“Teresa?” he said gently. “Is anything wrong?”

Defiantly, she straightened up and shook her head.

“Naw,” she said. “Just that I don’ know where I was borned, hey? Probl’y Houston, but I ain’t sure. I just a baby then, hey?”

Cornell smiled at her. “That’s OK,” he said, making another note. “You’re not the only one in that situation, believe me! Besides, it’s not that important. Alright then, let’s see… last question: Is any of you a physician? You say that Ms. Cass here is a nurse and you, Mr. Case, say that you’re a doctor. You’re not an MD, by any chance, are you?”

“Why, yes,” said Justin hesitantly, “in a manner of speaking. I’m an epidemiologist.”

“And that is?” said Cornell. “Epi-dee-mee-whatever?”

“Oh, uh, it’s the study of infectious diseases,” Justin said. “And their cures.”

“Ah-ha,” said Cornell noncommittally, jotting a long note. “Well, that’s it for me. If you’ll just wait here for a few minutes, Baron Zero should be along shortly. OK?”

They all nodded, more or less enthusiastically (expect for Lampert, who seemed to have gone back to sleep), and Cornell gave them all a big, somewhat enigmatic smile and departed, locking the door behind him.

They didn’t wait long, only a couple of minutes, before the old cathode-ray TV on the wall suddenly sprang to life, flickered, and resolved into a grainy, lo-res shot of a man, presumably Baron Zero, sitting behind a big, cluttered desk. Bushy-haired, heavy-browed, bespectacled, and of an age somewhere between forty and seventy, the man smiled, seeming to study each of them for a moment (Justin now spotted the tiny fiber optic camera mounted atop the TV) before flipping some sort of switch on the desk.

“Hello, there!” he said, still smiling. “And welcome! My name is Baron Zero, as you’ve probably guessed, and this is my place. Now, let’s see, I have Cornell’s notes here.” Adjusting his glasses, spidery archaic relics tinted a deep green color, he scanned the clipboard in his hand for a long moment before suddenly setting it down and peering out from the screen. “Which one of you,” he asked, “is Dr. Kaes?”

Hesitantly, Justin raised his hand. “Uh, that would be me,” he said.

“Ah, yes, good,” said Zero sitting forward. “And what is your specialty? I’m afraid Cornell had a hard time writing it down.”

“Epidemiology,” said Justin. “I—that is we, as in Ms. Cass, Ms. Swails and myself—are from the U.S. Center for Disease Control and Prevention in New Atlanta.”

“No shit?” said Zero, eyebrows arched. “The CDC? For real? Man, I’d of thought you guys were all done for by now. But here you are! Huh. But I guess that means you’re not a surgeon. Are you?”

“Well, no,” said Justin, “I’m not. But, if you don’t mind my asking, why do you need a surgeon? Does someone need medical attention?”

“Yeah,” said Zero, grimacing a little. “It’s not an emergency or anything. Let’s just say it’d be handy. Maybe you and I can have a little chat, later. OK?”

“By all means,” said Justin. “Anything we can do to help.”

“Good, good,” said Zero, going back to the clipboard. “Well, let’s see… so this would be Ms. Cass, the nurse, and Ms. Swails, the communications specialist. And then you must be Bowler and you Teresa.”

Each of these nodded or waved at the screen as their names were mentioned. Bowler waved and said “Howdy, Mr. Zero, sir.”

Then Zero peered down at the Old Man, who’d again slumped into his chair and seemed to be asleep.

“So this must be Mr. Lampert,” he said. “Um, is he awake?”

“Yeah, I’m awake,” said the Old Man caustically, raising his head a fraction and opening his eyes. “What’s it to ya?”

“Ah, well,” smiled Zero. “It’s not often I have visitors of such a venerable age! I’m honored, sir.”

“Why, ‘cause I’m old?” said Lampert. “Huh! That ain’t no big fuckin’ achievement, believe me.”

Baron Zero blinked at this, obviously taken aback. Justin smiled slightly, grateful that, for once, someone else was being subjected to the Old Man’s acid tongue. Finally Zero cleared his throat.

“Ah-huh, yes,” he said. “Well, you’re most welcome, at any rate. Now, as I said, you’re welcome here, all of you. But I have some rules and such, just to keep things nice and civil and happy. I guess it all depends, though, on how long you want to stay. If it’s just a day or two, well, you can just kinda hang out and then be on your way. If you want to stay longer, well, then we’ll have to talk about it. So there you are. For the present, though, I’m afraid you’re going to have to be quarantined. This will only be for a day or two—three at the most—and then you’ll be free to move around. How does all that sound to you?”

To Justin it sounded very reasonable and, while he had quite a few questions for their new host, he was willing to abide by any rules there were. Bowler and the others, similarly, shrugged or nodded acquiescence. Teresa, of course, was not so trusting or patient.

“I got questions,” she said, stepping forward.

“Yes?” said Zero amicably. “Teresa, right? What’s on your mind?”

“Number one,” she said, holding up a finger. “You got traders here? Sellers, buyers?”

“Well, yes,” said Zero. “There are always traders of one sort or another staying here. I don’t allow slavers, but other than that…”

“Henh,” Teresa grunted, obviously chagrined. “Well, OK, I guess. Bring on the quarrel-teen.”

Chapter Nineteen

This week on The Raughten Family, Paula gets a staph infection, while Obscene Gene and Blasphemous Bill go on a three-state rampage! Meanwhile, David’s boss sells him a new sex slave, but it turns out that… she’s a man! Hilarity and madcap action! Don’t miss an all-new episode of The Raughtens!

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Sitting in a former playground on the south bank of the Kansas River, Sergeant Lumler waited for Santiago and watched a Procurement Crew at work. There were four of them, two men and two women, out on the slow river in an old aluminum rowboat. Two of them worked the oars against the current while the other two laboriously threw out and reeled in a big seining net. With each cast, a few fish—catfish and carp, mainly—flopped into the boat. Later, they would be brought to the local Distro Center, cleaned, and doled out to the hungry populace. Having begun work at sunrise, the crew would work till sundown, with next to no rest, and then get up and do it all over again tomorrow. And there were no weekends. All in all, not the easiest job assignment in New America. But then, given the week he’d had, Doug Lumler would have traded places with any one of them in a heartbeat.

Testily, he looked at his watch; why was Santiago never on time? But then he heard footsteps on the gravel path and the diminutive form of his friend appeared from the early evening shade.

“Yer late,” griped Lumler half-heartedly.

“Yeah, sorry,” said the other, walking up and taking a seat. Lumler thought he looked pale and tired. “Too many surgical cases. They had to call up the B-squad.”

“That right?” said Lumler. “So lots of battle casualties, huh?”

“Shitloads. Way more than you’d think. It’s getting pretty bad.”

“Yeah, I figured,” said Lumler stolidly. “The PF’s been losin’ men to the Army like crazy. Not that they expect us to do any less, of course, even short-handed, but you’d have to be deaf an’ blind to not know about it, anyway. Shit, that last big firefight, down by the old grain silos? Pretty fuckin’ hard to miss!”

“Yeah,” Santiago said, “but that doesn’t stop the Governor from trying, now does it? Have you seen the latest Patriot? All about “our victorious troops” and how we’re winning, hands down, and how we’ve suffered “a few” casualties. And the latest radio addresses? Man! Pure bullshit.”

“Like always,” said Lumler. “That ain’t nothing’ new. He’s just tryin’ to keep people’s spirits up. You know? I mean, why tell these people the real facts if they don’t wanna know about it anyway? Shit, I wish more people believed in that crap. Sure would make my life easier.”

“Yeah?” said Santiago, producing and lighting a hand-rolled cigarette. “Why? You having trouble? Cop life got you down?”

“You got no idea,” groaned Lumler. For a long moment he stared at his friend, but the fading light made the smaller man’s expression unreadable. Finally he frowned and looked out at the river and the work crew. One more cast, a couple more fish.

“It’s this whole Reformist thing,” he said, voice low, even conspiratorial. “The traitors. You read about that, right? Heard the speeches?”

“Sure,” said Santiago. “They run ‘em often enough. Know Your Traitor! Don’t Be a Negativist! Blech.”

“Yeah, well,” said Lumler, “that ain’t the half of it. Hell, the Governor’s gone totally sideways about it! Sees traitors everywhere, you know? An’ of course, that means the Chief is all batshit about it, too. But, thing is, this shit is real! There are traitors. There is such a thing as the Reformist Movement. It ain’t like the Governor says it is—leastways I hope not—but it’s real alright. I’ve seen proof.”

Santiago nodded and smoked for a moment. Across the way, the leader of the Proc Crew, his voice clear across the quiet water, finally called a halt to the day. The workers all slumped in relief and the boat slowly floated off downstream. Finally Santiago spoke up.

“There was a bombing,” he said softly. “Wasn’t there? Two days ago, about ten at night?”

Lumler nodded, waited.

“And it wasn’t a deformo attack, was it?”

Lumler shook his head. “Nope.”

Now Santiago waited. Finally Lumler shrugged.

“Some old lady blew herself up,” he said, watching the shadows lengthen. His voice was quiet, but heavy and rough. “We were supposed to search her place. Suspicion of possession of seditious material. Pretty standard. But when we go in, she’s like, wired up. To about eight sticks of dynamite. Sweaty, old, unstable dynamite. Just sittin’ there in her rocking chair. Shit you not. So we stopped, you know? Pulled up and sorta just stood there, waitin’ for this nice little old lady to decide whether or not to blow us all to shit, but…”

“But what?” prompted his friend, smoking.

“Well, she wanted the Chief,” Lumler said, shifting his weight. “She wasn’t like, worked up or even afraid or anything, she just sits there, calm-like, and tells us she wants to see the Chief. Well, of course he wasn’t about to go in there! Not him. Not Hanson fucking Knox. But anyway, she keeps like, demanding to see the Chief and he keeps orderin’ us to shoot her, like over the radio, and, well, things went south. I dove outta the room, just when she hit the button, but the two other guys, they weren’t so lucky. Blast wiped out the whole goddamn apartment. Nothing left of those two poor bastards but chunks ‘bout the size of yer fist.”

“Jesus,” breathed Santiago, his cigarette smoldering. “And this was an old lady? Did you get her name?”

“Sarah something,” said Lumler, waving a meaty hand. “But that ain’t my point, man. Young, old, what’s the difference? No, what I wanna know is, why? You know? Why? Those were good guys she blew up. One of ‘em just had a kid! Why blow him up like that? What did he ever do to her?”

“Not what he did,” shrugged Santiago. Lumler thought his friend looked kind of pale, but maybe it was just the poor light. “It was what he was.”

“What the fuck’s that mean?”

“She wanted to kill Knox, right? And she did kill two Police Force officers, yes? So she wanted to take out PF men. Not any particular PF man, since she couldn’t get her like, chosen target, but PF men nonetheless. Any PF men.”

“Huh,” said Lumler, and scratched his chin. “I see what you mean. But still, why kill the police?”

“You’re a symbol,” said Santiago. “You represent New America. Or at least the bad parts, anyway.”

“Whattaya mean, the bad parts?” rumbled Lumler. “What’re you tryin’ to say?”

“Hey, don’t get me wrong,” said the other in protest. “You guys in black do a tough job and you do it well. I mean, someone has to do it, right? It’s just…” He hesitated, went on. “Well, truth is, it’s getting around about the Chief. How… unstable he is, you know? People talk.”

“Yeah?” Lumler said darkly. “And how’d they hear about that, huh? Any ideas?”

“Not from me, if that’s what you mean,” said Santiago defensively. “I mean, do you really think I’d jeopardize my career—my life—with some two-bit gossip crap like that? Come on.”

Lumler considered, but it only took a second before he shook his head and gave a short bark of a laugh.

“No,” he said wryly, “I don’t guess you would, at that. But then, who is talkin’? Ain’t any of my men, I know that!”

“I don’t know about that,” said Santiago, crushing out his smoke. “But it’s more than just talk. There’ve been a couple of, whatever, scenes with the Chief. Kinda ugly scenes. You know what I mean, don’t you? Like that thing down at the Liberty Saloon?”

Lumler scowled deeply. He’d hoped that incident had blown over. Guess not. Angrily, he swept off his cap and wiped his brow. Suddenly the evening seemed too still and too quiet. Then, somewhere far off, a single gunshot rang out, causing a dog to start barking, and he relaxed a little and put his cap back on.

“Yeah, that one was bad,” he said. “You remember Fat Phil, the bartender down there? Guy with one eye?”

“Not really. Don’t go to the Liberty too much.”

“Smart man,” said Lumler. “Place is a shithole. But anyway, the bartender was named Phil an’ he only he had the one eye. He’s on the PF payroll, and is s’posed to listen in on what people are sayin’ and shit. Who’s like, disgruntled, you know? Basic rat work. But so far, he ain’t told us nothin’. Not a tip, not a fuckin’ thing, an’ he’s had like, three months. So me and the Chief go in there that night. Place is real slow, you know? Just a few old winos. The Chief tells me to watch the door, which I do, while he goes over to the bar to talk to Phil. So those two like, chat for a while and then, before I even knew what he was doin’, the Chief just sorta attacks Phil. ‘Cept he didn’t just attack the guy. He didn’t hit him or kick him or smack him with his baton or anything like that. No, what he does is, he grabs a fuckin’ corkscrew offa the bar and jams it—wham!—right into Phil’s eye. An’ he goes over the bar, screamin’ and clawin’ an’ shit, an’ the blood’s all over the place an’ Phil is screamin’ an’… aw, fuck. It was goddamn crazy, man. Just fuckin’ nuts. Had to haul Phil out inna body bag. And the worst thing? It ain’t even close to what you’d call police work, you know? More like…”

“Murder?” said Santiago, very softly.

Lumler shrugged laconically. “Guess so. I mean, I wasn’t a cop Before or anything. I ain’t any expert. But then, I dunno, we ain’t got a court system here, do we? No judges or juries, no lawyers, just what the Governor decides. So is it murder? I mean, yeah it woulda been, Before, but now? I dunno.”

“Huh, yeah,” said Santiago. “Good point. Order is one thing. Law is another.”

Lumler, unsure of what his friend meant but unwilling to admit it, just grunted and nodded a little. The light was fading quickly now; in another half hour it would be full dark. Lumler heaved a beefy sigh and shook his head.

“But whattaya gonna do?” he said resignedly. “Since the Sick, everything’s gone to shit. This here, New America, the whole thing, it’s like, all we got, you know? All there is. And it’s all the Governor’s doing, ain’t it? Before he came along, there was just gangs. Just little bands of survies. No power, no water, no food. And now? We got all that stuff back. And thanks to who?”

“The Governor,” answered Santiago wearily. “Or should I say, Governor Jackson Smith Armstrong? But yeah, I know. And you’re right, it’s his world; we just live in it.”

They sat in silence for a little while. Lumler listened to the water gurgle past. A small swarm of fireflies had appeared and were blinking in and out of the bushes.

“Hey,” said Santiago, after a long pause, “you remember that dude they called the Hunter? Little guy with all the guns?”

“Sure. What about him?”

“Well, I sorta ran into him the other night.”

“No shit. And?”

“Well, it was kinda weird,” said Santiago, and scratched his head. “I was down by the West Gate, doing some follow-up on some patients, and this guy just sorta pops up out of nowhere and asks for med supplies. Well, demands ‘em would be more like it. He was pretty, I don’t know, intense, I guess you’d say. You know the kind? Where you look in their eyes and something looks back that just says leave me the fuck alone? Yeah. But anyway, he’s got this like, list of stuff he wants. I didn’t have ‘em on me at the time, so we go back to the clinic. All the way there, I try talkin’ to him, you know, but he won’t do more than grunt. So we go to the clinic and I give him the stuff he wants, since he’s got this letter signed by the Governor that says I have to, and then he leaves.”

“Huhn,” said Lumler. “So what’s so weird about that? This Hunter guy’s headin’ out into the wasteland. Matter o’ fact, he took off, just yesterday. An’ out in the waste? Well, there ain’t too many clinics out there. No more Walgreens or CVS, neither.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Santiago. “But here’s what was weird: Most of the stuff he wanted was like, stuff you’d need for an invalid, you know? Or a real old person. Bedpan, adult undergarments, oxygen. I mean, he wanted a lot of basic First Aid type things, too, but why all the nursing home gear?”

Lumler shrugged. “How should I know?”

“Well, you said before that this Hunter guy was bein’ sent out to hijack some doctors, right? So why’s he need stuff for taking care of an invalid?”

“I got no idea,” said Lumler wanly. “An’ besides, it’s none o’ my business. Yours, neither, far as that goes.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Made me curious though.”

For a while they sat and watched the fireflies, but, after a few minutes they inexplicably quit blinking and the bushes went dark.

“You ever think about him?” Santiago eventually asked. “The Great Man?”

“Who, the Governor? Hell, no. Ain’t healthy.”

“Well, I do,” said Santiago. “I mean, where did he come from? What was he Before? Most of us who lived through the Sick are more than happy to talk about Before. What we were, who we knew, what we’d done. So why not the Governor? His whole past is one big question mark. But why? What’s he got to hide?”

“Never really thought about it,” Lumler replied honestly. “But he ain’t the only one who don’t talk about their life Before, you know. Lots of people don’t wanna talk about it, for lots of reasons. Don’t mean he’s got anything to hide. An’, come to that, a lotta people changed their names. You think that guy that runs the Big Time is really named Luscious Lorenzo? Or what about the lady who sells those pies and cakes? Over on Lexington? Think her name’s really Sweet Angela Wheatcakes?”

Santiago laughed. “Yeah, or that crazy dude who sweeps everything, Broomstick Bob. Kinda doubt he was born with that one. But as far as the Governor’s concerned, it’s different. It’s like the name—the name he picked, most likely—just seems kinda inappropriate. Know what I mean? Like it just doesn’t suit him, you know? I mean, he’s all kinda short and pudgy. “Jackson Armstrong” conjures up some kinda body-builder or a pro athlete or something. Not some short, fat little dude with apple cheeks and curly blond hair, or am I wrong?”

Lumler laughed quietly. “No, man, you’re right,” he said. “Matter of fact, last time me an’ the Chief had to meet with him, I thought the same damn thing! Dude looks like, oh I dunno, like a school principal or an accountant or somethin’, but then who knows, anyway? Names don’t mean much no more. And anyhow, it could be his real name, for all we know.”

“Yeah, but I doubt it,” said Santiago. With a little groan, he stood up and dusted off his rear end. “Well, I should get going. No rest for the wicked.”

“Hunh, yeah,” said Lumler, also standing. “Who said that, anyway?”

“What, the “no rest” thing? I have no idea.”

“Well, whatever,” said Lumler. “See you next week? Usual time at the Jolly?”

“You’re on,” grinned Santiago, his teeth white in the gloom. “See you then.”

Suddenly, from somewhere across the river, a great fusillade of gunfire erupted. The reports were frantic, overlapping, and punctuated by a dull, booming explosion. Lines of tracer bullets shot up into the sky over the walled city and the faint sounds of screams and shouts mixed into the swelling chorus. The Army was busy; another night, another deformo attack. For a long moment the two men listened to the muted din and stared at the light show.

“Sounds like another bad one,” Santiago sighed. “Well, keep your head down.”

“Always do, my friend,” said Lumler seriously. “And you just watch yer ass.”

In another five minutes, the park was empty. The water rolled past, the fireflies came back out, and the night breeze, redolent of cordite smoke and burning diesel fuel, wafted gently through the bushes and over the flat space of sand where there once had been a playground.

Chapter Twenty

All around the mulberry bush

The monkey chased the weasel.

The monkey thought ‘twas all in fun.

Pop! goes the weasel.

—children’s song, traditional

The Kid had an easy few days after his run-in with the Rippers; the weather was warm and mild and he had plenty of food, not to mention two new pelts. On the first day, after the middle-of-the-night tussle with the Rippers, he started awake later than usual and quickly surveyed his surroundings for trouble, but there was nothing, just the burble of the stream and the calls of birds in the trees. With a deep sigh of something like happiness, he lay back down and allowed himself the ultimate luxury, another hour of sleep.

Two days later, largely idle, he was lolling on a warm afternoon and thinking of heading out to look for some more Hopper meat when the worst sound in the world came to his ears, the distant but unmistakable noise of a Howler on the prowl. Instantly, he froze and tried to determine what direction to be afraid of, but the noise was too diffuse for that; he’d have to get out of the cave to figure it out. But this was a Howler, not some measly Ripper, and that meant that he had exactly two choices: to hide or to flee. A Howler was not something he could fight.

He grabbed his weapon and crawled out of the cave. The noise came again, a terrible, high-pitched moaning that made him cringe, and this time it was definitely closer. The Kid debated with himself for a moment, but there wasn’t much choice; he would have to run. Maybe he’d be able to come back, but for right now, he had to get away. For another moment, he considered taking what was left of the Hopper or a part of the Ripper with him, to eat later on, but then demurred; Howlers could smell blood from a long way off.

And then he was off, dashing through the weeds and trees like a deer, pausing only once in a while to make sure that the Howler was not right behind him. After a long ways, he finally stopped, near the edge of the trees, and waited. This was the limit of his world; beyond the trees was a huge, wide-open space that he’d only gazed at in wonder. He listened for a time, but heard no more howling. Nonetheless, just to be safe, he climbed up the biggest tree he could find and, careful to hide in the thickest leaves, crouched on a limb to wait.

Three hours later, not too long before sundown, he was thinking of climbing down when he heard a snuffling, snorting noise below and went very still. With deliberate slowness, he turned his head and looked down, just in time to see a very big Howler come shambling into the clearing beneath his tree.

Shaped somewhat like a human being, with legs and a head, this particular Howler (they were all a little bit different) had great snake-like things where the Kid had arms and a toothy mouth that looked like it was about three times as big as it should be. Slowly, bent to the ground, it shuffled forward as the Kid held his breath. If it smelled him, it was more than capable of climbing up the tree after him, and if it did, he would be trapped.

But apparently the Howler didn’t smell him; after a long moment of high tension, it gave a long, shuddering cry and then moved away, back the way it had come. The Kid let out a pent-up breath and relaxed a trifle, secure in the knowledge that if the thing knew where he was, it would be all over him.

Carefully, with great deliberation, he made his way back toward his cave, but then stopped short when, peering through some trees, he saw that the Howler was there. It had thrown all of his pelts out onto the ground, had obviously eaten up all of his remaining food, and now squatted before the cave mouth, swaying back and forth and worrying an old Ripper bone. Even from fifty yards away, he could smell its gamey, rotten hide.

Slowly, the Kid withdrew into the undergrowth and tried to think this through, but what could he do, other than wait? If the Howler didn’t go away on its own, if it decided to take over his home and possessions and eat his food, what could he do about it? Nothing, that was what, and he frowned and snarled to himself at the injustice.

He decided to wait; after all, he’d put a lot of time and energy into the cave and he wasn’t about to just abandon it, even if it was infested with a Howler. But the night came and went, the next day dawned cooler and drizzly, the rotten, stinking Howler showed no sign of leaving, and the Kid was getting very hungry. It was time to find somewhere else to live. Hanging his head, he shrugged disconsolately and then silently crept off into the woods.

Chapter Twenty-One

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—TV ad for service offered in most southern US States, circa 2055

Justin had had some misgivings about being confined with his companions, quarantine or not; for one thing, it was a loss of two or three days, time he could spend on the road, or at least talking to Baron Zero to plan their next move. Every day they wasted, every hour, every minute, Lampert moved that much closer to his demise.

For another thing, quarantine would probably mean boring, close confinement with at least a couple of people (Lampert, Bowler, maybe others) with whom he’d rather not be closely confined. Lastly, he was worried how Teresa, used to coming and going when and where she pleased, would react to what was essentially a prison.

One positive development was that it was obvious that things here were not entirely what Teresa had expected and that her plans, at least as far as selling him went, would have to undergo some rather drastic changes. Which was to say, it looked as if he’d been emancipated. But then, he’d have to wait and see.

As things turned out, he needn’t have worried about the forced confinement; the three days in quarantine were neither boring nor wholly unproductive, and they were treated with nothing but civility and generosity by Baron Zero and his people.

Their accommodations, in a sealed section of the basement, while compact and functional, were clean, cool, dry, and furnished with everything they needed. There was a common room, with beds, tables, chairs, desks, and shelves, another, smaller room for eating, with just a big long table with benches on either side, and, most welcome of all by far, a complete bathroom with real running water and modern plumbing. This last amazed Teresa to no end, clean water just pouring from a pipe anytime one wanted it, and she spent a delighted few minutes flushing the toilet and running the taps before being told—gently—that she was wasting water and should save it for washing and plumbing only.

“How that work?” she asked, eyes alight. “Hot water from a pipe like that? They gotta fire goin’ down there?”

“No, just a water heater,” said Justin. “Now if you don’t mind, we all want to take our turn at the shower.”

As he waited for his turn, childishly excited at the very prospect, one of Zero’s men appeared at the crude airlock that constituted the only way in or out. He was pushing a large rolling laundry bin and came to the entrance and waved for their attention. Justin walked over to the glass-pane door.

“Yes?” he asked. “Can we help you?”

“Want clothes?” said the man, a small Latino with a long mustache and yellowish eyes.

Justin scratched his head. “Close?” he said. “I don’t…”

“No, clothes,” said the man, shaking his head. To illustrate his point, he reached into the bin and held up an off-white, raw cotton shirt. “You know. Ropas. Shirt, pants, under-wears? Clothes, si?”

“Oh, clothes!” said Justin. “Why yes, as a matter of fact. We all could use some clean clothes! That’s very generous!”

“Zero’s orders,” shrugged the man, whose name he would later learn was Ramirez. “Now what you need?”

Finally Erin Swails finished up in the bathroom and it was his turn. Taking a clean new shirt and pants, plus a new pair of boxer briefs and a pair of socks, he went into the room, turned on the water, and positively luxuriated in the first real shower he’d had in almost two months. There was soap, a clean washcloth, plenty of hot water, and when he got out there was a toothbrush and toothpaste, clean white towels, and an old-fashioned disposable razor with shaving cream to complete the experience. Feeling better than he had in a very long time, he wiped up in the bathroom and went to join the others.

After the cannibals of St. Alferd’s, the first time food was brought to them, that morning by a lanky young lady named Sarah, they all eyed it with no small degree of suspicion; it just wasn’t safe to trust strangers when it came to these things. But the stuff looked OK, just bread and butter and cheese and fruit, not a morsel of meat, and finally hunger won out in an uneven struggle and, Justin leading the way, they all grabbed plates and set to devouring the food with a will born of weeks of a diet of pet food, soy paste and candy canes. When they were done, there wasn’t a crumb big enough to see.

“Well,” said Justin, sitting back contentedly, “it seems that our host is a most generous man. Food, clothing, clean sheets and beds, hot and cold running water.”

“Yeah,” said Lampert, smacking his lips on the last of an apple. “Seems like a real prince. Makes me wonder what his angle is.”

“Angle?” said Justin. “What do you mean?”

Lampert raised and lowered his shoulders an inch or two. “Oh nothin’. It’s just that nobody does anything for no reason. Why’s this guy so hospitable, anyhow? Seems kinda… I dunno, too good to be true, maybe.”

“Maybe,” said Justin. “But if Baron Zero wished us any harm, I think we’d know about it by now. After all, here we are, essentially locked up, at the man’s mercy.”

“Yeah,” said Lampert. “I guess you’re right, Doc. But still, nobody does anything for nothing. You can take that to the bank.”

Justin let this go; as powerless as they were at the moment, it didn’t seem worth the effort to question their host’s motives. Besides, the Old Man, cynical and nasty as he was, always seemed to see these same traits in others. Justin preferred to reserve judgment.

They were also provided with books—about a dozen assorted genre novels from Before—for entertainment, and it was that afternoon, while Justin was trying to relax with one of these, a mystery novel, that Teresa came up, pointed at the book and said:

“Show me.”

Justin lowered the book. “Show you what? Oh, how to read?”

“Yeh,” she nodded. “I wanna read. An’ write, too. Now show me.”

He blinked at her, feeling suddenly impetuous and vaguely angry; he’d had about enough of her bossing him around.

“And what,” he said, “makes you think that I want to teach you? After all, you heard what the man said: he doesn’t allow slavers, which means that you can’t sell me, which in turn means that you don’t own me anymore. Not that you ever did, but now that’s a moot point. The long and the short of it, though, is that it all means that I don’t have to do as you say any more. Or am I mistaken?”

Teresa scowled dangerously, her features clouding like a sudden summer storm, but they then softened and resolved into a smirk.

“Yeah, you right,” she said. “You free now, hey? But what about them C-heads back at St. Alferd’s? Wasn’t fer me, you all be cooked and ate by now. Cannibo dinner, hey? Way I see it, you owe me.”

“Yes, but,” Justin began but then gave up. Teresa simply wasn’t someone with whom he could argue. And besides, she was right. He sighed and nodded at her.

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll teach you what I can. But keep in mind, it will take a lot longer than two or three days to learn how to read and write.”

“Well then,” she said, taking a seat, “we best get started, heh?”

Their stay in quarantine wasn’t without another of the Old Man’s diatribes, either. At dinner on the second day, spurred by whatever motive, he wound up to a righteous pitch on the subject of how the United States had “lost its way”.

“Ya ask me,” he said (though no one had), “it was basic laziness, pure and simple. We all got fat and stupid and addicted to our precious gadgets and technology and couldn’t be bothered to learn or work or create any more.”

Justin sighed, already depressed by the topic, but most of the others seemed at least to be listening so he said nothing to discourage the Old Man and let him ramble.

“Give’ya an example,” he was saying, “show’ya what I mean. Back when I still drove, I’d always see these rude fuckers who’d pull into a convenience store, like an SA or whatever, and, even though there are plenty of parking spots, park right in front of the door. Like it woulda fuckin’ killed ‘em to walk fifteen feet! And not always fat people, either! Just sheer, unthinking, lard-brained lazy, you know? Shit, they were prob’ly the same bastards who never used their turn signals.”

No one responded. Justin more or less tuned out the rest of the Old Man’s screed—though the others seemed interested—and by the time the meal was over, so was Lampert. Another day, another spate of vitriol. At least some things stayed the same.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Q. Why did the survivor cross the road?

A. He didn’t. He got creamed by a banger war truck about halfway across.

—popular joke, circa 2075

If he’d had a lot of questions for Baron Zero initially, by the time their time in quarantine was up, Justin, chafing at the delay, had come up with a whole lot more. Finally, though, they were all freed from their airtight quarters and left to rove the House at will, and the much-anticipated conversation took place. It couldn’t have come too soon for Justin and proved to be most interesting.

About an hour after he’d been released, as he and the others were marveling at the Commons area of the House, a bewildering tangle of small kiosks, shops, and restaurants, he was approached by a smiling, well-groomed, sandy-haired young man named Carver who asked politely if he’d like to meet with Baron Zero.

“Right now?” asked Justin. “As in immediately?”

“If it’s convenient,” said Carver.

“Well, yes, of course,” said Justin, tearing himself from the welter of intriguing micro-businesses. “By all means, lead the way.” To Cass, Teresa, and the others, he said, “Well, I guess I’ll catch up with you later.”

“OK, Dr. Kaes,” said Cass. “We’ll keep an eye on Mr. Lampert.”

“Yes, good,” he said, seeing the Old Man already wandering away. “And with any luck, I’ll have some good news when I come back.”

“Let’s hope,” said Swails.

Carver led Justin a winding route through the House, upstairs and down, along narrow corridors and through a few doors, finally depositing him in a most remarkable office, inhabited by a most remarkable man.

The space itself was large compared to the other rooms he’d seen, with a lofty ceiling and one wall composed of floor-to-ceiling windows. There were bookshelves lining every other wall, crammed to overflowing with books of all size, some comfortable-looking couches and chairs, a round table covered in papers and electronic gizmos, and, dominating the space, a desk at least seven feet long, also strewn with drifts of papers and bits and pieces of electronic ephemera.

Sitting behind the desk, now rising to meet his guest, was Zero himself; about six feet tall, middle-aged, hirsute but not overgrown, heavy of brow and lank of limb and peering intently from behind the antique green glass lenses.

“Ah, Dr. Kaes,” he said amicably, extending a hand. “Welcome! Please, come in, have a seat! I hope your quarantine wasn’t too unpleasant?”

“No, it was fine,” said Justin, advancing to shake. The other man’s hand was cool and dry, the grip strong but not crushing. Up close, Justin would put his age at about forty or forty-five. “It was very relaxing, actually.”

“Good, good!” Zero said, resuming his seat. “And I’m glad none of you was infected. Can’t be too careful, can I? But first things first. I’m sure you have a lot of questions. Most folks do.”

Justin nodded, enjoying the civility, and sat down and crossed his legs. “I certainly do,” he said. “But where to start… Well, for one thing, what is this place? What do you call it?”

“Well, for my part,” said Zero, “I just call it home. Other folks have called it different things. Zero’s House is probably most popular, but there have been others. Shangri-La, Haven, New Haven. One Tolkien fan even called it Rivendell. But, like I said, I just call it home. As to what it is, well, that’s a little more complex, but essentially we’re just a great big family, trying to work together to make life a little less unbearable. Sort of a co-op, if you will, for anyone who survived and is interested in living in a, well, shall we say slightly more civilized environment?”

“I see,” Justin nodded. “And what about you? I don’t mean to be impertinent or rude, but surely your name isn’t really Baron Zero?”

Zero laughed, a raspy, throaty sound filled with genuine amusement. “Oh, of course not!” he grinned. “That’s just for effect, to impress people. Actually, my name is Bill. Bill Borden, to be exact, although no one’s called me that in a long time… I got the whole Zero thing from William Gibson, the sci-fi writer. He had a book called Count Zero I’ve always liked and, well, I thought that sounded pretty cool, so I took that and then gave myself a promotion. To Baron. But really, like I said, it’s just to impress the impressionable.”

“Hmm, yes,” Justin said. “And what about Before the Fall? That is to say, I can tell you’re an educated man. What did you do before the Plague? I had heard you were some sort of scientist?”

“Oh, I was into lots of things,” said the other evasively. “Little of this, little of that. Why, is that important somehow?”

“No, I don’t suppose it is,” said Justin. “I was just curious. May I ask, how many people live here?”

“Last count, about two hundred,” said Zero. “Give or take.”

“What, all in this one building?”

“Yeah, most of ‘em,” said Zero. “This place is bigger than it looks. A lot of it’s underground. But we have the Farm, too, and maybe fifty or so people live and work out there.”

“The farm?”

“Yeah,” nodded the other, leaning back. “Maybe a half mile to the west. We raise corn, wheat, soybeans, vegetables, chickens, pigs. That’s just for food. But there’s also the algae pond, which is the source of our electricity.”

“Ah, a biomass generator. Yes?”

“You got it,” said Zero. “We have this great big pond, nice and shallow, fed by a natural spring, and we grow algae on it. Then we take all of this glop, once it’s good and thick, and we dry it out and burn it in an old converted smelting furnace, which spins a turbine we salvaged and voila! Juice! And, we also raise some carp in the same pond, so it’s kind of dual-purpose.”

“That’s amazing,” said Justin. “And did you invent this power source?”

“More or less,” Zero shrugged. “At least this particular version. But I had a lot of help, too. It’s really pretty simple, actually: grow the algae, dry the algae, burn the algae. And besides, the basics of the technology were common knowledge, even before the Fall. Mainly it was just a matter of some hard-core scavenging.”

“Still, it’s amazing,” Justin said appreciatively. “It’s almost like Before. But, um, you mentioned earlier that you were in need of a surgeon. May I ask why? Does someone need surgery?”

“Yeah, me,” said Zero, pointing a thumb at his chest. “It’s nothing that critical—at least I hope it’s not—but it sure is annoying. And painful. See, from what I can figure out from old medical books, I’m pretty sure I have an inguinal hernia. That or some kind of cancer. Like I said, I hope it’s a hernia. But the problem is that we don’t have a doctor here. Not to mention no Gamma Ray scanner, no MRI machine or CT scanner. Not even an X-ray machine. There’s a registered nurse, and he agrees with me on the diagnosis, but then again, neither of us is an MD, so who knows? All I know for sure is that I’d sure as hell like to have it taken care of.”

“I’m sure you would!” said Justin. “A hernia can be quite painful. But why exactly do you think that’s the trouble?”

“From the symptoms,” shrugged Zero. “I mean, like I said, I’m no expert, but Denny Pollner—that’s our nurse—he says that it’s a pretty basic thing. Not a lot of room for conjecture, right? Not like it’s leukemia or some disease or whatever.”

“Hmm, yes,” nodded Justin sagely. Even he, with only an elementary background in Diagnostics, knew that an inguinal hernia would be a fairly easy condition to identify. But now came the big question: “Is there anything I can do to help? I’m not a surgeon, of course, or even a General Practitioner, but I could examine you, if you’d like. We could at least confirm your diagnosis.”

“Yeah,” said Zero. “I guess that wouldn’t hurt. But, uh, let me think about it, OK?”

“Well, of course,” said Justin, more than a little relieved that he wouldn’t have to go groping under this man’s scrotum anytime soon. “Just let me know.”

“Yeah, I will,” said the other. “But what about you, huh? I mean, it’s not every day folks from the CDC come calling! What the hell are you doing? How did you get here? If you don’t mind my asking, that is.”

“Not at all,” Justin said, and, starting from the beginning, when they’d first met Dr. Bahrara from California, ran through the whole story. He left some parts out, of course, mainly for the sake of brevity, but the main points, that they were more or less on a mission to save humanity and that Lampert was the key to it all, were more than emphasized. Finally, after maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, he wound down and gave a shrug.

“So that’s about it,” he said. “We’ve been walking for the past few days and, well, we ended up here.”

“Wow!” said Zero, who had managed not to interrupt. “That’s some story! All the way from New Atlanta to Minneapolis, and then all the way to here? Given what I know of the open country around here, not to mention all of the survies and bangers, I really don’t see how in the hell you made it!”

“Many of us did not,” said Justin sadly. “Most of us, in fact. Nurse Cass, Miss Swails, myself, and Mr. Lampert are the only ones left.”

“Yeah, that’s too bad,” said Zero, shaking his head. “Not to mention, you lost all of your gear, all your instruments and tools and gadgets, all of the transport and the medicine. You must feel, well, kind of lost without all that stuff.”

“I certainly do,” said Justin. “Almost naked, you might say. I don’t have so much as a microscope. But the main thing is, we still have the Old Man.”

“Ah yes, your Mr. Lampert,” said Zero, sitting up. “What’s the story with him? That is, I know he’s very old, but why is he so… disagreeable?”

Justin barked a laugh. “Disagreeable? I’ve never heard the Old Man called that before. Cranky, yes. Mean as hell, yes. A royal pain in the ass and a cantankerous old coot? More than a few times. But merely disagreeable? Ha! You can’t begin to imagine!”

“OK, so,” said Zero, “he’s a pain in the ass. But why?”

“Oh, who knows?” said Justin, shaking his head. “Personally, I think it’s simply because he’s a mean-hearted person with no more empathy for his fellow human beings than a lump of oatmeal. But then, through sheer proximity, I’ve become a bit biased on the subject. I’d have to say, though, that if you really want to know, you’d have to ask Mr. Lampert himself.”

“Huh, OK,” said Zero, frowning. “I guess maybe I’ll do that. But this whole plan of yours, taking Lampert to California so they can develop a cure for the Plague. Do you really think it’ll work? Provided you can make it there, of course.”

“Oh, yes,” nodded Justin. “In theory, and given the proper facilities, it’s not even that hard to do. But, as you said, it’s all predicated on our arriving in San Francisco. And with Mr. Lampert.”

“Hmm, yeah,” said Zero musingly. “But I gotta admit to a certain amount of morbid curiosity about the Big Sick. As in the disease itself. Not that it really matters much anymore, but, since you’re an expert…”

“Why, certainly,” said Justin, more than comfortable with the topic but unsure of how much this man would be able to grasp, technically-speaking. “What would you like to know?”

“Well, it all happened so fast, you know?” said Zero. “I never did hear what started it or even what it really was! I mean, they all said it was some kinda plague virus, but, other than that…”

“Well, it is indeed the plague virus,” nodded Justin. “Yersinia pestis, to use the Latin name, and number 1257 by strain.”

“So why did it kill everyone? Why didn’t the usual vaccines take care of it?”

“Ah, well that’s the thing,” Justin said. “Strain 1257 is particularly dangerous for three main reasons. One, it is an extremely virulent pathogen; almost 99.99 percent of those who catch it will succumb. Two, it is very hearty, in that, even in a deceased host body, it will remain alive and infectious for as long as a month. And three, it’s deadly because it is mutative. That is, it rearranges its DNA whenever it’s presented with a host which it cannot infect.”

“Ah, I see,” said Zero, nodding. “So it’s a mutagenic thing… makes sense. But how did it start? My bet’s always been on some kinda terrorism—you know, Muslim extremists or Maoists or whatever.”

Justin shook his head. “As far as we could determine, it was entirely natural. Of course, we’d always feared that some new super bug, some kind of specially mutated strain of a pre-existing virus or bacteria, would be released, either accidentally or in an act of aggression. After all, during the late 20th century, all kinds of these things were created, thanks to genetic engineering. Hell, the CIA had one of the largest germ banks in the world, and the Russians and Chinese were close seconds in the field of biological warfare. But no, there was no terrorist attack, no accident in some secret lab. All that happened was that Nature itself, as it always does, produced a new and better breed of microscopic killer. And our fast-paced, globally-connected world did the rest.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” Zero said. “I woulda swore it was terrorism. But, like I said, it doesn’t much matter anymore, does it? It’s gone now, and we’re left to pick up the pieces of what’s left. Hell, at least it didn’t turn people into zombies, right?”

“I’m sorry, zombies?” said Justin. “I don’t—”

“Never mind, Doc. The thing is, it’s over, right? It’s done its worst.”

“Wrong,” said Justin sternly, sitting forward. “No, that’s not right at all. As I said, this strain of plague virus mutates. When one strain has done its worst and used up all of its available hosts, it changes into a new strain. In fact, before we left the labs in New Atlanta, we’d identified three new versions. We were up to strain 1260. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, OK,” said Baron Zero, frowning. “I got that. And that’s some pretty bad news, alright. Gonna have to think about that one. But what about the Old Man? What are you gonna do with him? Why’s he so important? That’s the part I don’t get.”

“Well, it seems that Mr. Lampert once survived an outbreak of the original strain of the plague. Somehow, probably completely by accident, he came in contact with, and then survived, the original, un-mutated version of this particular form of Yersinia pestis. If we can get him to proper lab facilities, we may be able to use this original strain, whose DNA is still borne in his blood, to make a vaccine.”

“Huh, OK,” nodded Zero thoughtfully. “But, uh, don’t get me wrong, but why not just take a blood sample? It’d, like, save you a lot of trouble, wouldn’t it?”

“No good,” said Justin. “To produce any sort of quantity of vaccine, we need a much larger supply than just a sample. No, we need Mr. Lampert, alive and as well as we can keep him.”

“OK, I get it,” said the other. He seemed to ponder for a while. Then: “And you wanna get him all the way to Cali? Dang, that’s not gonna be easy! You’ve got the bangers, the survie cults, just plain whack jobs out there, roaming around, all kinds of obstacles.”

“Yes,” nodded Justin grimly. “Like the Brothers of St. Alferd.”

“Oh, you met them, huh?” said Zero. “Well, believe it or not, they’re not the worst of ‘em. There are some other guys, up near the Big Waste, that make the Brothers look like Boy Scouts.”

“The Big Waste?” echoed Justin. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of that. And I’m not sure I want to.”

“No?” said Zero. “Gee, I thought everyone knew about that. Anyway, it’s called different things. The official, like Federal, title for it was the Greater Southwest Danger Zone. Some folks call it the Rad Zone. Or the Great Nowhere. But, whatever you call it, it’s a huge chunk of land, thousands of square miles—but wait, I’ve got an old atlas here.”

Producing this, he spread it open on the cluttered desk, revealing a U.S. road map much altered by the addition of new markings and boundary lines. Fascinated, Justin leaned forward and read the new, hand-lettered legendry: New England Free State, Florida Nation, Lone Star Republic, California Confederacy, Chicago Gang Conference, Greater Washegon Nation. And there, where Zero was pointing, a big section of the U.S. Southwest, including most of Nevada, labeled Great Waste and marked with an ominous radiation symbol.

“But,” blinked Justin, “what happened?”

“Nuke accident,” Zero said laconically. “When the grid went down and the Air Force boys all deserted and headed home, there was nobody to mind the store. No one knows for sure what really happened, but personally I think some dumb-ass survie probably got in there and messed around with it and—Blammo! Of course, it might’ve just gone bad on its own. Or maybe it was rigged by the flyboys when they left. All we know for sure is that something really big and really dirty was detonated. I’d guess maybe a big Neutron device or maybe a couple of MIRVs. Not that it matters. At any rate, this whole area here is bad. I went up there with a G-counter last year and turned back at about… here, when the counter went red, big time. Nowadays, nobody with a brain in his head goes anywhere near it. But the really scary things are the muties that come crawling out once in a while.”

“Muties?” asked Justin, frowning. “Some sort of mutation? Human mutation?”

“Who knows? It’s just what we call ‘em. But they sure look like mutants, whatever they are. Extra arms, sometimes like tentacles or flippers, generally misshapen to the point of monstrosity, basically feral and savage, like wild animals. Ugh! Thank God there don’t seem to be that many of them!”

“But that’s appalling!” said Justin. “Those poor people!”

“Huh,” said Zero, grimacing slightly. “Yeah, you say that now, but you’ve never seen one! Just hope you never do. And as far as their still being people? I’m not so sure about that.”

“Well, that’s…” Justin blinked, “that’s quite interesting. I wasn’t aware that such a thing had even happened.”

“Yeah. And the hell of it?” Zero said. “It’s probably just one of who knows how many things like this that have happened. With no real press or mass media, we’re all pretty much in the dark, aren’t we?”

“Yes, of course,” said Justin, stalling, wondering just how to phrase what he was about to ask. “And that’s all very interesting. But, now that you’ve heard my story, about our mission and all, do you think you can help? That is, I don’t want to sound ungrateful; you’ve already provided us with so much! But you seem to know a great deal about this area, even about what’s left of the United States. You have all these electronics and resources and manpower… isn’t there something you could do to help our mission?”

Zero arched his brow and sat back in his chair. For a long moment he stared off into space and stroked his scraggly-bearded chin. From somewhere below the room they were in there came a loud clanging, banging noise, but he didn’t seem to notice. Finally he removed the green glasses, polished them on his flannel shirt, put them back on, and sighed.

“Well, it’s like this, Dr. Kaes,” he said seriously. “First off, I don’t much like your chances of making it to Cali, no matter how much help I give you. Between here and there is a whole world of shit, know what I mean? Survies, ex-military, post-Fall crazies, Rad Zones, Free-Fire Zones, deserts and mountains and who the hell knows what else?! I mean, don’t you think I, myself, wouldn’t have lit out for the coast if I could?”

“I suppose so,” said Justin evenly. “But I think you fail to understand the gravity of my mission. It’s not something from which I can back down. I cannot give up trying. I absolutely have to get Mr. Lampert to the coast. And I’ll do that with or without you. I was merely suggesting that perhaps you could help. If not? Well, then we’ll be on our way.”

Baron Zero laughed. “Don’t get bent outta shape, Doc,” he said, waving a hand. “And don’t worry. I’ll help. But I need a little time to think things over. Good people and valuable resources aren’t something I wanna just toss around. Besides, none of your group looks like they’re in any kind of shape to go hiking to California. You could use some rest and some food, right?”

“Of course,” Justin said, the sudden defiance swiftly replaced by relief. “But every day we wait means another day of Mr. Lampert’s getting a day older. And at his age…”

“Hmm, yeah,” said Zero. “There is that. Well, I’ll do my best to hurry. But…”

He never got to finish the thought, though, as suddenly a small speaker on the desk blared out a sort of claxon-like noise, followed immediately by a woman’s stress-filled voice:

“Alert! Alert! Code Red attack at the Farm. All fighters to defensive positions. Preliminary recon reports eight to ten attackers, most likely Hellriders. Alert! Alert!”

The voice began to repeat itself, but Zero turned the speaker volume down and then, massaging his temples angrily, rose from his chair.

“Damn it, damn it,” he said, scowling. “Will those jerks never learn?”

“Problems?” asked Justin, sensing unseen activity all through the House.

“Eh,” said Zero crossly. “Probably not, if it’s only eight or ten of ‘em. But you’ll have to excuse me, I’m afraid. It could be worse than it looks.”

“But what’s going on? Someone’s attacking your farm?”

“Yeah, Hellriders,” said Zero. “The local biker gang. Dumb as bricks, really, but you gotta admire their persistence. But look, I gotta go. Unless you wanna come with? Are you any good in a fight? Good with a gun?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Justin honestly. “But I’d be glad to help if I could.”

“Well, better come along then,” said Zero, heading for the door. “Never know what might happen with one of these kinda things.”

Swallowing a hard lump in his throat, sorry he’d volunteered so impulsively, Justin nodded and followed Baron Zero through more twisty little hallways and doors and stairwells, all the way down to the garage area. Here, among the scurrying mechanics and armed men and women, they were stopped by the diminutive yet imposing figure of Teresa, who stepped into Zero’s path and, her perfect features set in a fierce scowl, asked:

“Need any help?”

Zero stopped, looked her up and down, glanced over at Justin (who simply shrugged) and then looked back to Teresa.

“Well, yeah!” he said. “All the help I can get. But you don’t have a gun…”

“Sure do!” said Teresa, pointing. “Right over in that cage-dealy. Got my boomstick. Gauge twelve.”

“Shotgun, huh?” said Zero. “Yeah, that’s good. But can you handle a real gun? An assault weapon?”

“Can I?!” Teresa grinned wickedly. “Jus’ let me at it!”

Chapter Twenty-Three

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Having never been in the thick of an actual gun battle, Justin later decided the one he witnessed at the Farm to be something that he’d never want to be anywhere near, ever again. It was extremely loud, for one thing, with shots from rifles and handguns, explosions, and people yelling all seeming to merge into one great, ear-splitting, bone-rattling blare. It was stinky, too; he hadn’t realized that guns produced so much smoke. But it wasn’t the noise or the smell that got to him, it was the mayhem. People screaming in pain, the chaotic, jumpy sort of way the world looked when you were face-down in the dirt with someone trying to take your head off with a spray of large caliber bullets, the brutal waves of adrenaline, the blood, arcing in gentle sprays like a garden sprinkler on a hot summer day, the heat and the dust and the smell of steel and gore and cordite, all mixed together like a scene from an action movie he couldn’t escape. All in all, not something he’d ever want to experience again.

They’d arrived at the Farm, carried by an old gas-burning flatbed truck, just in time to take positions before the attack. The Farm itself wasn’t much to look at, just a great big, scummy-looking pond and a few barns and outbuildings, but a defensive perimeter of sandbags and wire and old junked cars had been erected all the way around the place and it was to the far eastern side of this that Justin, Zero, Teresa, and five other people from the House were directed by Vivian, the intense woman they’d met earlier. Unarmed, Justin was assigned a safe place behind a thick piece of sheet metal and told to take care of anybody that got shot.

“But…” he stammered at the woman, “but I’m not an Army medic! I don’t even have any bandages, or blood plasma or tri-Morphs, or—”

“Here,” Vivian interrupted rudely, tossing him a shoulder bag marked with a red cross. “And don’t lose any of that shit!”

And then, trotting off and shouting orders, she was gone. For a moment Justin had considered just dropping the shoulder bag and sneaking off back to the House, but then had decided that would be pretty cowardly and instead opened the bag to see with what medical wonders he’d been blessed. Nano-bandages, pressure and otherwise, good, Morphidrine in ready-to-use syringes, a couple of bags of uni-plasma and the gear needed to administer them, also very good. Now, if he was just an EMT or an ER nurse, he’d be in business. Making a wry face, he’d closed the bag and hoped that he’d have no need of it.

For a long time, it seemed like, once everyone had been placed at the perimeter with their guns and extra bullets, nothing happened. The wind blew warm and dry, stirring up little clouds of dust, and the sun beat down intensely on the yellow-brown earth. Way up in the cloudless sky, a single big bird, probably a vulture, circled this way and that, never once finding need to flap its wings. Down in front of him, on the actual firing line, his compatriots checked their weapons, over and over again, and nervously jittered in place.

Then there came a hoarse scream, an animalistic bellow like a dozen enraged bears, and suddenly the ground out in front of the line seemed to erupt with heavily armed human beings. Obviously the enemy had been creeping up for some time, using the many arroyos and folds in the ground to hide their approach. Now, at about fifty yards, they all leapt up and attacked, some dropping to one knee to fire at the defenders, others using the cover to rush ahead. Suddenly the air was thick with gunfire and what sounded like bees or something, zipping past his ears. That’s odd, he thought; what could that be? And then he hit the dirt as the answer came: They weren’t bees, for God’s sake, they were bullets! For the next while, maybe a few minutes, he simply cowered behind the sheet metal, covered his ears, and hoped very much that the shield between him and the bullets was good and thick.

Finally the firing slackened somewhat, from a roar to a din, and he chanced a look past the rusted shield. There was smoke everywhere, people running and yelling and firing their weapons, a sort of general hubbub with guns, and then he noticed the wounded man. Lying immobile on his face behind some sandbags, a pool of blood slowly growing beneath him, one of the defenders, someone he’d never met, had obviously been shot.

“Damn!” swore Justin, rating his chances of surviving actually going out into the open. It didn’t look terribly promising; in fact, it looked downright suicidal. “Damn, damn, damn!”

And then he was up and running, before he’d really even decided to do so, sure that he was about to be shot and/or killed, right into the thick of it. Someone yelled at him to get down and, deciding that this was probably a pretty good piece of advice, he fell to his belly and crawled the rest of the way to the wounded man.

Up close, it became all too apparent to Justin that it didn’t look good for the wounded man; he’d been shot in the head and most of the back of his skull was gone. Gray brain tissue, bright red blood, and jagged ivory bone showed garishly against the yellow soil. Gently, trying to ignore the cacophony all around, he tried the man’s carotid pulse, just to be sure, and confirmed his fears; the man was stone dead. Unsure whether he should try to haul the body to safety, try to cover him with a cloth or something, or just leave the poor fellow, Justin hesitated, wincing at each fresh burst of gunfire and wiping his blood-streaked hands on his pants, until another defender got hit.

This time it was a man he’d met briefly, a small, friendly, red-haired guy named Ted who’d brought their meals one day in quarantine. Today, he’d been manning the parapet, so to speak, and now he screamed in agony and, dropping his rifle and doubling over, fell to the ground and clutched his stomach, where a bright red stain had begun to spread into his white T-shirt. Swearing again, Justin grabbed the medic bag and crawled towards him as quickly as he could.

Crawling up to the writhing, moaning man, Justin told him to lay still and let him have a look, but Ted didn’t seem to hear him and instead rolled into a tighter ball. A natural enough reaction, Justin thought; but what to do about it?

“Relax!” he shouted in Ted’s ear. “I’m a doctor! Hear me?! A doctor!”

Ted’s panic-stricken eyes peered at him for a second and then he gave a sort of shudder and, unclenching himself somewhat, gingerly lay back. As gently as possible, Justin moved the man’s hands from over the wound and tore open the T-shirt, groping for a pressure bandage at the same time, and then saw that there was a neat hole in Ted’s abdomen, just below the diaphragm, from which blood was pumping at a fairly good clip. Wishing he had some antiseptic gel, he slapped the thick plasti-gauze bandage onto the spot, activated the edge strips, and applied gentle pressure. Ted writhed and groaned and cursed, but not so badly that Justin couldn’t keep the bandage in place, and finally the nanotech edge strips caught, the bandage sealed over the wound neat as can be, and the bleeding was staunched. So far, so good.

“Hold this, right here,” shouted Justin, placing Ted’s hands over the bandage. “And try not to move!”

Returning to the bag, he grabbed a mophidrine syrette, noted that it was a one-grain injection (which seemed appropriate—didn’t it?), frantically stripped it open, and jabbed it into Ted’s thigh. Within a minute, the drug took effect and Ted relaxed a bit. Next Justin broke out the uni-plasma and was about to reluctantly attempt the rather tricky job of inserting it into Ted’s arm when there was a tremendous explosion and he rolled onto his face and lay there while the world jumped and skipped in his senses, his ears went quite deaf from an intense ringing, and clods of dirt and small rocks fell on him from the sky like rain. For a long moment, unable to move or even think properly, his only thought was that he must have been killed.

He was still lying there wondering about it when someone loomed over him and he focused in enough to see that it was someone he didn’t know, a fifty-something man with a bald head and a thick goatee, an angry scowl on his weathered features. He was shouting about something and gesticulating, but Justin couldn’t discern a single syllable and had to simply point to his ears and shake his head. The man scowled again and then reached down, grabbed Justin by the shirt front, and roughly directed his attention to one side, where another wounded member of Baron Zero’s defenders had been hit and lay groaning in the dirt amidst a growing pool of her own fluids. Swearing to himself, Justin nodded at the man, whoever he was, and, grabbing the medic’s bag, scrambled towards the wounded fighter.

He was almost there when, seemingly out of thin air, one of the raiders, a wild-eyed young woman with a shaved bald head and an enormous-looking handgun, was right there in front of him. Justin froze, unsure of what to do, but the enemy woman hesitated not one moment; with amazing swiftness, she raised the pistol and pointed it squarely at his face. Instinctively, he threw his hands up, expecting the fatal shot any second, but then, beyond all odds, the woman herself was shot. A neat red hole suddenly appeared in the middle of her forehead, a spray of brains and blood flew from the back of her head, and she went down in an unruly heap. Justin looked around for whoever may have just saved his life, but there was too much smoke and chaos to begin to figure it out. He looked at the woman before him on the ground, but there was obviously no helping her; the puddle of blood beneath what was left of her head told him that. Ruefully, briefly wondering who she’d been, he left her and crouch-ran toward the gut-shot defender.

The rest of the battle blurred together in Justin’s memory. There were more wounds, some severe, some superficial, and plenty more shooting and explosions, but it all blurred into one long phantasmagoria of noise and fire, punctuated by the screams of the wounded and the garish color of arterial blood on the parched ground. His hearing returned, grudgingly, and he hoped that his eardrums hadn’t been perforated, but otherwise he came through it unhurt, if profoundly shocked by the experience. In no more than thirty minutes it was over and, after a few last parting gunshots from either side, the firing stopped and the wind began to blow away the clouds of smoke and dust.

As it turned out, the bald, mustachioed man who’d encouraged his efforts was the House nurse, Denny. He and Baron Zero strolled up just as Justin was finishing with the last of the wounded, an older man named Lou who’d sustained a grazing bullet wound, and gave Justin a pair of big smiles. Zero had a pretty good scrape on one cheek and bits of dirt and plaster in his shaggy hair, and Denny sported a bandage on one lower leg, but they both seemed otherwise uninjured.

“Good work, Doctor,” said Denny earnestly. “I surely do appreciate your help.”

“Yeah, Doc,” nodded Zero. “You saved some good people today. I owe you my thanks, at the very least.”

Feeling both very tired and what he supposed was stress-induced trauma, a sort of detached, numb sensation, Justin looked up at them and frowned.

“I wish,” he said wanly, “that I had not been needed. I… I’m not accustomed to this kind of thing.”

“Aw, you get used to it,” said Zero wearily. “Strange as that seems.”

“What about the wounded?” asked Justin, rising from his knees. “Ted and the others, the ones who’ve been shot?”

Zero looked over at Denny, who shrugged noncommittally, and then back to Justin. “Well…” Zero said sheepishly, “I was kinda hoping that you would work on them.”

“Me?” Justin said sharply. “But those people need operations, complex procedures! I may be able to administer first aid, but I can’t perform surgery!”

“Why not?” asked Zero. “We have everything you’d need, back at the House. Scalpels and forceps and all of that, plus uni-plasma, whole blood, monitors, anesthetic, all kinds of drugs and anti-biotics and such.”

“But,” Justin protested helplessly, “but I’m an epidemiologist! I can’t go cutting into people! What did you do with the wounded before I came, anyway?”

“Our best,” Denny stated. “It’s not like we had any choice, so we just plain did what we had to do. Dug out the slugs, stitched up the holes… some lived, some didn’t.”

“Oh, Lord,” said Justin, holding his head. “What have I gotten myself into?”

Zero clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “It’s OK, Doc,” he said softly. “You don’t have to do it if you’re not up to it. We’ll muddle through. We always have.”

Justin knew that the man was clumsily applying some sort of reverse psychology, but that didn’t change the situation; if he didn’t operate on the wounded, Denny would. And it didn’t sound like Denny was all that great with a scalpel. Finally, heaving a sigh that went right down to his toes, Justin nodded.

“Alright,” he said miserably. “Against my better judgment and every rule of medical ethics, I’ll do it.”

“Good man!” grinned Zero. When Justin didn’t say anything, he again patted him on the shoulder. “Try to look at it this way, Doc—we all have to do stuff that we’re not really qualified to do. I mean, look at me! Do you think I was trained to lead a post-apocalyptic community? Hell no! But we all gotta do what we can. Right?”

“Yes, of course,” said Justin, “but this is different. This involves people’s lives.”

“Thing is,” said Denny gravely, “these people are sure to die if we don’t do something. If I work on ‘em, they just might not. And if you work on ‘em? Well, I’d say they stand a lot better chance. A hell of a lot better.”

“Yes, yes,” said Justin irritably. “I said I’d do it and I will. Now where are the patients?”

Eight hours later, with the last suture in place and all of his patients still alive, Justin stripped off the micro-pore gloves, tossed them into the waste bin with bits of organ and tissue and wads of bloody sponges, sighed deeply, and looked at his two assistants.

“Well,” he said thinly, “we did the best we could. Thank you both for your assistance.”

Cass, looking somewhat frazzled and very tired, only nodded.

“You’re welcome,” said Denny. “And for what it’s worth, I think you did a fine job.”

“Yes, well,” Justin said, “I hope that it was good enough. That hepatic lobectomy was very difficult.”

“I know,” said Denny. “But it’s something that I wouldn’t have even tried. I would have had to oversew the liver, most likely, and who knows if that would’ve worked? No, you should be proud, Doctor. Seriously.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Justin. “But I don’t feel very proud. Let me ask you, though, does this sort of thing—gun battles, that is—do they happen very often?”

“Maybe once or twice a month,” said Denny. “Depends on the time of year. We get a lot more attacks in the summer, but it slacks off in the winter.”

Justin shook his head. “Amazing. Simply amazing. But, as for the wounded, do you have people to monitor their conditions? Because I could really use some rest.”

“Sure thing,” said Denny. “We’ll keep an eye on ‘em. You go get some sleep.”

Justin exhaled slowly and deeply, rotated his cramped shoulders, and nodded. After a quick check to see that all four of his charges were still stable and receiving adequate post-surgery care (which, a bit surprisingly, they were), he collected Cass and followed her to their new quarters on the third floor of the House. Fortunately—and probably primarily due to the look on his face—no one asked about either the battle or the aftermath, and Justin was free to stumble over to an unoccupied bed, flop down, and fall into an exhausted slumber.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Don’t miss the 5th Annual International Street Games! Featuring star Mugger Felix “the Mangler” Hernandez and Handgunning rookie sensation Argument Lewis! Live from the mean streets of downtown Detroit, the 3-day event will also include Safecracking, Freestyle Pimping, Fence Jumping, Hood Chase, and Busted Bottle Matches! Street Games! The only Real sport in the world, punkass!

—TV ad for popular sporting event, 2057

It was hard for the Hunter to sit back and watch the firefight at the Farm. A strong part of him thrilled at the sights, sounds, and smells of battle and yearned to open up with everything he had on the scumbag attackers, but he’d kept himself in check and, with one notable exception, caused neither side any harm. But he’d wanted to help the defenders, mainly because he liked these people. Baron Zero, the Farm, the House, indeed the whole setup, from what he could see and hear from outside observation, was about the best post-Fall enclave he’d ever seen. They had electricity, fresh food, some kind of mercantile system, you name it! In short, a real society. And, unlike New America, the next best in his estimation, it wasn’t run by the Governor. Hell, that fat bastard would never have even considered leading his people in a fight! No, this Zero dude seemed much more like the Hunter’s kind of people.

Through the scope on his slugthrower, he’d kept an eye on the tall guy from the CDC, the one they called Doctor Case; after all, with the Old Man safe inside the House, Case was the only one of the group in which he was technically interested. He’d watched as the fight had broken out and the slugs had started flying, and then (with some admiration) as Case did his doctor thing.

He was still watching when the scrawny banger chick with the bald head had popped up out of the smoke and had made to drill Case between the eyes. Quick as lightning, he scanned the battlefield, but no one noticed Case’s predicament; the doctor was about to be shot dead. Deciding in a millisecond, the Hunter zoomed back in on the enemy woman, sighted his shot, and squeezed the trigger. Among the greater noise, the report from his rifle, coming as it did from almost a half mile away, had gone unnoticed, but the attacking woman had flopped over, head-shot, and died. You owe me one, Doctor, he’d thought.

The rest of the fight didn’t concern him, but he was glad to see the defenders finally win out. With the society they were building, they (unlike the dumb-ass survie gang, who undoubtedly lived for nothing more than their next beer), deserved a chance.

Having watched Case, the Old Man, and the others present themselves to the House’s authorities, the Hunter had considered doing the same, but then decided against it. Even if the CDC folks had never seen him, there was always a risk that someone else might recognize him and tip his hand. After all, he had built something of a name for himself. No, better to stay out in the open, where he could watch and listen and take to the road if things went sour. Besides, with his parabolic mics and high-powered scopes, it was almost like being there, anyway, and he’d managed to not only glean the names and occupations of each of the surviving CDC crew but also of the various officials and methods of Baron Zero’s House. Not that the information really helped him in any tangible way, as these peoples’ names and jobs weren’t anything of concrete value, but then again, he also knew that knowledge was always power. In addition, he’d been able to affix a name to his target: Mr. Howard P. Lampert.

Over the next day or so, watching and listening, hidden in deep foliage with his bike, he had a lot of time to think about what to do next. They were getting close to New America, now; just a quick shot up I-35 into Kansas. By rights, he should probably act soon, before they got any further away from New America. Yes, give them a day or two to get away from the aegis of Baron Zero, then swoop down on them, take the Old Man, and be gone. Of course, this plan might need some fine tuning, depending on the situation, but the basics seemed sound. And then all he’d have to do is deliver Lampert to the Governor. Easy as could be.

But, unbidden, the Hunter’s upper lip curled in disgust at the thought of his employer and, what was more, at the idea of handing Lampert over to him. Normally, the prospect of a job finished and well done gave him a sense of satisfaction and a certain pride, but not this one. This job would bring only regret because, despite his ruthlessness and general lack of empathy, the Hunter still held on to some shreds of ethics and morals. Right was right and wrong was wrong, no matter how chaotic and violent society became, and what the Governor was up to—the abduction and ransom of a human being—was just plain wrong, on all counts. Wrong in the moral sense that no one had the right to own, let alone sell, another human being, wrong in that it would delay or even derail the efforts of the CDC people to formulate a vaccine, and wrong in that it was being ordered and carried out by a pompous, tin-plated dictator like the Governor. Wrong any way he looked at it.

But then again, there were things that were very right about it, too. The pay, for one thing, was more than he’d ever dreamed of. With what he made on this job, he could probably finally quit this lousy occupation and settle down like he’d always wanted, somewhere on the beach in Mexico, and just sip tequila, eat, sleep, and watch the waves roll in.

Beyond that, there was his reputation to consider. If he was to fail to bring in Lampert, he would be marked; every other hunter and scumbag in the entire Southwest would be on his ass and, even worse, word of his failure would spread and no one would want to hire him. And that meant bye, bye Mexico.

So what to do? In the end, as he watched Case and the others prepare to leave the House, he still wasn’t sure. But then, he was certain he’d think of something when the time came. He always did.

Chapter Twenty-Five

No one likes going to the dentist. It’s a fact. But now, you don’t have to! With our new patented nanotechnology, all you have to do is to take Dentisure, once a week. That’s all! When you do, thousands of microscopic nanobots, harmless wonders of modern technology, will thoroughly clean, scrub, and polish those pearly whites! With upgrades, Dentisure can even realign those crooked teeth! Don’t sit through another boring, painful visit to the dentist! Use Dentisure today!

—TV ad for Globo-Chem product, circa 2058

Next day, having seen to his patients (all doing as well as could be hoped) Justin set off to see Baron Zero. After a few wrong turns, he finally found the man’s office, where a receptionist, a middle-aged woman with striking red hair and round, pale features, looked up at his approach and smiled.

“Dr. Case, isn’t it?” she said charmingly.

“Kaes, actually,” said Justin. “Like a group of small islands. But yes, that’s me. I was wondering if I might speak with Baron Zero.”

“Well of course!” she beamed. “Just go right in!”

Thanking her, Justin did just that and found himself again in the capacious, cluttered office.

“Hey, Doctor Kaes!” Zero said, as soon as Justin was in view. “I was wondering when you were gonna show up.”

“Yes?” said Justin, noting a small nano-gauze bandage on the man’s cheek from the scrape incurred at the Farm. “And why were you wondering that?”

“Just a feeling,” said Zero, taking his seat behind the desk. “So what’s on your mind, Doc? Something I can do for you or your people?”

Justin frowned slightly. “Well,” he said, “for one thing, the individuals with whom I’m traveling are not “my people”, although I can see where one might get that impression.”

“No?” said Zero, smiling. “Then what are they, exactly?”

“Hmm, well,” Justin said slowly, “they’re something of a mixed bag, really. Mr. Lampert, of course, is my patient. Barbara Cass and Erin Swails are colleagues. Bowler is what I can only describe as a hanger-on, and Teresa? Well, when it comes to her, I can’t honestly say.”

“Not a girlfriend?” asked Zero. “If that’s not too personal to answer, of course.”

Justin frowned again and shrugged. “No,” he said, after a pensive pause. “I wouldn’t say that. I explained all this earlier, didn’t I?”

“Oh, I know,” Zero nodded. “And I didn’t mean any harm by the “your people” thing. Just seems like you’re the leader is all.”

“Completely and utterly by default, I assure you. But that’s not really what I wanted to talk about.”

“No? And what did you wanna talk about?”

“Our departure,” said Justin. “I don’t want to be rude or impertinent, but every day that goes by means that Mr. Lampert is that much older. And, as I said before, we absolutely need to get him to California alive. So, as you can see, any delay might be, well, disastrous.”

“Yeah,” said Zero laconically, “that whole one foot in the grave thing, I know. Here’s the deal, Doc; I sent some scouts out yesterday to have a look around and see what it looks like to the West. They should get back, oh, probably by tomorrow night, and then we’ll know what’s goin’ on out there.”

“Going on? What would be going on?”

“Hopefully, not much,” said Zero. “But who knows, right? With any luck, it’ll just be the usual bangers and survies, but you can never tell what’s gonna, like, develop out there, you know? One gang is always shovin’ another gang off of their turf, which causes turf wars, and there’s always the Muties, further west, always something. I just figured that we’d better have a look. Didn’t wanna send you off straight into some nasty survie shitstorm, right?”

“Indeed,” said Justin, nodding. “That does seem prudent.”

“And,” Zero said, holding up an index finger, “I think I found just the vehicle for you and your peop—uh, group. Wanna see it?”

“A vehicle? Really?”

“Yeah, it’s right down in the garage. C’mon, I’ll show ya.”

Intrigued, Justin followed Zero down some stairs and through some doors, into the massive ground floor garage and into one corner where a pair of oil-streaked mechanics, one male, one female, were toiling away on the oddest-looking car Justin had ever seen. It had a great big panel mounted on the roof, for one thing, there were all kinds of wires running along its flanks, the tires seemed to be solid and made of metal, and the passenger compartment, while spacious enough, looked to be a collection of mismatched car seats. It had once been an autocar, he could see that much, but as to what brand or model, the modifications made it impossible to tell. All in all, especially compared to the other vehicles in the garage, all big, truck-like monsters, to Justin this thing looked like a diminutive, cobbled-together piece of junk.

“Well, whataya think?” asked Zero, pacing around the car. Noticing Justin’s somewhat crestfallen mien, he hastily added, “Oh, I know it doesn’t look like much, but this little baby’s your best shot at making the coast, believe me.”

“Oh?” said Justin. “And why is that, if I might be so inquisitive?”

“Jerry?” said Zero, turning to one of the mechanics. “You care to field that?”

“Well, it’s solar powered, for one thing,” said Jerry proudly, stepping up to indicate the panel on the roof, “so no need for gas or hydro. It’s got solid tires, made of ceramics, so you can’t get a flat, and the chassis and frame are reinforced with solid, welded steel plates. It’s got a broad-scan radio, a separate two-way radio system for localized com situations, plus infrared and ultraviolet sensors so you can see things in the dark. It’s got double-strength shocks, electricals, and servos, triple-strength halogen headlights, and can carry up to eight people comfortably. Ten in a pinch.”

“Wow!” said Justin, genuinely impressed. “That’s pretty amazing.”

“Thought you’d like it, “ said Baron Zero. “And it sure beats nothing, huh Doc? Now, she won’t go too fast—only about forty miles an hour at top speed—but she’s tough and dependable and, well, as I see it, just about your best shot at the coast. So? Whataya think?”

“Amazing,” said Justin. “Simply amazing. And I can’t tell you how grateful I am. I had thought we were going to have to walk.”

“All the way to Cali?” said Zero. “No, you take the car. You’re gonna need it.”

“Does this mean,” said Justin cagily, “that you’ve decided that we have a chance to make it there after all?”

“No, not really,” Zero shrugged. “But what kinda guy would I be if I just cut you loose and sent you out with nothing but the clothes on your back? I mean, hell, you might not stand much of a chance, but you sure deserve a shot. All I’m doing is trying to even the odds a little.”

“Well, I appreciate it,” Justin said. “Very much. Especially after all you’ve done for us already.”

“Oh, I ain’t done yet,” said Zero slyly, gently guiding Justin away from the mechanics. “This car is just the icing on the cake. See, we’re gonna pack this thing with everything you’ll need—food, water, guns, ammo, you name it. Plus, I’m gonna send one of my people with you, if that’s OK.”

“May I ask why?”

“Mainly ‘cause he wants to go,” said Zero. “But also because I think you’re a good guy and deserve all the help you can get. Sure, this mission of yours is crazy and probably hopeless, but then what isn’t nowadays, right? And this guy could make the difference.”

“Of whom are we speaking?” asked Justin. “Is it someone I’ve met?”

Baron Zero nodded. “You remember Cornell, right?”

“Of course. Your head of security.”

“Well, he’s originally from California,” said Zero. “San Diego, specifically, and he wants to get back there to see if any of his family made it through the Fall. He’s a good guy, Doc, and what’s more, he’s a demon in a fight. If I was you, I’d agree to let him go.”

“Very well,” said Justin, thinking that he could most certainly use all the help he could get. “Mr. Cornell will accompany us. And I welcome the assistance, and all of the supplies.”

“Eh,” Zero said dismissively. “You’re gonna need it a whole lot more than we will. So there you have it, Doc. My humble contribution to saving the human race, I guess. And in a day or two, the scouts’ll came back, we’ll get an idea of what’s out there, and then? Well, then I guess you’ll be on your way.”

“Such as it is,” said Justin gloomily. “I just wish we hadn’t lost all of our vehicles and gear, back with those horrible cannibals.”

“Yeah, that sucks,” said Zero. “But then, you didn’t lose everything and, well, when you think about it, we’ve all lost quite a bit, haven’t we?”

“Yes,” said Justin, “we have.” Then he had to ask, just to be civil and reciprocating, despite the fact that he really didn’t want to, “But what about your… condition? Your hernia, that is.”

“What about it?”

“Well,” said Justin, “I probably shouldn’t bring it up, since you didn’t seem prone to, but I could, if you were so inclined, perform an operation. Not that I want to, of course, but…”

“Uh, I don’t think so,” said Zero. “I mean, you’re obviously perfectly capable and all, it’s just, well, you said it yourself. You’re an epidemiologist, not a surgeon. I think I’ll just hold off on that for the time being.”

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Justin said, suppressing a sigh of relief. “And from what you’ve told me, I don’t think it will be life-threatening.”

“So, alright, then,” said Baron Zero. “Is there anything else I can do for you? Like, at the moment? Because otherwise, these are my Office Hours and I really should get back.”

“No, I think that’s all,” said Justin. “And thanks again. For everything.”

“Don’t mention it, Doc,” said Zero jovially. “Hell, if you actually make it Cali, just put in a good word for me, huh?”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Tom Hartingford: Alcoholic, certifiably unstable, a spouse-beater and an abuser of illegal drugs, convicted three times of corruption and graft. Is this really the sort of man we want to reelect to Congress?

—campaign ad, George S. Parkinson for U.S. Senate, 2054

As he negotiated the House after the meeting with Zero, wandering a bit, Justin came upon none other than the Old Man, apparently delivering some sort of lecture. Seated on the top step of a staircase, he was surrounded on all sides by a few dozen House residents, with Teresa at his feet, and was, in his usual bombastic fashion, holding forth to what appeared a more or less rapt audience:

“…and it never was a democracy, anyway,” he was saying as Justin arrived. “It was a representative republic. A democracy means one man, one vote, and that sure as shit wasn’t the case! Far as I can see, though, the main problem was that people were just plain stupid. Not surprising, considering the way the GOP was always gutting the public school system, one way or another, but still, these people were fucking dumb, OK? They swallowed just about every single lie, no matter how crazy and contradictory, and they voted for these dumb-ass Neocon jerks like they were the Second Coming! Like, oh yeah, let’s spend like a drunken sailor on leave, but no way will we raise taxes to pay for it. And especially not on the rich! No, if anybody’s gonna pay, it’ll be the regular Joes, the working people, and, like I said, they were just too goddamned stupid to see that they were bein’ ripped off! So there you go. That’s about all I remember about that time, turn of the century U.S. Greedy stuffed shirts and a voting public too stupid to see the problem.”

Suddenly a dozen urgent hands shot up in the crowd, just as if Lampert was a president or CEO fielding questions at a press conference. The Old Man paused, had a sip from a can of beer he’d gotten from somewhere, and surveyed the throng, obviously about to field another lucky resident’s question. Seeing an opportunity, Justin interrupted, striding through the crowd and up the stairs. Lampert watched him approach, drinking his beer, and then grinned.

“Howdy, Doc!” he said, his usually sharp eyes a bit unfocused. “Just givin’ the kids here a little history lesson.”

“So I see,” said Justin. “But I think maybe it’s time for you to return to our rooms. It looks like you’ve had a big day.”

Lampert grunted and polished off the can of beer. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said grudgingly. “I am gettin’ kinda sleepy.” He looked to the assembled House dwellers. “I guess that’s it, children,” he said expansively. “Thus endeth the lesson for today. And remember: read all you can and don’t believe everything you read!”

To much clapping and some hearty cheers, waving the beer can, Lampert took his seat in the wheelchair and Teresa rolled him away. As they negotiated the many twists and turns, she kept up a steady stream of questions for Lampert, most of which apparently centered on early 21st-century politics. Obligingly, Lampert answered each one, but seemed to be losing steam. Finally, as they reached the door to their quarters, the Old Man gave an exasperated kind of sigh and looked up at her.

“Let’s give it a rest, huh kid?” he said, not unkindly. “We’ll talk some more later, but I’m an old man and all this activity’s wearin’ me out.”

That and the beer you drank, thought Justin. But Teresa only smiled and nodded.

“OK, Howie,” she said sweetly. “I go see what we got for eatin’, hey?”

And, tossing her head, she left them alone in the hallway. Justin slowly looked down at Lampert.

“Howie?” he said, arching an eyebrow. “Since when does she—or anyone else—call you Howie? If I may be so blunt as to ask.”

Lampert laughed shrugged. “Since I told ‘em to. It’s what people always called me Before, so…” He paused to peer at Justin for a moment. Then: “Whassa matter, Doc? You ain’t jealous are ya?”

“What?” Justin said abruptly, blinking. “Me? No, of course not! I just find it interesting that you prefer Teresa—a beautiful young woman—to address you so familiarly, while the rest of us seem constrained to—”

“Aw, knock it off, Doc,” Lampert interrupted. “Don’t get your shorts in a knot. She’s way too young for me, anyway. Plus, she’s too damned smart, asks too many damn questions, you know? Anyhow, did you get to talk to the Man? Doctor Zero?”

“Er, well, yes,” said Justin, adjusting. “I did, as a matter of fact.”

“And?” said Lampert. “What’s new with Mr. Kurtz?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Justin shook his head. “I don’t understand. Mr. Kurtz?”

“Din’t ya ever read Heart of Darkness? Joseph Conrad?”

Justin shook again. “I’m afraid not. I’ve heard of it.”

The Old Man snorted. “Eggheads…” he said under his breath. Then: “Well, you should check it out some time, Doc. Good book.”

“And,” Justin coaxed, “what? It’s in some way applicable to our present situation, I take it?”

“Sorta,” said Lampert vaguely. Then he shifted in his chair to look at Justin. “Hey, Doc, do me a favor, huh? Roll me down the hallway. There’s a little balcony-thing down there where I can smoke.”

Justin frowned. “Where did you get cigarettes?” Then he shook his head. “Never mind, I don’t think I want to know. But are you asking me, your physician, to help you to smoke?”

“Yup. How ‘bout it?”

“If I do, will you tell me about this Mr. Kurtz?”

“Sure thing.”

“Fine then,” sighed Justin. “Just don’t tell the AMA, alright?”

“Deal.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

It’s raining, it’s pouring

The old man is snoring.

Bumped his head

And he went to bed

And he couldn’t get up in the morning.

—nursery rhyme, traditional

Surveying the decaying, overgrown building, the Kid finally decided, after much deliberation, that this was the best place he’d found and that he’d be unlikely to find better. It was secure, for one thing, made of some kind of square rocks and with only two means of access, and not too close to anything else. There was no sign of Howlers having been there, no telltale urine puddles from Rippers or Screamers, and no swarms of Biters. It was a little too close to one of those long ribbons of white-striped black ground, but then, these things seemed to be everywhere out here beyond the woods, so what was he to do?

The place was also partly filled with all kinds of stuff that he didn’t recognize but that he knew, by virtue of their constituent materials, were not made by Nature. He was aware of the fact that there were such things as other people; he’d seen quite a few of them, always at a distance, and had finally concluded that these large versions of himself were something to be avoided. They acted crazy, for one thing, chasing and hurting each other for no apparent reason, and they always seemed to have some odd kind of strange, flame-spouting, incredibly loud weapons that he instinctively feared. They moved around in bizarre box-like things that spewed smoke and noise, like angular animals made of brightly-colored stuff like polished rock, and they seemed to always travel in packs of two or more. All in all, the Kid had decided, they were even worse than his other foes. At least Howlers didn’t have bang-weapons or shiny animal mounts!

In his mind, when he had the rare moment of leisure in which to think about it, the Kid sensed that all of this, the flat black spaces, the weird, intricate objects, the Big People and their noisy things, all meant something. It wasn’t a kinship or familiarity with such things, rather a feeling that it should all signify something, that it related somehow to the Big People, and that he himself was in some way connected to it all.

Maybe it was like the great bug mounds and critter villages he’d encountered, where the animals actually built things; maybe the Big People built things, too. But then again, why did they build things and then either abandon or destroy them? He’d seen plenty of their mounts lying dead by the sides of the black spaces. He’d seen more than a few places like this, his prospective new home, only completely wrecked or burned up. Everywhere he went, in fact, there were little bits and pieces of this alien stuff, and most of it had been obviously damaged or broken. To him, it just didn’t make sense; why build all of these things only to destroy them or leave them behind? The bugs and the critters didn’t do that! What would be the point?

Of course, he’d also had to leave his things behind; the fine pile of hopper pelts with which he’d lined his cave were now long gone. So maybe that was it. Maybe the Big People had had to leave their things when they were attacked. It made sense, but it also meant that, given the sheer amount of places and things not of Nature, there must have been a whole lot of attackers; it would have taken a great many Howlers to account for that! At any rate, it was usually at about this point that something (like the need for food or water) intruded on his thoughts and he’d have to put them away for later. Always, though, the little connections were made, the thoughts linked one to the other, and his conjecture and wondering grew and slowly became theory. In time, maybe he’d finally make sense of it.

Now, though, he had other things to worry about. The new place still needed to be completely checked out, he still had to get water (luckily, there was a small lake only about a quarter mile away), and it would be dark before too long. Cold, too, if he was any judge. He’d have to hunt soon, as well, but he could wait till morning for that. With a resolute nod, he hefted his tire iron and slowly entered his new home.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

So what if you got all the money?

Still can’t tell me if it’s raining or it’s sunny.

And when you die, where does it go?

To your worthless spawn, the Forbes 400 freak show!

—lyrics from Proletariat Robots by The Skull Monkeys, Ebola Records, 2057

The next day, everything seemed to be going well as far as their departure was concerned when the mission was dealt somewhat of a blow. It didn’t derail their efforts, by any means, and it didn’t mean that they were any more or less doomed, but to Justin it felt like someone had punched him violently in the stomach: Teresa wasn’t coming.

He and the others had been packing their personal things that morning when Justin had noticed that Teresa, while hovering about at hand, wasn’t making the least effort to join them.

“You should get packed,” he’d said.

“I ain’t goin’,” she’d said, and there it was, a nice big haymaker in the belly. Ooof!

“What?” said Justin, when she made no word of explanation. “You’re not going with us? But why not?”

“Why should I?” she shrugged, a deadly spark in her lovely eyes. “Ain’t nothin’ out there they ain’t got here. An’ I don’ wanna die on the road like some hopper under a truck. Or get shot by some banger for my food. Besides, ya know what they got here, Case? A school! A real, no-shit school, like Before! I gonna learn ta read an’ write and arthimajig and all that ploop!”

Crestfallen as could be, Justin did his best to shrug it off and seem unconcerned, but it wasn’t at all easy. What was more, he could feel the eyes of the others on him, judging his reaction. With a frown, he turned to them.

“Could we have some privacy, please?” he asked, hearing the tightness in his voice. “Just for a moment.”

The others all nodded gravely and, leaving their belongings, shuffled out into the hallway. Justin closed the door after them and then, fighting a hot lump in his throat, turned to Teresa, who stood with her arms crossed and a serious look on her face. He thought for a second about the various surveillance devices in the room and about who might be watching—and why—but thought to himself, to hell with it-let ‘em watch.

“Please, you have to reconsider,” he told Teresa, trying not to sound too desperate. “We need your help!”

“I don’ have to do nothin’ Case,” she said sullenly. “Don’cha know that by now? ‘Sides, you don’ really need my help. You gonna have that car, all that gear, plus that Cornell dude, who one ripper maximum in a fight, believe it. Naw, you be OK without me.”

“But,” said Justin, a pit-like feeling in his stomach. “What about California? Don’t you want to live somewhere decent? Without all the bangers and survies?”

“Meh,” she shrugged. “I ain’t so sure they is such a place. An’ even if they is, it can’t be that hot ploop, like they say. Nowhere is. And anyway, this here place is the safest I ever seen. You can sleep at night, they gots that kick-shit runnin’ water, you don’ hafta crap outdoors. They got food, water, smoke, a whole crew watchin’ yer back, everything you need, hey? Plus, like I say, a real got-dammit school! Now, far as I can see, this is good as it gonna get. I be total doopy to leave.”

He had to admit that, vernacular aside, she made a lot of good points, but his sinking heart wouldn’t let him give up so easily.

“Then what about my mission?” he asked. “Don’t you want to help me to save all those lives? To save the human race?”

“Eh, I ain’t so sure ‘bout that, neither,” she said dismissively. “I mean, we ain’t dead, is we? An’ we been aroun’ folks with the Sick. So what up with that? Way I hear it, if I ain’t caught the Sick by now, I ain’t gonna. An’ that’s same for all people. We like, what-you-call-it—immune. Anyway, s’what I heard.”

“But that’s only partly true!” Justin protested. “This virus is different. It mutates! It changes, becomes a new strain, and then goes right on infecting people. It is true that you and I and probably everyone here at the House is immune, but that’s only to the present strain. And once it has a chance to mutate, it will return. Do you understand? If we don’t find an antivirus, it’s only a matter of time.” He paused as she paced back and forth a little. Then a thought occurred: “May I ask, who exactly you heard that from? That we are all immune?”

She stopped and shrugged. “Howie,” she said. “He know all kinda ploop, hey?”

Justin sighed raggedly, scrubbing his face with one hand. “Mr. Lampert,” he spat, like a curse. “Of course.” He looked back to her. “Teresa, look,” he said, trying for his best, authoritative tones, “Mr. Lampert is not an epidemiologist. He’s not a doctor, of any kind. He’s not even a scientist. He was a car salesman Before! And now? Well, now he’s a bitter, cynical old man. I know that you like him and that he can be very persuasive, but he doesn’t know what he’s talking about! This virus will mutate and it will return. Until everyone is dead. Understand? Everyone.”

She looked sort of frightened, just for a moment, her eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar, but then the accustomed hardness came back to her beautiful eyes and she shook her head.

“It don’ matter, Case,” she said. “I a’ready made up my mind. I’m stayin’.”

Down to his last argument, Justin slumped and then, desperately fearful of how she was going to respond, played the last card in his hand.

“What about us?” he said softly. “What about what we’ve shared? Does that mean nothing to you? You won’t miss me?”

“Sure I miss ya,” she said levelly. “An’ ‘specially at night. But I don’ know ‘bout the two of us, as in a couple, know what I say? I mean, you a big-shot whitecoat. You gots this big mission you on, an’ like, people to save and all. You an important man, hey? An’ me? I just another banger girl, jus’ like all the others. I prob’ly be better off with someone like me, hey?”

Justin sighed again, the pit in his stomach widening into a chasm. Again, he had to admit that she made a good point; they were very different people and if they hadn’t been thrown together by circumstance, probably would never have even crossed paths. In a time of peace and normality—say, Before—they would have gotten along like oil and water. Nonetheless, the very thought of losing her, of never seeing her again, hit him so hard that he almost broke into tears. With great effort, he fought down the urge, but Teresa could obviously sense his pain.

“Aw, it ain’t so bad, Case,” she said, in about the sweetest tones he’d ever heard from her. “You gonna go on you mission, gonna save the humanity race and all, and I gonna learn to read an’ write an’ all that good groop. And who know, hey? If you make it to Cali an’ save ever’body, mebbe you can come back! ‘Course, I might move on some day, but like I say, who know what could happen?”

Justin groaned. “Yes, there’s always that possibility,” he said bleakly, his chest tight and his eyes hot with repressed tears. “However remote.” He looked at her closely and she stared back. “I will miss you, Teresa. You may have assaulted me and kidnapped me and dragged me from the only world I’ve ever known, but you also saved my life. And for that, I owe you my thanks. As for the rest, well, I feel that I have to tell you that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever known. You are smart, funny, capable, tough, and well, just simply amazing. I don’t know how exactly I’m going to deal with being away from you, but you’re right. I have my mission. And that’s all that really matters.”

They were quiet for a moment. Teresa, blushing slightly, shuffled her boot-clad feet and then, nearly melting his heart, looked up at him coquettishly and batted her eyes.

“Ya wanna do it?” she breathed. “Like, one more time ‘fore ya go?”

Suddenly every fiber of his body wanted to take her in his arms, to kiss her and touch her and be with her in every sense, but it was only a fleeting, animal impulse, and he mastered it and shook his head.

“No, Teresa,” he said, managing a wan smile. “That would just cheapen it. Let’s just leave things as they are. Besides, we really need to get going.”

Teresa sulked a little, pouting so sexily that he almost changed his mind, but then she shrugged nonchalantly and smiled back.

“Yeah, you right,” she said. “That ol’ man o’ yours ain’t gettin’ any younger, hey?”

“That he is not,” sighed Justin, going to let the others back into the room. “That he most certainly is not.”

The final preparations for their departure were a sort of dull blur to him after that and he left most of it to Cass, who was more than up to the job, and just floated through the effort. He did check on his patients in the infirmary, of course, but they all seemed pretty much the same, recovery-wise, so he gave Nurse Denny a few more pieces of advice—mainly to watch out for post-operative infections—and then quietly made himself scarce.

Then there was the packing, including loading everything into the car, plus a long session with Baron Zero, some maps, and the scouts who’d been out on reconnaissance, but nothing about this seemed too dire—or even all that important—and, deciding that he’d like to just plain leave now and get it over with, he merely nodded along and tried to look interested until it was over. Internally, he felt as if his emotions had been scoured by steel wool, but he managed to at least seem like he was listening and so they were finally given more thanks and praise and last-minute gifts—all of which he didn’t really register—and it was about time to shove off.

He saw her one more time, just as they were about to leave. A fair number of residents, maybe thirty or forty of them, plus Zero and his staff, all turned out to see them off that morning and Teresa was with them. Justin, sitting in the passenger seat of the car, searched the crowd of faces until he found her and, even at a distance and among all of the distraction, their eyes locked. Then, giving a slight, sexy scowl, she parted from the crowd and, dashing forward, ran up to the car window, grabbed him in an awkward hug, and gave him a deep, passionate kiss that brought Oohs from the assembled throng and a feeling like hot lava to Justin’s chest. Ignoring the hooting crowd, they looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment, and then she said: “Bye for now, Justin Case. Take care o’ yerself, and stay lucky, hey?”

“Goodbye, Teresa,” he said, blushing like mad and not caring a whit. “Good luck to you, as well. I will never forget you.”

And then tears welled in her eyes, the first he’d ever seen, and, her beautiful features scrunching up in pain, she whirled, ran away, and was quickly lost in the crowd. Next to Justin, Cornell waved to the send-off party through the window and then turned to Justin.

“Well, Doc?” he said. “Shall we?”

Justin nodded. “Yes,” he said woodenly, settling into his seat. “Let’s go.”

If the others had anything to say about this tragic, romantic little scene—or anything else, for that matter—no one saw fit to give it voice. Neither Erin Swails or Barbara Cass, nor Bowler or Cornell. Even Lampert was quiet as they rolled out of the garage and into the bright Oklahoma sunlight. Once on the weed-grown asphalt and gaining some speed, they put Baron Zero, his remarkable House, and the whole strange experience behind them, never to be seen again.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Don’t use gasoline, don’t pollute the earth!

Don’t buy a gas-burner, buy a brand new Mirth!

—jingle in TV autocar ad, United American Motors’ Mirth, model year 2055

“So, Bowler, what’s yer story, anyway?” asked the Old Man.

It was well after sundown. After a long, long day of bumping along in the car in almost complete silence, they’d finally made camp on the side of the road and now were all huddled around a small wood fire. They’d had some food, the freshest of their provisions, as they were the most perishable, and had set up a big, six-man tent in which to sleep. For Justin, these and all of the other efforts of the day were mainly lost, as he more or less wallowed in self-pity and the sharp sting of bereavement, and let the others guide the course of things and do most of the actual work.

Now, though, with a good meal under his belt, in the coolness of night after a hot day, things didn’t seem quite so bad (as in, maybe he wasn’t permanently crippled by sadness and loss after all) and he forced himself to shrug it off as best he could and to sit up and pay attention. At the moment, everyone was looking at young Bowler, who now gave a shrug and finished chewing something.

“Ain’t much to tell,” Bowler said. “I used to be a baggage handler for Trans-World, at Miami International. But that wasn’t much to speak of. Just slingin’ bags. Had a little place, not too far from the water, and, you know, friends and all…” He trailed off slowly, in unspoken homage to the dead, as most people did these days when speaking of Before. “Basically, though,” he continued, “I guess my life was pretty boring. Before the Plague, that is. Then things got real interesting. But then, you all know what that was like.”

With that, a lull had fallen over the conversation and things went very quiet, with only the crackle of the fire. Then, from somewhere not very far away, a coyote’s bay split the night like a siren and they all jumped in surprise and shot worried glances into the shadows.

“That’s a coyote, right?” Bowler asked nervously. “Right?”

“Yup,” said Cornell, sitting with his back against the nearby car. “Since the Fall, they been multiplyin’ like rats. Too much good scavenging. Nothin’ to worry about, though. They won’t come anywhere near the fire.”

“Uh huh,” said Bowler. “So we better keep the fire goin’, huh? Like all night?”

“Yup,” said Cornell again. “And we’ll post a watch, too. Matter of fact, if no one objects, I think we oughta do that every night from here on out.”

Everyone looked at Justin, obviously for approval or disapproval, and suddenly, for no apparent reason, the whole weight of what had happened in the last few years fell on him like a couple of tons of bricks. The sickness, the death, the mountains of dead bodies. The brutality, madness, and casual savagery. The crushing sense that everything had come to an end and the accompanying feelings of total helplessness. The horror, the pain, and enough loss for several human life-times all of a sudden crashed over him like a tidal wave and he almost fainted from the accumulated stress and anxiety.

It wasn’t easy, but he controlled the urge to scream or sob (or both) and, setting his face resolutely, nodded curtly to the expectant faces.

“That sounds fine,” he said stiffly. “By all means, set watches.”

There must have been something noticeable in his voice, because the Old Man (damn his shriveled hide) cocked his head at Justin curiously.

“You OK, Doc?” he said, in that horrible nasal voice. “You don’t sound so good…”

“I’m fine,” said Justin, staring into the darkness. Then, before anyone could say anything more, he stood up and, trying not to reel, walked away from the fire, around to the other side of the car. Blessedly, no one followed.

For a long moment, leaning on the car, he simply held himself in check. If he was to break down now, to let vent all of the years-long store of terror and repugnance, he would start to cry. And if he started to cry, he wasn’t at all sure that he’d ever stop. So he stood and shook and, feeling like a champagne bottle maliciously shaken, fought to banish the memories and raw emotions to some part of his mind where they wouldn’t threaten to send him off the deep end. He was still struggling when his eyes, wandering randomly, fell on something in the car and, despite a tiny little voice in his head saying not to, he reached in and grabbed a bottle of whiskey.

For a moment he stood and stared at the bottle. It was one of ten that they’d been given by Zero to use as barter. Fresh from an old-fashioned corn mash still on Zero’s farm, it was a brown bottle with a hand-drawn label which read ‘Old Mack’s Pure Whiskey, Baron Zero’s Farm.’ It was probably very strong, maybe as high as 150 proof, and Justin had never been much of a drinker, even back in college, but in the end there was barely any internal debate involved as he roughly spun off the screw top, tipped the bottle up, and had a good long slug.

At first he was sure he would vomit; the liquor felt like molten metal going down his throat and burned all the way down to his stomach. His mouth filled with saliva and when he exhaled his breath felt like he could have lit it with a match. Doubling over, he set the bottle on the ground and, hands on his knees, breathed deeply for a minute or two. Then his stomach relaxed, numbed into submission by the raw spirits, and a warm glow began to spread through his whole body. Straightening up, he swallowed hard and had a few deep breaths, and then the vision of a flaming pile of corpses flashed into his head and he grabbed the bottle from the ground and had another long pull.

Fuck it, he thought angrily. Just fuck it all. Fuck the Old Man and all of them. He’d done everything he could; he’d done more than his share and gone above and beyond the Hippocratic Oath. And it wasn’t good enough. So just fuck it all and forget about it.

Already feeling wobbly and considerably buzzed, he walked a few yards away from the car and sat down on what was left of a roadside guard rail, and took another long, molten metal swallow. There were still images and memories and emotions pressing on him, but the booze was quick, and after another couple of drinks, they all sort of bled into one another and, blunted and disarranged, no longer posed much of a threat. In fact, suddenly nothing seemed like much of a threat. The booze was like some kind of Novocain for the horror and he found that it felt very good to feel nothing at all. And another drink!

The last thing he recalled was someone—probably Cass—approaching him. She’d looked concerned, and suddenly he’d felt very angry, and then… nothing. The white lightning shorted out the ability in his brain to record events for recall and he descended into the first drunken blackout of his life.

Chapter Thirty

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Red. A red wall. Then nothing.

The need to pee, very urgent, some stumbling and cursing, then sweet relief. Then nothing.

The red wall again. What was that, anyway? Some noises, people talking. Then nothing.

Again with the red wall, and suddenly a splitting headache, like his whole head wanted to crack open and scream, and a sudden, greasy spasm wracked his stomach. His mouth felt like he’d slept with an alcohol-soaked ball of cotton in there, and his eyeballs like there was ground glass under the lids. And what was that red wall?!

Then it came to him; it was the wall of the tent. The tent Baron Zero had given them, where he’d slept last night. Last night! What had happened? Through the pain and nausea, he tried to remember, but there was just plain nothing there to recall. He remembered drinking, of course, and the crushing despair that had led to it, and then Cass talking to him, and then it was as if someone had erased that part of the recording. Blank as a new slate.

Issuing a groan that resonated from his aching head to his aching feet, he rolled onto his back, absently noting that he was alone in the tent, and tried to think, but there really wasn’t anything to think about and he soon gave up. It seemed to be well into the day, judging from the sunlight on the tent. How long had he slept? Looking around, he saw that, aside from himself and his sleeping bag, the tent was empty. Likely the others had already packed up.

With another groan, he sat up, precipitating a fresh wave of nausea and headache, and then painfully got to his feet. The world swayed and wobbled for a moment as he gained his balance, but after a pause for a few deep breaths he felt slightly better. His mouth still tasted of liquor and vomit, his tongue like a wooly caterpillar, and his eyeballs burned like he’d been maced. He managed, however, to unzip the flap and step out into the harsh glare of a midday sun, and then very nearly stepped right back into the tent. They were all there, waiting for him, and the looks on their faces told him that he must have done or said something pretty bad in the course of his drunken binge. But what?

They all looked up as he emerged from the tent. Cornell, doing something under the hood of the car, glanced up and an expression of deep disgust came to his face as he shook his head and went back to whatever he was doing. Bowler, sitting in the shade of an old highway sign, sadly looked down at his feet, and Erin Swails, standing to one side, did the same. Barb Cass, packing up some cooking utensils, gave him a long, hard sort of look and then nodded to him, not all that warmly, and went back to her packing. It was Mr. Lampert, for some reason, whose expression he was most loath to read, but finally he looked at the Old Man and saw that, for whatever reason, Lampert’s face was a study in calm, like his wrinkled, prune-like features had been set in stone.

“Hiya, Doc,” he said, his tone as flat as his face. “You, uh… you OK?”

“I…” Justin tried and then had to pause to cough, violently and deeply, before trying again. “I feel awful,” he said, holding his head with one hand and his belly with the other. “Simply awful.”

“Oh yeah?” said Lampert. “Well, good.”

Wondering what that might mean, coming from Lampert, Justin grimaced and then, spying the ten-gallon potable water bladder on the side of the car, complete with a tin drinking cup, went over and poured a whole cup. Going down, warm and stale as it was, the water felt like Life itself returning to his tortured system and he had another two cups before replacing it. He considered something to eat for a second, but the way his stomach writhed from merely trying to cope with water dissuaded him. He wiped his face with both hands and turned back to the others.

“We should get moving,” he said, as steadily as he could. “I’m sorry for what happened, and that I overslept, but we should go.”

Sulkily, they all sort of shrugged and then went to put the last of their things—including the tent— into the car. Justin sat in the passenger’s seat and waited, trying desperately to recall what he may have said or done to the others, especially to the Old Man, but it was simply no use; there was just nothing there. At last, they loaded up the last of it and themselves and, the car whirring a lot more loudly than he’d remembered, they rolled onto the road and got underway.

For most of the morning, Justin simply sat in his seat, watched the landscape roll past, and wondered how on earth anyone could live with this thing known as a hangover. Even at the CDC, there had been heavy drinkers, people who got drunk at least once a week, and now, experiencing the aftermath of this himself, Justin couldn’t begin to fathom why anyone would think this pain and nausea a fair trade for intoxication. No, it just wasn’t worth it, and he told himself, over and over again, that he would never, ever drink again. Just the thought of the stuff almost made him throw up.

He also felt deeply ashamed, of course, but it was, in the absence of the facts of what he’d actually done and said, a nebulous, vague sort of shame that was, in its very nature, even more disturbing and shameful than any normal sense of remorse. To put it another way, he couldn’t feel bad about what he couldn’t remember, but he felt plenty bad about what he could.

Normally there was chatter in the car, little conversations about this or that, but this morning everyone was silent. Whatever he’d said and done had certainly made an impression! Content with the quiet, in a sour, sick sort of way, Justin let the silence reign.

At their stop for lunch, when everyone was stretching their legs and making something to eat, he drew Bowler off to one side and quietly put the question to the younger man.

“What did I do last night?” he said. “What did I say?”

Bowler shuffled his feet uncomfortably and looked over Justin’s shoulder, at the others, but then sighed.

“Well, you were good and hammered,” he said. “That homemade stuff must really pack a wallop, huh?”

“Yes, it’s quite strong,” Justin said, suppressing a queasy burp. “But I need to know… what did I say to Mr. Lampert?”

“Oh, man, you laid into him somethin’ fierce! You called him all kinds of names, said how he was a, what was it? A shriveled old fossil, that was one. And a heartless, mean old reptile. Lots of other things, too, none if it too nice. Gee, what else? Well, mostly you like, blamed him.”

“Blamed him? For what?”

“Oh, just about everything, seemed like. You, uh, said how people like him were like, what was wrong with the world, an’ how if he would just lift a finger to help, your mission would be a lot easier. And about, you know, her. Teresa. I dunno, Doc, you were pretty smashed. You said a lotta stuff.”

“I didn’t hurt anyone, did I?” Justin asked. “Physically, I mean.”

“Oh, no,” said Bowler, shaking his head. “You were kind of a mean drunk, but not that mean. No, you just kinda yelled at everybody for a while and then you went off and puked in the bushes. Then you went into the tent and passed out. The end. Personally, if it was me? I wouldn’t worry about, it Doc. Everybody needs to blow off steam once in a while.”

Justin smiled. “Thanks,” he said, and meant it. “But I think you’re being kind. Mr. Lampert wouldn’t be so upset, unless I’d said some pretty terrible things.”

“Aw, don’t mind him,” said Bowler. “He’s just tryin’ to get your goat. Trust me, you weren’t that bad.”

“Well,” said Justin, feeling a little better, “that’s nice to know. Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Justin heaved a deep sigh. “Well, let’s get something to eat,” he said. “We have to keep up our strength.”

It was a quiet lunch, but not quite so tense and sullen as that morning, and by the end they were back to making small talk. Even the Old man contributed a few of his crusty old one-liners. Justin felt better with some food—in this case corn mash, bacon, and fresh peaches—in his stomach and when they packed up and got back on the road, he gratefully nestled into his seat and, lulled by the motion of the vehicle and the warm afternoon sun, fell into a sound sleep.

When he woke up, it was toward sundown. Blearily, he looked around and cleared his throat.

“Hey, Doc,” said Cornell, looking over. “You feel better?”

“A little,” Justin admitted. “But how long did I sleep? Where are we?”

“Middle o’ nowhere, basically,” said Cornell. “And you was out for, oh, quite a while. I was startin’ to think about lookin’ for a spot for the night. After all, this baby won’t run without the sun.”

“Er, yes, of course,” said Justin, running his tongue around in his mouth. “Whatever you think best.”

“Yeah, that’s the one drawback to this thing,” said Cornell, nodding at the dashboard. “We can’t travel at night.”

“Yes, well,” Justin said, “if the alternative is to walk, I think we can call it a fair trade.”

“Amen to that, friend,” Cornell nodded. “No way in hell we’d make it on foot.”

Things went quiet again and Justin sat and watched the landscape flow by his window. Mostly they were in open, formerly farm country, but every so often a burned-out strip mall or dilapidated farmhouse came into view, and they had to slow down at one point to navigate a huge pile-up of cars and trucks that nearly obstructed the road. Humming carefully around the mess, a tangle of maybe thirty vehicles, all smashed and starting to rust, Justin couldn’t help but wonder aloud.

“What happened here?” he said. “Is it a Panic Jam?”

They’d seen a few of these in their travels, great fields of derelict vehicles, hundreds and hundreds all crammed together at some choke point like a bridge or tunnel. They called them Panic Jams because they marked where city dwellers had attempted to leave their homes en masse and had either run out of gas or been turned back by the authorities. Typically, they were sad, often gruesome scenes of destruction, but they were also magnets for anyone in need of gasoline or a vehicle and subsequently quite often very dangerous places, like a no-man’s-land combined with a used car lot. This, though, didn’t seem the same.

“Naw, this here’s a roadblock,” Cornell acknowledged. “This banger clan, the Black Fists, they put all them cars and trucks there so they could stop anybody still out on the road. Used to man the thing, like day an’ night.”

“But not anymore?” said Bowler worriedly, swiveling in his seat to eye the pile of cars and trucks.

“Nope,” Cornell said confidently. “Not for a good year or so, anyway.”

Justin caught the implication that Cornell had been involved with some sort of altercation with this Black Hand bunch and had come out on top, but he decided not to inquire about it. There were plenty enough tales of pain and strife going around as it was.

Once past this minor obstacle, they motored along smoothly for another half hour or so and then Cornell slowed the car and, scanning the roadside intently, finally seemed to make up his mind and brought the car to a halt on what was left of the shoulder.

“Here we are, folks,” he said cheerfully. “Home for the night.”

To Justin, the spot Cornell had chosen looked just like any other stretch of disused highway. There was a burned-down farm house and some outbuildings about a quarter mile away, but otherwise the land here was largely open and anonymous. Once he’d climbed out of the car and stretched out some of the kinks in his back and neck, he decided to satisfy his curiosity.

“Why here?” he asked Cornell, as they unpacked the tent and the cooking gear. “That is, was there some specific reason you chose this spot?”

“High ground,” Cornell said. “Top o’ this little hill here, we can see for a good mile or two, let us know if anybody’s comin’.”

“Ah, of course,” said Justin, filing the strategy into his growing volume of Survival Smarts. “That makes good sense.”

“Basic,” shrugged Cornell.

They set up the tent and the cooking stuff—a compact, gasoline-powered stove and the accompanying pots and pans—and then made something to eat. It may have been only their second night away from the House, but somehow it felt like much longer to Justin. Waiting for dinner, watching the sun sink into a forbidding bank of dark clouds to the west and thinking (despite himself) about Teresa, he thought that it felt rather more like a week had gone by since they’d left. Funny how time was often so relative.

After a subdued meal, they all sat around an economical fire as they had the previous night, and talked quietly before Cornell suddenly hushed them to silence and cocked his head to listen. Justin stood up and cast about and the faint sounds of distant gunfire, muted cracks, came to his ears.

“Is that shooting?” asked Cass. “As in gunshots?”

“Sure is,” said Cornell, staring off into the darkness. “But it’s some ways off.”

“How far off?” asked Justin. “Because it sounds more than close enough for me.”

“Couple miles, I’d say,” Cornell said, his casual tones reassuring. “Give or take.”

“But what is it?” asked Bowler. “I mean, gunshots, sure, but who’s doing the shooting?”

“Who knows?” shrugged Cornell. “Could be one of a half-dozen gangs, marking turf, or it could just be some survie wacko out playin’ with his guns. We’re in the Big Wide Open, now, it could be anybody. All I know is, we better douse the fire and keep our eyes open tonight.”

Cornell paused to listen, but presently the gunfire trailed off and then stopped entirely. They listened some more, but there was nothing.

“Huh,” said Cornell speculatively. “I guess they’s done for now, whoever they are.”

“Perhaps,” said Justin, “but whoever it is, it sounds as if they’re ahead of us. That is, somewhere up this road we’re on, or am I mistaken?”

“No, you’re right,” said Cornell, scowling. “It does sound that way. But then again, noises are weird out here, ‘specially since the Fall. They bounce around, sometimes they carry real far, like that. Just means we gotta be real careful, keep our eyes peeled. And put out that fire.”

Bowler, after a moment’s hesitation, did as told and kicked dirt and rocks onto the small blaze. The campsite went dark, and Cornell produced a small flashlight and escorted everyone over to the tent, saying that he’d take the first watch. Justin, neither unaware nor particularly put out about Cornell’s leading the group and making decisions, at least in this situation, followed the others into the tent, unrolled his sleeping bag, and lay down. Cass helped the Old Man to get comfortable, and then they all lay there in the dark.

Justin listened to the night for a while, but there was almost nothing to hear, just the breathing and rustling of the others, and his restless mind turned to the matter at hand. That is to say, the Mission. Back at Zero’s house, studying the map, he’d made some quick calculations (forty miles per hour, six hours per day for a distance of about 1300 miles) and had decided that, under optimal conditions and with no major delays, it would take about six days to get to California. Their route, pretty much a straight shot across the panhandle of Oklahoma, northern New Mexico and Arizona, had been carefully determined and entailed using state highways so as to avoid major population centers, which almost always meant trouble in the form of whatever gang or gangs had taken control. They’d already passed what remained of several towns, including Bartlesville, Ponca City, and a couple of others, but they’d all seemed completely deserted and thus had posed no threat or source of delay. But Justin knew that they’d been lucky so far, and that he couldn’t begin to count on the streak continuing. Sooner or later, they’d run afoul of somebody or something.

Frustrated by the uncertainty, he rolled onto his side and tried to hope for the best, but really he was irritated that he should even be placed in such a position; what did he know about things like logistics and transportation? How could he be expected, even with all the help they’d received, to actually plan and execute this crazy trek? When they’d all been together, with their vehicles and gear and all, there had been two different people—experts—who’d directed their travels. Now it was his job and, as far as he was concerned, the mere idea was ludicrous at best.

But then, he’d been forced into all kinds of impossible positions of late and most of them had been just as absurd, so what the hell? He’d come through everything else so far; maybe he could make it through this as well. He finally decided that tomorrow was another day and he’d just have to wait and see what developed. At least he wasn’t hung-over anymore. He lay there for a while longer, waiting for more gunshots, but nothing happened and he slowly drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Thirty-One

Jack, be nimble,

Jack, be quick,

Jack, jump over

The candlestick.

—nursery rhyme, traditional

There were exactly three things happening that the Kid didn’t like at all. First, some Big People had come, riding in a big shining spiky thing which, unlike most of these things he’d seen, made hardly any noise at all. There were six of them in all, and from what he could see at this distance, of a variety when it came to appearance. Some were taller than others, some had lighter or darker skin, and some moved quickly and efficiently, while others were much slower or more deliberate. In fact, they were like no other Big People he’d ever encountered.

So far, they hadn’t come anywhere near his new home. They’d rolled up, piled out of the shiny thing, had set up some kind of huge, brightly-colored shelter, and had then made some fire. This always fascinated the Kid; he knew what fire was and how it could be used, but he had no way of making his own. But that wasn’t all; the Big People had also made food for themselves and the smell of it, even this distance, made his mouth fill with saliva and nearly coaxed him out of his home. But he was strong; no Big Person was going to trick him into revealing himself!

After they ate, they sat around the fire and did something else that intrigued him, as they made all kinds of noises at each other and waved their hands as they did. He took this for some kind of communication, that they were telling each other things, but the actual sound of it, so unlike the sounds of birds or Rippers or even Howlers, was so foreign to his ears that he could only shake his head in bewilderment and wonder how they made any sense of each other.

The second thing he didn’t like was that he was pretty sure that these Big People were not alone. Something else was out there in the night, something that was hunting these people. He hadn’t seen or even heard anyone or anything, but a sixth sense for danger, inculcated over years of experience, told him that there was someone or something deadlier than even the meanest Ripper or the craziest Howler he’d ever seen lurking somewhere nearby. Maybe it was some new kind of threat, some kind of animal that he’d never met in the Woods, but then, he got the feeling that this was no animal; this deadly thing was a Big Person. Luckily, he was still reasonably sure that this new threat, whatever it was, had not become aware of him.

And so the Kid hunkered down. He hid himself so well that not even a Ripper could have spotted him, kept a sharp eye on everything that the six Big People did (which was not much), listened attentively for anything moving nearby, and waited to see what, if anything, might happen.

The third and final thing that he didn’t like was the look of the sky to the west, as huge banks of towering storm clouds were rolling towards them. The Kid had seen plenty of weather in his few years, including more than a few nasty thunderstorms, but this seemed different, somehow, bigger and more imposing than any he’d ever seen. Even now, as sun-up approached, faint jagged lines of bright white-blue shot through the clouds and, faintly, he could hear the first grumbles of thunder.

Chapter Thirty-Two

This week on Historical Crime Busters, Mother Teresa goes undercover to stop a prostitution ring and General Omar Bradley breaks up a Satanic cult! Don’t miss the excitement!

—promo ad for TV show, UZS network, circa 2052

It was almost dawn when Erin Swails nudged Justin awake with the toe of her boot. At first he was confused and alarmed, as usual, but then he recalled what was going on and struggled out of his sleeping bag.

“Is it my turn?” he whispered. “On watch?”

Erin nodded, but didn’t go back to her sleeping bag. Justin put on his boots and joined her. They stood and watched the first rays of sunlight peep over the horizon, where a clear sky belied the mass of angry black clouds rolling in from the west. The landscape around them, deathly still for most of the night, now began to stir; here a prairie dog scampered, there a flock of small brown birds took flight, and from the grass and weeds around them came occasional rustles. Interesting, thought Justin, how the greater Animal World had been affected by the Fall only inasmuch as it was an absolute boon. With all those people no longer trapping and poisoning and hunting them, they’d more or less run riot. It was their world now.

“Think we’ll make it?” asked Erin, out of the blue. “I mean, do you really think we can do it?”

“I think,” said Justin, staring at the sunrise, “that we stand a good chance. We’ve been through a lot and we undoubtedly will face even more, but we’ve come this far. Who’s to say how far we could get?”

“Yeah,” said Erin thoughtfully. “It’s weird, though, isn’t it? I mean, all the people we lost along the way. Sometimes I have a hard time even thinking about it.”

“I know,” nodded Justin. “I sometimes have nightmares.”

“You too, huh?” said Erin. “Well, that’s kind of a relief, I guess. It’s just hard to wrap your head around, you know? I mean, first there’s the Fall, right? And then I guess I thought, well, that’s that. A whole lot of people are dead, but it’s over and we’ll just have to find a way to pick up the pieces. You know? And then you discovered the virus’s mutability, and we were forced to go on this trip. And, well, maybe I just wasn’t ready for what happened, or maybe I just didn’t want to think about how bad it could be, you know, with no cops or anything, but whatever it was, this trip sort of made it all just that much worse. Like, what more could happen to us, you know? We survived the Fall, just to get shot or stabbed by some idiot yokel with an Armageddon complex? I don’t know, it all just seems kind of surreal.”

“Of course it does,” said Justin. “And I think we all feel that way sometimes. But we’re close, now. Just a few days, across the desert, and we’ll be there!”

Erin brightened, “Yeah, I guess I hadn’t thought of that. Are we really that close?”

“Yes,” he said. “At least geographically speaking.”

He was going to add more in the way of encouragement but was interrupted as the others now began to stir and emerge from the tent. First out was Cornell, who immediately scanned their surroundings before his gaze settled on the huge storm clouds. Justin hadn’t noticed while he’d been talking with Swails, but now he saw with some alarm that the cloudbank had crept much closer and seemed to be piling up in the sky like mountains.

“We’re in for a storm,” said Cornell needlessly. “And from the looks of it, a big one.”

“I think you’re right,” Justin said. “But what can we do? I mean, we could shelter in the tent, or the car. But what else?”

“Not much,” said Cornell grimly. “But I’d say we’d wanna avoid the tent. Storm like this, blow that little thing all to pieces. There’s that farmhouse over there. The main house is burned down, but there’s some outbuildings. Maybe one’a those would do.”

“Yes,” said Justin, watching in awe as great forks of lightning flashed in the clouds, “maybe we should do that.”

“Holy shit, lookit that!” came Mr. Lampert’s voice as he tottered from the shelter. “That is one helluva storm!”

“Yes,” said Justin dryly. “We’d noticed.”

“Uh huh,” Lampert sneered. “And didya also notice that it’s a wall cloud? That it’s probably gonna generate a fuckin’ tornado or two? Didya notice that, brainiac?”

“A what?” said Justin, glancing from the Old Man and back to the clouds. “A wall cloud? A tornado? Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m not fucking sure,” said Lampert. “But I’ve seen enough storms in my life to know when I’m lookin’ at a bad one, and I am lookin’ at one right now.”

Justin looked over at Cornell. “What do you think? Is it that serious?”

The other man shrugged. “Not sure. We didn’t get too many twisters in Arizona.”

“Well we did in Minnesota,” said Lampert. “Plenty of ‘em. Trust me.”

Cornell took his eyes from the storm and gave Justin a questioning look. “Well, Doc?” he said. “How’s about it? Way I see it, we got three choices. One, we can get in the car, like right this minute, and try to outrun the storm. Two, we could just hunker down in the car and hope that we don’t get picked up by a tornado. Or three, we could see if them outbuildings are any good. Whatever you choose, though, I think you’d better do it pretty damn quick, you know?”

“Yes,” frowned Justin, “I think you’re right. Our best bet is to shelter in the safest place possible, and right now that appears to be these farm buildings. So let’s pack up and get going. OK, everybody?”

Most of the others shrugged in acquiescence. If they weren’t exactly thrilled with his choice, at least they had no better plan. They all fell to, taking down and stowing the tent, their sleeping bags, and personal gear (such as it was), and glancing nervously at the burgeoning cloudbank. Before they’d shoved the last of it into the car, heavy drops of rain began to fall around them and the wind had freshened to a humid, lashing gale.

“What about the car?” Justin asked Cornell. “That is, should we try to find somewhere to put it, out of the storm?”

Cornell thought for a moment before shaking his head. “No time,” he said. “And besides, if a twister big enough to haul that thing away comes along, we’re gonna have a lot more to worry about than the car.”

Justin hesitated, loath to leave their best hope, the precious car, behind, even for a moment, but the fall of thick drops on his head and face made up his mind and he nodded to Cornell.

“OK, let’s go,” he said.

They started out, Cornell in the lead, followed by Cass, carrying the Old Man. Next was Bowler, then Erin Swails, and lastly Justin. It wasn’t that far to the farm, maybe a half-mile, and the ground was open and flat, presenting no obstacle, but still, they were a little too late. The storm hit them in the open.

When the short, wiry man in black rags suddenly appeared in their path, brandishing an exotic-looking rifle of some kind, Justin at first thought he was hallucinating; maybe that horrible rotgut booze had affected his brain somehow. But the others, all stopping dead in their tracks, obviously saw the man as well, so that was out. No, odd and completely unexpected as his appearance was, the man must be real. But what was he doing here, and why?

“Hold it right there,” said the man, loudly enough to be heard over the rising wind.

Justin and the others all did so, crowding together around Cass and Mr. Lampert and raising their hands in surrender.

“You, bald dude,” said the stranger, motioning with his weapon at Cornell. “Throw down them weapons. Now.”

Slowly, the rain starting to really pelt down on them now, Cornell did as told, withdrawing a pistol and a hunting knife from his belt and tossing them to the ground. The stranger nodded.

“Now,” he said, his voice odd and uninflected, “you, the big woman and the old man. Come over here.”

Justin took a couple of steps forward, putting himself between the stranger and Mr. Lampert. Instantly, the rifle turned to him and he stopped and raised both hands above his head.

“Hold it, Doc,” said the man. “Not another step or I’ll blast you ta atoms.”

Justin blinked rain from his eyes and wondered briefly how this man could possibly know that he was a doctor, but then decided that it scarcely mattered at the moment and nodded slowly.

“OK, OK,” he said. “Just don’t shoot anyone, alright? Just take it easy.”

The man smiled, a wry, crooked expression devoid of warmth or humanity. “Doc,” he said, “me an’ my bike take it any way we can get it. Now move away from them two or I swear to God, I’ll blastya where you stand.”

“But,” struggled Justin, “you don’t understand. We’re from the Center for Disease Control, in New Atlanta, and we’re—”

“Shut up,” said the man, cutting Justin dead. “And keep it shut. Now, you two, get over here.”

Justin was furiously trying to think of something to do or say, but events—in the shape of the massive storm—suddenly intervened as the rain went from steady to torrential and the wind, so far just brisk, increased to the point where everyone had to lean into it to stay on their feet. Shading his eyes from the rain with one hand, he peered at the ragged little man in their way, considering grabbing Mr. Lampert and running away under cover of the storm, but the man was staring right back and showed no sign of any lack of vigilance.

“We can’t stay out here!” Cornell told the man, shouting to be heard. “We’ll get killed!”

The man seemed to consider this and looked up into the rain. Then he jerked the rifle at the group and gestured towards the farm.

“OK, go,” he shouted. “Into that barn! Move!”

They did as he said, making their way unsteadily to the largest building that was still intact. The man followed, so as to keep all of them covered. Who was this person, Justin wondered frantically? Despite his ragged clothes, he certainly didn’t seem like the average survie banger. And how did he know about them? But there was no time to think; the man herded them into the barn, a big, empty structure made of sheet metal and arced steel girders, and then into one corner, where he took up a guard-like position. Outside, the rain came down even harder, the wind was a constant roar, and lightning made the black skies look like a display from a strobe light. If the man noticed any of this, though, he made no sign and, as calm as if he was in line at the grocery store, simply stood and waited. After a few minutes, after an exchange of perplexed glances with Cornell, Justin, almost shouting but still trying to sound reasonable and confident, spoke up.

“Um, sir?” he said. The man’s pale, icy blue eyes slowly revolved to look at him. “Er, hello. May I introduce myself?”

“No,” said the man. “Shuddup.”

“But…” Justin began, but the look in the man’s eyes made him snap his mouth shut; there was obviously no sense in going on. Unless, that is, he cared to be shot to death.

Just behind him, Justin heard the Old Man say something, but the roar of the wind and pelting of the rain on the steel roof more than drowned it out. Wildly, the storm seeming to create as much chaos in his head as it was outside, he tried to think of something to do, some trick or another he could play on this odd, threatening little man. What would Teresa do, he thought? She wouldn’t have been taken prisoner, for one thing. That he knew.

Just then, something substantial impacted the roof of the barn with a crash that made everyone except their captor jump and cringe in alarm.

“What the fuck was that?!” howled Bowler, arms raised to protect his head.

“Wind, blowin’ shit around,” called Cornell. “Big shit, too, whatever it is.”

Justin looked apprehensively at the ceiling, where a thin layer of corrugated sheet metal was all that stood between them and the storm, and then over at the man.

“The roof won’t hold!” he shouted at the man. “We need better shelter!”

Their captor, with no more alacrity than before, looked back at him and shrugged.

“Like what?” he asked. “Where you gonna go?”

Justin frowned and looked quickly around the barn. The man was right; they were about as sheltered as they could get. If only there was a storm cellar or basement… But the big space was almost empty, just a few dusty old crates and a couple of big metal tubs for watering cattle. Then it hit him and he almost reached out to grab the man by the arm. Almost. He settled for pointing and shouting.

“What about those tub things?” he yelled. Something else hit the barn and there was a screaming sound as one wall partially gave way. “We could flip them over, hide under them!”

Glancing at the rapidly-disintegrating wall, where sheets of rain were now pouring in, the man suddenly nodded and motioned with his gun.

“Fine!” he called. “Go ahead!”

Eagerly, having watched this exchange, the others scrambled for the heavy watering tubs, where they quickly flipped them over and, ignoring the slimy ooze left in the bottoms, crawled under. Justin helped Cass and Swails with the Old Man and then scuttled beneath the other tub with Cornell and Bowler. As he did, he saw that the stranger was making no move to join them. Instead, he had wrapped one arm around a support girder and seemed to simply be waiting.

And then Justin dropped the tub, quickly pulling back his fingers from being smashed, and crouched on his knees in the darkness. Around them, the noise of the storm only intensified; the wind was now a solid roar, like a huge engine, and the thunder was almost constant.

“Holy shit!” rasped Cornell, no more than a foot away. “This is bad, Doc!”

“I know, I know!” Justin snapped back. “We just have to stay low! Away from the flying debris!”

And then suddenly there was no more talk as the roar all around them increased yet again and suddenly Justin was as terrified as he’d ever been in his life. Not the Plague, not the Fall, not all of the terrible, violent things they’d undergone since, came anywhere close to the mortal dread he felt now, as the very air around them seemed to tear itself apart.

Then there was a dreadful, screeching crash, as if the whole building had just come down, and rain, hail, and windblown objects began to ping and bang off of the upturned tubs like ricocheting bullets. The roar was tremendous; Justin could feel it through the ground itself, like an earthquake. Was this an actual tornado? And if it was, were they about to be torn to bits, smashed by debris, or maybe even whisked up into the sky?

Crazily, he realized that this would certainly be in keeping with the Old Man’s Wizard of Oz analogy. Except, of course, that they wouldn’t be simply borne away to Oz in the Gayle family shack. Rather, they would be shredded and pummeled and beaten to death by the force of the wind and the innumerable foreign objects whipping through it, reduced to bloody corpses before being dropped God knew where and probably from a not-inconsiderable altitude. Not exactly the stuff of kid’s stories. Well, he thought, at least it should be quick.

The roar and the banging and drumming on their meager shelters seemed to go on for hours, but in retrospect Justin knew that it was probably only about fifteen minutes before the worst of the noise and violence abated.

“Is it over?” he asked hoarsely. He could just barely see Cornell and Bowler, huddled into balls, but he could hear their heavy, frightened breathing. “Has it stopped?”

“Don’t know,” said Cornell shakily. “Maybe it’s like a hurricane, you know? With a, like, eye of the storm. You think?”

“I’m not sure,” said Justin, listening. “I suppose that’s possible.”

They waited for some time, teeth gritted against a return of the titanic roaring mayhem, but nothing happened. In fact, things got even more quiet. Even the rain let up and, before too long, was down to a relatively gentle patter.

“Should we have a look?” said Justin. “It sounds safe.”

“I think so,” said Bowler. “maybe not, though, I mean, what if it comes back?”

“I don’t think it’s going to,” Justin said, head cocked in attention. “I think it’s over.”

“Do we wanna take the chance?” said Cornell. “Maybe we should just wait.”

They were still thus occupied, back and forth, when there was suddenly a loud rapping on the tub’s metal side and a voice rang out.

“Come on out,” called the stranger. “Storm’s over.”

Justin hesitated, then called back: “Are you sure?”

“Yes, godammit,” barked the man. “Get yer asses out here. Now.”

With Cornell’s help, he did so, heaving the massive tub over on its side and, blinking and staggering, stood up and looked around. The barn was gone. There were still pieces of it, girders and sheets of metal and bits of wood and debris, but as far as an actual structure was concerned, the barn had been wiped from the face of the earth.

Happily, the storm was also gone. There were still big clouds off to the east, a light rain was drizzling down, and they could still hear rumbles of thunder, but in terms of violent weather, they were now well away from any further danger. In fact, the sky to the west was already clearing and patches of blue shone through.

What was left was one hell of a big mess. Trees, branches, and sticks seemed to form most of the debris, but there were also innumerable bits and pieces of man-made material as well. Tires, pieces of cars, and road signs, clothing, toys, and all manner of household goods, plus a mighty assortment of just plain garbage were all tossed together and strewn about as if swept by a flood. And maybe a couple of hurricanes. Apart from a single, squat outbuilding, there was not a single object over a foot tall still standing, and the ground was covered in big puddles of muddy water.

To his relief, Justin noted that their car was still right where they’d left it, apparently unharmed, but just as he started to relax a little, the stranger’s voice interrupted and brought him jarringly back to reality.

“Flip over that other tub,” he said imperiously.

Justin and Cornell did as they’d been told, heaving the heavy fixture over on its side, and then helped Cass, Erin Swails, and the Old Man to their feet. They were, naturally, as amazed and shocked as Justin had been. Mr. Lampert was, as usual, the most vocal.

“Holy fuckin’ shit!” he croaked, looking about. “Willya lookit that!”

No one said anything. Justin turned slowly to face their captor and then did a double take at what he saw. Dressed previously in assorted dark-colored rags, the man was now clad only in a skin-tight suit of some sort, crisscrossed with straps and belts from which hung various weapons. There were a few rags left, around the man’s ankles, wrists, and neck, but otherwise the surface of his body was covered in a weird, ever-changing material that was currently a vague, blue-green color. As Justin watched, the material shifted, becoming mostly green, tinged here and there with brown. Before he could ask, Cornell answered his unasked question.

“Nano-suit,” he said appreciatively. “And a state o’ the art one, too.”

“Oh, yes,” said Justin, reeling a bit. “I’ve read about those.”

The stranger cut them short. “Shuddup, both of ya,” he said curtly. “And just do what I say, OK?”

“Yes, of course,” said Justin hastily. “But what do you intend to do? That is, if you would just listen to what I have to say—”

“I said,” the man growled, “to shut the fuck up.” Justin did, and the man paced a few steps, seeming to think. “OK, here’s the deal, Doc. I am taking the Old Man. And, since I just might need help with him, I’m takin’ this here nurse, too.”

Justin started to protest, but the man glared him back to silence.

“And that means,” the man went on stonily, “that the rest of you present somethin’ of a problem. That is to say, what am I gonna do with you?”

“Do with us?” echoed Justin weakly. ‘What do you mean?”

“Well, way I see it,” the man said reasonably, “I can’t really just take off and leave you here, ‘cause I’m pretty sure you’d come after me. Sure, I’m gonna take yer car, too, but still.”

“But… I… we,” Justin stammered, “that is—”

“And,” the man continued, “it wouldn’t be humane to tie you up and leave you to starve or get killed by wolves, now would it? Which brings us back to square one. What am I gonna do with you?”

“Hey, mister,” said Bowler, hands out in supplication. “you don’t hafta do anything with me! I won’t come after you, I promise! I mean, I’m sorry Doctor Kaes, but I kinda gotta speak for myself on this one, you know?”

Justin nodded. “I understand. But I think that you, sir, may be making more of this than need be. That is, if you steal our vehicle, I don’t really see how we could follow you.”

“You’d find a way,” said the man, smiling grimly. “I know you, Doc. You ain’t gonna give up that easy. Not so sure about these others, maybe they’d leave me alone, maybe they wouldn’t. But you? Naw, you’d find some way.”

Justin blinked and frowned. “You seem to know all about me. Is it too much to ask your name?”

“Never mind that,” scowled the other. From some hidden pouch in the small of his back, he produced a set of what looked like big thick twist-ties. With his other hand, he motioned with the rifle. “Well, for right now, anyway, I’m gonna truss ya up. Gotta couple things to take care of, then I’ll decide. OK, you, big fella,” he gestured at Cornell, “take these here binders and lash the Doc to that girder over there.”

Cornell nodded and moved forward, his movements stiff and his face pale. Then he suddenly leapt forward, fast as a shot, and was grappling with the man for control of the rifle. A fierce, grunting struggle ensued, the two men hopping and scrabbling for position and if Cornell had a good foot in height and at least 50 pounds of weight on the man, his opponent showed no sign of being overborne or easily disarmed. Justin snatched up a length of wood and he and the others circled around, ready to hit the stranger from behind, but the two men’s gyrations meant that it would have been just as likely they’d hit Cornell. And then, before they could do anything else, the fight quickly ended as the man kneed Cornell forcefully in the crotch and the bigger man went gasping to his knees. The stranger leapt back, a terrible glow in his icy blue eyes, and aimed the rifle squarely at Cornell’s face. Even from ten feet away, Justin could see the tension in the man’s finger as it poised above the trigger.

“Wait, don’t!” cried Justin, waving his arms.

And then the man shot Cornell, straight through the forehead. There was a sharp zap sort of noise, not all that loud, really, but incredibly nasty, and a tiny bolt of white light erupted from the muzzle of the rifle and zipped completely through Cornell’s head like a stone passing through water. Stunned, much of his cranium and brain simply vaporized, Cornell’s eyes and mouth went very wide, his body stiffened spastically, and then he fell over into a puddle of gore, hitched a few last breaths, and died.

Shocked beyond words or action, Justin gaped from Cornell to the man, his hands up, frozen, and hoped very much that he was not about to die. The man, his face contorted in black rage, jerked the rifle from one of them to the next.

“You motherfuckers think this is some kinda fuckin’ game?!” he snarled. “Some kinda fuckin’ cops and robbers bullshit from Before? Like they’s laws an’ shit to protect ya? Well, there ain’t, OK? I am the motherfucking law! You got that?!”

No one said anything. Well, nothing intelligible, anyway; even the Old Man was stunned dumb. Around them, the only noise was the steady drip of water. Justin felt like he might faint; the world itself sort of swirled around, his knees felt very weak, and he almost pissed his pants.

“Pl… please,” he heard himself saying. “Please don’t hurt anyone else.”

The man grimaced and spat a thick glob onto the ground.

“Goddamn it!” he growled, scowling fiercely. He seemed to wrestle with his emotions for a long moment, and then hissed out a pent-up breath and nodded stiffly. “OK, OK. The deal’s just the same, folks. Ain’t nothin’ changed. Me and the old geezer and the big lady are leavin’. And I still ain’t decided what to do with what’s left of the rest of you. You, the long-haired kid, come’re and take these binders.”

Bowler, after a moment’s hesitation, shakily did as asked and picked the plastic strands from the sodden ground.

“Now,” said the man, speaking slowly, “go lash the Doc to the girder.”

Bowler looked helplessly at Justin, who shrugged and offered his wrists.

“I suppose we’d better,” he had to pause to swallow, “do as this man says, hadn’t we?”

The younger man, eyes very wide and face gone ashen white, nodded woodenly.

“Yeah… I guess so.”

The restraints weren’t complicated; even Bowler had no trouble securing Justin’s hands to either side of the twisted steel girder.

“Nice an’ tight,’ now,” cautioned the man. “I’m gonna check them binders, so make sure they’s tight.”

Bowler, a torn, pained expression on his thin face, complied and Justin felt the straps dig into his wrists, just to the point where he would lose circulation in his hands.

“OK,” said the man and motioned at Erin Swails. “Now do this here lady, same way, other side of that thing.”

And so, before long, there they were, the five of them, all firmly lashed to the same fifteen-foot piece of twisted steel. The stranger, having checked Bowler’s work, had Cass truss up Bowler and the Old Man and then personally did the same for Cass. By the time they were all done, some hour or so later, thanks to their captor’s careful, methodical movements, most of the adrenaline in Justin’s system had worked its way through and he felt drained. Also hungry and thirsty, despite the danger, but mostly just drained, emotionally and physically, like a battery run down and ready to quit.

Having made sure that he and the others weren’t going anywhere, the stranger promptly strode away and seemed to look for something in the matted grass and wind-strewn garbage. This went on for some time and Justin finally wondered aloud what the man was up to.

“He mentioned a bike,” answered Erin, her voice flat and dead. “Maybe he’s looking for that.”

Presently this became evident, as the man stopped looking, shook his head sadly, and kicked something laying bent and twisted in the debris. He swore once, took some things from what was left of a motorcycle, and then went over to their car and began to go through its contents. After a few minutes, he came away from the vehicle with some clothing and donned a pair of black cargo pants, a dark brown shirt, and a long, light brown duster coat over his strange, ultra-camouflage suit. The clothes were too big for him (because, Justin realized with a sharp pang, they were Cornell’s) but the man used a knife to slash off the extra lengths of sleeves and pant legs, readjusted the straps and belts beneath, and shrugged a few times experimentally. At Justin’s side, the Old Man clucked and sighed.

“That’s low,” he said softly. “Killin’ a man and then takin’ his clothes? Man. I mean, I’ve seen some pretty harsh fuckers on this trip, you know? But this dude pretty well takes the cake!”

“Mr. Lampert, please,” said Justin. “He’s coming back. Please be quiet now, alright?”

“Just low, is all.”

The strange, terrifying glow in the stranger’s eyes was gone, but the utterly dead aspect to his normal stare was, Justin decided, bad enough. It was like staring into the eyes of a shark. A five-foot, seven inch, scrawny, bullet-headed, homicidal shark with lots of guns. Suddenly, though, the stark reality of Cornell’s death setting in, anger cut through the fear Justin was feeling and he straightened up (as best he could, tethered to a girder) and tried to stare right back.

“Sir, please,” he said, as calmly and firmly as he could manage. “All of this is completely unnecessary. You don’t need to kidnap Mr. Lampert or hurt anyone. We’ll cooperate, with whatever you want to do. There’s no need for violence.”

The man’s face was utterly expressionless. “Sorry, Doc,” he said, not sounding the least bit sorry. “I already got a plan an’ I aim to stick to it.”

“But if you would just listen!” pleaded Justin. “This man, Mr. Lampert, represents perhaps the only hope of humanity’s survival! If we don’t get him to California, where they can make a vaccine, the Plague will return, over and over again, until everyone is dead. Don’t you understand?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, I heard about all that,” he said. “And it don’t mean shit to me. I gotta job to do, plague or no plague, and that’s that. Maybe you’re right. Maybe you ain’t blowin’ smoke up my ass an’ the Sick will come back and wipe everybody out. But that ain’t my thing, Doc. Get me? I don’t give a fat rat’s ass about it.”

“But it does concern you!” Justin spluttered. “Don’t you see? The plague will return, and then, sooner or later, you will contract it!”

“Eh,” said the man with a slight shrug. “I’ll most likely be long dead by then. So whatta I care? Naw, Doc, it’s like I said: Sorry to mess up your plans, but this old dude is worth… well, let’s just say he’s worth a lot. And now he’s mine. End of story.”

“Worth a lot?” said Justin. “To whom?”

“Never mind that,” the man said. “But if it’s any consolation, I can tell ya it ain’t a cannibal outfit.”

“Oh, thank God for small favors!” the Old Man suddenly cackled. “Geez, Doc, this dude’s worse than your girlfriend! I mean, at least she was good-lookin’, you know?”

“Mr. Lampert, please,” said Justin, still hoping to reason with their captor.

“Please, nothin’!” Lampert wheezed. “This guy is a fuckin’ psycho! He don’t care about anyone but his precious self. Well let me tellya, Mr. Sociopath, you have met your match with me!”

“Shuddup, old man,” glowered the stranger ominously.

“Or what?” sneered Lampert. “Huh? What are you gonna do, kill me? Shit I been beggin’ these poor egghead bastards to do that for a month! And besides, you know as well as I do that I’m no good to anybody if I’m dead. Gotta be the whole package, get it? So there, loony-tunes. Suck on that.”

Justin cringed as the stranger’s expression clouded and his hand strayed to within his new garments, but the man was too smart to be so easily baited. After a moment, he grinned mirthlessly and barked something like a laugh.

“Oh, you’re good, old dude,” he said. “But that ain’t gonna work. I ain’t fallin’ for it.” He paused and eyed Mr. Lampert for a second. “But how about if I just sedate you, huh? You guys got all kinds of drugs and shit in that car. How about if I just juice you up and be done with it?”

“No good,” said Barb Cass, shaking her head. “You don’t want to do that.”

“Why not?”

“At his age?” said Cass. “Hell, just about too much of anything could kill him. No, you don’t want to sedate him. You can’t gag him, either, since he could suffocate. Believe me, I’ve had to take care of him for almost a month; you just have to put up with him.”

“Amen to that,” said Erin quietly.

The stranger scowled some more, taking this in, and then gave another shrug.

“Well, whatever,” he finally said. “Don’t matter anyway. Here’s the deal, folks: I decided I won’t kill ya.”

There was a long pause as they all absorbed this announcement and the man stood and nodded as if in appreciation of his own largesse. Finally the Old Man found his voice.

“Well, gee whiz, Mr. Psycho,” he said acidly. “That’s mighty magnanimous of ya! You hear that, gang? He ain’t gonna kill ya! Now isn’t that nice of this charming gentleman?”

Justin ignored the outburst; he was suddenly too relieved at the prospect of not being shot to death to care. He blinked at the stranger.

“But,” he said. “If you leave us here like this, tied to this girder, we’ll starve to death!”

“I ain’t gonna do that,” said the man. “I’m gonna tranq ya, then cut ya loose. You’ll be out for, oh, eight hours or so. And that’ll give me plenty of a head start.”

Justin thought for a second about asking why the man had had this change of heart, but then, reminded of the old gift horse in the mouth adage, decided against it. His glance flitted to Cornell’s body, now going a ghastly purplish-gray color as the blood settled and lividity set in, and then back to the stranger.

“I understand,” he said, “but is there nothing that can change your mind? If it’s money you’re after, I’m sure that the people in California would reward you quite handsomely. Even more so than… who are you taking Mr. Lampert to, anyway?”

“I already told you,” said the man, “ain’t none of your business. And anyhow, that ain’t what this is about. I gotta job to do, see? And that’s it. The money’s just the icing on the cake. Now hold still; I don’t wanna dart ya in the eye.”

Justin made a few more noises of protest, but the stranger ignored them completely, took careful aim with a strange, rod-like device and then Pfft! shot Justin smack on the thigh. There was a sting, like a bee, and then he could feel the toxin ooze from the dart into his system. In a matter of minutes, as he watched the others get similarly zapped, his legs and arms went numb, his head grew very heavy, and his eyes couldn’t seem to stay open. The world around him went brown around the edges as his vision narrowed to a tunnel and a strange roaring noise began in his ears. His last glimpse of reality was the Old Man’s wrinkled, shriveled face, hovering above him and, though it might just have been the drugs, Justin could’ve sworn he was babbling something about flying monkeys. And then nothing.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Krillo-bars are yummy good,

crunchy, tangy, salty good!

Krillo, Krillo, Krillo-bars,

Eat some now they’re Krillo-bars!

Krillo!

—jingle in ads for Titan Agrofoods product, circa 2052

Chopping at the sun-baked dirt with a long-handled hoe, sweating in the heat and desperately bored, it occurred to Teresa that maybe Baron Zero’s House wasn’t for her after all. Hell, when they’d handed her this thing, she hadn’t even known what a hoe was! To her, the word meant a slutty woman, someone who put out for anybody or anything. She’d become acquainted with the other kind quickly enough, though, as she’d been assigned a work detail on the Farm, weeding the soy bean plants. Hard, dusty, hot, boring. Not an acquaintance she needed.

There were plenty of other things she was having trouble getting used to as well. They wouldn’t let her carry a gun, for one thing, or even a knife, which made her feel vulnerable. She couldn’t smoke whenever and wherever she felt like it, and she wasn’t yet allowed to use any of the House vehicles, which meant that simple joy-rides, something she liked a lot, were out of the question. Plus, she had to share an apartment with some silly, air-headed girl named Susan who talked too much and wore stinky perfume, there was only “healthy” (which is to say, bland, home-grown, mainly vegetable) food to eat, which she found as palatable as mud and which gave her gas, and the vaunted school she’d been so eager to attend, while instructive, moved at such a slow pace that it was starting to make her bored enough to scream.

Of course, she saw the obvious plusses to the House, the security—or rather, the absence of constant worry and alertness—and the community aspects of it all, but with every new little regulation or rule or historical date to memorize, she wondered if life with the Bloodclaws had been so bad after all. At least they weren’t boring!

With a muffled curse, she slashed at the hated weeds once more and then took a short break to lean on her hoe, wipe the sweat from her face, and glare up at the boiling sun. What was the point, anyway? As far as she’d seen, no one even liked to eat these rotten soy bean things! Why didn’t they just go out and raid a store or some other gang, get themselves some decent, can food from Before? Just thinking about a nice can of stew or maybe some noodles and red stuff (the cans with the little red-faced dude in the funny white hat were the best) made her stomach gurgle. Even one of those little cans of Cat or Dog would be better!

She’d also found that the single straight men who lived at the House were no different, no more immune to her body and looks, than had been any of the hetero male Bloodclaws. They were a whole lot less direct about it and tended to mumble and act like idiots when they approached her (as opposed to simply walking up and asking if she wanted to go Do It), but the attraction, the effect she had on men, was no different. Already she’d had to fend off, albeit easily, the attentions of six different men. Still, she found that it was becoming annoying.

She also missed her former traveling companions, especially Justin Case and Mr. Lampert. Sure, maybe they were on a suicide mission and they were kind of doopy and old and stupid about some stuff, but they were, for lack of a better word, interesting. The things they said and the adventures and trouble they got into were exciting. Not at all like weeding soy beans.

And, she had to admit, she missed Case in another way, a way she didn’t quite understand or particularly even like, that she suspected was what people meant when they used the word love. She couldn’t stop thinking about the big dumb greep, for one thing, and when she did, something sort of melted in her chest, she started to breathe funny, and would suddenly want very much to simply see his face, even if it was only one more time. Problem was, she had no previous point of reference for these bizarre feelings. Hell, maybe she was just going crazy! But she’d heard people talk, about how they loved this or that person, how they’d do anything for them, how the other person meant the Whole World to them, all of that. Could that be the trouble? Was she actually in love?

With a grunt, she tried to shake these mushy, girly thoughts, lifted the hoe, and went back to work, but in the back of her head all of these little misgivings were starting to pile up; maybe she should start thinking about leaving.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Georgie Porgie, puddin’ and pie,

Kissed the girls and made them cry.

When the boys came out to play,

Georgie Porgie ran away.

—nursery rhyme, traditional

The Kid had decided, after the small, mean man had departed, along with two of the other Big People, that he’d been right all along about these creatures; they really were crazy. After all, who in his right mind would kill something for no apparent reason? Heck, the man hadn’t even chopped up the body for food! Now that was crazy. He had to admit, though, that the man’s weapon, whatever magical thing it represented, was something to be envied; it sure would come in handy dealing with Howlers and Rippers!

He was also upset because not all of the Big People had departed; three of them, lying flat out on the soggy ground, still remained. He watched them for some time after the small man had taken the shiny moving box and driven away, but from where he was he couldn’t tell if they were sleeping, sick, or what had happened to them. He knew from the color of their skins that they weren’t dead, but then why were they just lying there?

The storm itself had been scary, but, nestled in his new home, safe from flying junk, he’d experienced no more than some minor flooding. The aftermath was more interesting, as it had thrown all kinds of strange and intriguing bits of flotsam around, all of which he was itching to explore, but that would have to wait; no way was he going out to scavenge with those three crazy Big People hanging around.

Not to mention, there was another Big lying there dead as a rock. Already a small cloud of flies had formed around the body and the Kid was well aware of what would happen next. Bloating, the terrible stink, carrion-hunters circling, maggots and flies and beetles, all of which meant that he couldn’t just leave the body where it was. He’d have to dispose of it somehow.

For a while he thought about what to do. Eating it was out; something deep down made his stomach twist at the very thought and, besides, there was too much there to consume before it would go rotten. So what else? Digging a nice deep hole would be good; toss the body in and bury it. But that would take forever and by the time he’d finished, who knew what nasty thing would come nosing around for dead meat? Then it hit him; there was a deep hole at hand, some sort of man-made pit that he’d found near the ruined farmhouse that, judging from the smell, he suspected had been used as a place for going poop. Yes, that would work. Heck, it already smelled terrible! But how to get the body to the pit?

Experimentally, he tried dragging the corpse, but it was so heavy that he could barely budge it. For a moment he stared at the poor dead Big Person. Then he noticed that, among the man’s odd and numerous garments, stuck in one of his weird foot-bindings, was a very nice knife. With a little grunt of appreciation, he pulled the blade from the dead man’s body and waved it around in the sunlight. He knew about blades; unlike tire irons, they cut things. He had one of his own, but it was dull and chipped. Not like this one, nice and clean and sharp.

Eyes narrowing, the Kid looked at the knife. Then he looked at the body. Then back to the knife. And then he bent down and got to work. It was hard and messy, what with the blood and the flies and all, but he didn’t much care about that and, since the Big Person himself didn’t seem to mind, being stone dead, there was really nothing to give him pause. Diligently, knowing that time was an issue, he hacked and sliced and chopped.

Once he’d reduced the man to manageable pieces, he toted each over to the old poop pit and tossed them in. Splash, plop, splash, and soon enough, the whole thing was gone. With a last look down the smelly hole, he decided that he’d done all he could with the body and, putting it easily from his thoughts, went down to the stream to wash off some of the blood.

That took care of one problem, but there were still three more, just lying there on the ground. After considering them, the Kid decided to simply wait for these remaining Bigs to either wake up and go away or to just have done with it and die

After a long time—the sun was well past its high point—he was still waiting when he suddenly caught sight of a Ripper, a big, shaggy one with a huge head full of yellow teeth, as it loped silently toward him across the fields. The Kid knew it must have smelled the blood, all that filthy innards-stuff from inside the dead man. Instantly, he grabbed his tire iron and froze, tensed and ready to strike, but the Ripper passed right by him, no more than twenty feet away, en route to the prone figures of the sleeping Big People.

For a long moment, the Kid considered doing nothing; after all, if he just waited a little while, the Ripper might very well take care of all three of the Bigs for him. Better them than he! But then something rebelled in his mind, some quite novel (and terribly alien) scrap of humanity that told him no, that wasn’t right. He had to do something. He had to help.

But why? argued the rest of his mind. Why should he risk himself for these crazy Big People? What had they ever done for him? Or anyone else, for that matter? No, better to leave ‘em to the Rippers. That way, they’d be gone, the Ripper, well-fed, would eventually be gone, and things would go back to normal. Problem solved.

But the other voice still nagged. You know what you have to do. You can’t leave those people to be eaten by Rippers. And why? Because that’s what they are: People, just like you. Oh, they’re big and crazy and probably meaner than any six Rippers combined, but they’re still people and that means you have to help them. It might not even make sense, but you still have to do something. And you’ll be glad you did. Trust me.

In the end, the voice of reason, the one that said to leave the crazy bastards to die, finally lost out and the other voice, the brand new one that sounded as crazy as any Big Person, was triumphant. But that didn’t stop the Kid from cursing it in every way he knew as he emerged from cover and went to fight the Ripper.

The beast sensed him at once. Whipping around to face off, crouching low and ears flat, it bared its fangs and growled. Suddenly this didn’t seem like such a hot idea anymore; this was a very big Ripper, maybe the biggest he’d ever faced. It had to be more than twice his weight. The metal in his hand suddenly went slippery and the sun seemed blinding and far too hot. But it was too late for regret; the Ripper was advancing. The Kid could see the drool on its parted jaws, the scars on its face and its one mangled ear, and smell its gamey, greasy hide. Grimly, a fierce scowl on his muddy baby’s face, he raised the tire iron and braced for the attack.

Obviously one of the smarter representatives of its kind, the Ripper didn’t rush at him right away. Instead, it circled, low and ready to spring, and eyed the Kid like he was a big piece of raw meat. Angrily, his blood singing with the thrill of battle, the Kid growled back and brandished his weapon. Come on! he thought. Come and get me, you big ugly monster!

But it wouldn’t; it just kept circling and snarling. Then it stopped, just for a moment, to throw back its head and emit a loud, long howl before continuing to circle him. The Kid, well aware that the Ripper was calling for help, maybe a whole gang of his friends, knew then that his time was up. He had to kill this Ripper, and right now, or he’d end up as dead as the Big in the poop pit.

Snarling deep in his throat, moving low to the ground, he darted forward but, fast as he was, the Ripper was faster and darted to one side and away from the sharpened steel tip of the tire iron. Balanced lightly on the balls of his unshod but leather-tough feet, the Kid struck again, going for a slashing blow to the Ripper’s head, but again the beast was too quick for him and the weapon fell on empty air.

Then it was the Ripper’s turn to strike; launching itself from ten feet away, fangs bared and claws flailing, like a big furry ball of teeth and talons, it flew wildly at the Kid, who only just managed to twist aside. The Ripper thudded to earth but then slid on the slippery wet ground and fell, scrabbling madly, onto its side. Instantly, the Kid saw his chance and rushed forward, raised the tire iron high, and brought it down with every ounce of strength he could muster.

Another howl, this one of stark pain, suddenly rang out as the Ripper, pierced through the neck by the tire iron, thrashed violently and bloodily back and forth in a vain attempt to dislodge the steel shaft. But it was no use and, soon enough, as the Kid watched, catching his breath with an eye open for more Rippers, the beast finally coughed horribly before falling over dead.

The Kid almost let out a good loud yell of victory, quite proud of himself, but then decided against it; better to not attract any more attention. Sneering at the dead Ripper, he went over and gave it a hard kick, just to make sure it was good and dead. It most definitely was, so he jerked the tire iron from its neck and wiped away the blood on the wet grass. After another long glare at the beast (which was, he now decided, definitely the biggest he’d ever seen, let alone fought), he shouldered his weapon and, since he was out there in the open, had a look at the prone trio of Big People.

He crawled up to them on all fours, sure they were playing possum and would leap up and grab him any second, but they didn’t so much a bat an eye as he edged up to within a few feet. Once he was up close, he saw that, at least for the moment, the Bigs were no threat to him. He was puzzled, though, as to what was wrong with them. Why did they just lay there? They couldn’t be asleep, not out here in the open. They weren’t dead, as he’d already guessed, because they were still breathing. So… what? The Kid had no frame of reference for such odd behavior.

For a while, he simply crouched and stared at them, marveling at their oddness. For one thing, they were enormous! How did People get so big? Their hands and feet alone, especially in comparison to his own, seemed absurdly large, and their heads, nearly bald by his standards, were as big as good-sized wasp’s nests. Amazing. Plus, they were draped in stuff that he considered eminently impractical. Who could fight all wrapped up in that tight-fitting stuff? And what were those weird things on their feet?

Two of them were alike, furry of face, tall and thin, and vaguely like himself, but the other one was different, and in a way that he somehow knew was profound. This one had weird bumps under its shirt, long hair, no fur on its face, and an overall build much curvier (and somehow appealing) than the others. It even smelled different. Bemused, he cocked his head and wondered about this new variety of Big Person. Why was it so different? Why did it stir these weird feelings in his narrow chest? And how could it possibly smell so wonderfully nice?

Confused and nebulously upset, the Kid shook his head, edged a little closer, and then dared to reach out with the tire iron (the blunt end) and give the nearest one, one of the two bigger ones, a good poke. Nothing. Not so much as a snore. Huh.

Standing up, he scratched his head and stared at them a little longer, but there was just no reason he could think of for what was wrong with them. Finally he gave up, shrugged, and went to skin the Ripper and dispose of the corpse. More for the pit. And either these crazy Bigs would wake up or they wouldn’t; that was how things worked. All he could hope for was that they wouldn’t cause him any more trouble.

Chapter Thirty-Five

She’s an albino crack addict with a sexual perversion. He’s a paraplegic party clown with an eating disorder and three adopted transvestites for sons. Now they have to share an apartment! Can they ever get along, or is homicide in the air? Find out, this season on the new runaway hit reality series, Eye For An Eye!

—ad for TV show, VFX network, 2054

At first the Hunter was able to tune out the Old Man’s rambling, pointless, wheezing, nasal monologues, but right about the time they crossed the former border between Oklahoma and Kansas, Lampert became quite a bit more demanding. So far all he’d blathered about, despite the recent ugly scene of his being parted from his CDC friends, had been weird, arcane things from the past; TV shows, cinema, popular culture, politics, things like that, all of which meant next to nothing to the Hunter and went in one ear and out the other. He had experience in this, as one of his cellmates, a bank robber named Darrell, had been of a similar nature and he’d learned how to ignore this kind of aimless blather. Now, though, the Old Man had a rather specific request.

“Hey, bullet-head,” he said. “I gotta take a leak. Hear me? I need to pull over and have a piss.”

The Hunter said nothing.

“Yo, screwhead!” said the Old Man, louder and more insistently. “You awake up there? You gone deaf or what? I said I gotta take a leak. Gotta drain the lizard. So unless you want me to piss myself and stink up the car, I recommend you pull this bucket of bolts to the side of the road, undo these restraints, and let me out for a minute.”

The Hunter scowled and cursed himself for not thinking of this before. Of course the old fart had to piss; old people were well-known for incontinence, weren’t they? What had he expected? Angrily, he hit the brakes and brought the car to a halt.

“‘Bout time,” Lampert grumbled.

Moving quickly, the Hunter got out of the car, undid the restraints on the Old Man and then stood back.

“You need help old dude?” he asked, not at all because he wanted to know but rather because he wanted to speed this along. “Want me to untie the nurse here?”

Lampert looked up at him from inside the car and scowled.

“Get bent,” he said defiantly. “Rather piss myself than accept anything from your psycho ass.”

The Hunter shrugged. Suit yourself, he thought. Slowly, like a video in slow motion, Lampert eased his skeletal ass from the back seat and then pulled himself out of the car. After getting his balance (another slo-mo process), the Old Man finally tottered to the side of the blacktop and began his business. More from disgust than propriety, the Hunter turned away and waited, but even after a good minute, there was no sound of pissing.

“What you doin’ old man?” said the Hunter testily. “I thought you had to go.”

“I do!” Lampert snapped. “But I’m workin’ with a 102-year old prostate, here, psycho-boy. OK? Sometimes it takes a while.”

The Hunter grunted and paced back and forth. Finally, a grunt and then a stream of liquid came from the Old Man and, before long, he was done, zipped up, and ready to go.

“OK, ya homicidal weirdo,” he said jauntily. “I’m all done. Although you might wanna check on Barb back there. Be a shame if you have to stop again.”

The Hunter considered. Was the Old Man trying something? Some sort of trick, or was he stalling for time? With a practiced eye, he scanned the horizon, but nothing stirred in the midday heat and there was no sign of trouble. After a moment’s thought, he stuck his head into the car and looked at the nurse.

“You need to piss?” he asked.

The nurse shook her head.

“OK, fine,” said the Hunter, turning to the Old Man. “Now get back in the car, old man.”

Lampert put his skinny arms akimbo and glared back. His eyes, the Hunter now noticed, were an amazing shade of piercing blue, not unlike his own.

“What if I don’t wanna?” Lampert said petulantly. “Huh? What if I don’t wanna go with you? What you gonna do then?”

The Hunter frowned and swore under his breath. Why did this ancient bag of bones have to be so damn difficult? He’d had escaped multiple felons that were easier to deal with! Grimly, he glared back at the Old Man.

“Tie you up and toss you in,” he said flatly. “If I have to.”

“And risk harming precious little old me?” sneered Lampert. “Risk losing whatever reward you’re lookin’ at? By the way, what are you gonna get for me, anyway? Money? Power? Women? Just curious.”

“Never mind that,” snapped the Hunter. For a moment he considered his options. Then he looked back to the Old Man and cocked his head. “Just get into the car, OK? I’ll let ya ride in the shotgun seat. OK? Happy? And all I ask is one little thing.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“That you shut. The fuck. Up.”

A snort of suppressed laughter came from the nurse in the back seat. Lampert gave a wheezing laugh of his own and slapped his thigh.

“Well, we’ll just see about that,” he said, shaking his head. “But OK. I’ll do my best to keep a lid on it. Deal?”

“Just get in.”

For a long time, the Old Man was good to his word and they hummed along in relative silence. The road, while potholed and weed-grown, was straight and level, with few wrecks or pile-ups, and the Hunter used the opportunity to survey the various gauges and meters in the dashboard, looking for one in particular, until he saw what he’d hoped for—a radiation detector—and relaxed. He could live without tachometers and fuel gauges and such, but a Geiger counter would soon be absolutely essential. After a quiet few hours, the Old Man, true to form, just couldn’t stay still.

“Ya know something?” he said, staring out the window. “I ain’t so sure this isn’t actually a good thing. The Fall, I mean.”

That got the Hunter’s attention. Lazily, he glanced over at the Old Man.

“What’s good about it?” he had to ask.

“Well, for one thing,” said Lampert, lighting a smoke, “it means the end of the fucking United States of America. And good fucking riddance, far as I’m concerned.”

“And what,” the Hunter stonily, “was wrong with the United States?”

“Phhh, don’t get me started,” said Lampert, waving a bony, spotted hand. “But, just for fun, I’ll give ya an example. Show ya what I mean.”

The Hunter rolled his eyes and waited.

“Remember Nine Eleven?” asked the Old Man, lighting up a cigarette. “The terrorist attacks on New York and Washington? The jets flyin’ into the World Trade Center?”

“Sure. Read about that in school. Pretty big deal, right? Led to the first Pan-Islamic Congress, an’ that led to the Jerusalem Accords and—.”

“Yeah, whatever,” interrupted Lampert. “That ain’t what I’m talkin’ about. No, what I’m talkin’ about is right after the attacks, when the country went to war and they started sellin’ these stupid little decals that people bought for their cars. On account of this shitty pop song by an even shittier group called Tony Orlando and Dawn, which was about a convict being let outta prison, by the way, not a soldier at all… Anyway, these things were yellow, in the shape of a ribbon. And they said Support Our Troops on ‘em. Idea was, you’d buy one’a these things and stick it on your car, right? Show that you were like, patriotic, I guess. Like payin’ yer god damn taxes wasn’t good enough. But here’s the thing: no one ever asked who was sellin’ these stupid fuckin’ things! Did the profit go to disabled Vets or something? Did the money go to war widows and orphans? Who the fuck knows?! Shit, for all those jackasses knew, the decal company was owned by the fucking Taliban! But did they ever ask about it, or even fuckin’ think about it? Oh, hell no! Just buy one’a them decals, slap ‘er on there, and boom! You can quit thinkin’ about how we’re busy killin’ people on the other side of the world and get back to workin’ on yer next heart attack. And the decal company gets good an’ fuckin’ rich. Stupid fuckin’ bastards.”

The Hunter smiled, a thin line upturned on his impassive face, and nodded.

“Always suckers, old man,” he said. “Always been, always will be.”

“Yeah, that’s for sure,” said Lampert, flicking ash out the window. “But lately, there’s sure as shit a whole lot less of ‘em, an’ that’s my point. Maybe this plague wasn’t the worst thing that coulda happened.”

Shaking his head, the Hunter gave a low whistle. “That’s harsh,” he said. “All them moms and dads and their little kids? An’ now all the gangs and cannibals and disasters an’ shit? I don’t know…”

“Eh, who cares?” said Lampert irritably, and snapped his cigarette butt out the window. “You, me, Nurse Cass back there, everybody, we’re all gonna buy it, soon or later. Me sooner, of course, but that goes without sayin’. You guys might even die of old age before the plague comes back. But, according to the CDC guys, Doc Case an’ all, it will come back. Over an’ over until everybody’s gone. And then? Well, shit, then the planet’ll take itself back and there’ll be nobody left to care that there ever was such a thing as the United States. So long and that is fuckin’ that. Know what I mean?”

“Guess so,” said the Hunter noncommittally. Grumbling, the Old Man went back to his own thoughts and staring out the window. The Hunter drove on, thinking despite himself about what the Old Man had said.

When the sun started to set, maybe two hours after their rest stop, the Hunter, watching the power level drop like a stone, cursed the vehicle, slapped the steering wheel, and pulled over to the side of the road. Damn solar cars! If he still had his bike, they’d be in New America already! And who would have guessed? A tornado?! Bitterly, he sat and stared at the setting sun for a moment.

“Outta juice, huh?” said the Old Man. “Well, ain’t that a bitch. So whatta we gonna do now?”

“Wait,” said the Hunter. “Rest.”

Opening his door, he got out of the car and stretched. The night wind had begun, a soft, cool breeze that smelled of sage and wet dirt. From somewhere off to their right came the sharp yips of a coyote or two. Overhead, purple clouds, offset by the first bright stars, floated in an indigo sky. For a long moment he stared down the highway to the north and thought again about the rad-meter in the car. Or rather, of its relative effectiveness. He was still thinking when he was startled by the Old Man at his side.

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” asked Lampert rudely.

“Nothin’,” said the Hunter. “Not a god damn thing.”

“Cause ya look worried,” the Old Man persisted. “An’ from what I’ve seen of you, that can’t be a good thing.”

The Hunter sighed and turned to Lampert. “You really wanna know, old dude?”

Lampert nodded. “Why not?” he shrugged. “How bad can it be?”

“Pretty fuckin’ bad,” the Hunter said. He pointed down the road. “Ya see old man, up ahead there’s what they used to call Wolf Creek One, just outside’a what they used to call Burlington, Kansas. Ever heard of it?”

“Nope.”

“Din’t think so. Wolf Creek One was a nuke reactor, and it melted down.”

“Oh, great,” said Lampert, rolling his eyes. “That sounds like lots of fun! But I guess I’m confused. I thought all those old nukes had melted down. Or most of ‘em, anyway. I mean, the CDC guys had to make some pretty serious detours on our little trip, because of the radiation, so why is this one such a big deal?”

“Cause this one,” said the Hunter, “melted down but it didn’t blow up. The containment structure is still intact. Or it was, anyway, last time I came by here.”

“Ah hah,” said Lampert. “Now I get what you mean. You’re worried it’s blown its top since then.”

“Bingo.”

“What about the car?” asked Lampert. “I mean, shit, all those dials and switches and shit in there, you’d think one of ‘em was a Geiger counter.”

“One is,” said the Hunter. “And we’re gonna sure as shit need it.”

The Old Man nodded and shrugged. “Well, that’s how it goes these days, I guess. Everything’s fallin’ apart. It’s kinda like that poem by what’s his face, Yeats, the one about how “the center does not hold, the rough beast slouching toward Bethlehem”, all that.”

The Hunter gazed blankly at Lampert; what he knew about poetry wouldn’t fill a shot glass.

“Never heard of it,” he said. Turning from the Old Man, he went back to the car, leaned in, and eyed the nurse. Apparently unfazed, she blandly eyed him back.

“I’m gonna let you out,” he told her. “And I don’t need no trouble. Understand?”

The nurse nodded. “Don’t worry,” she said coldly, “I saw what you did to Cornell.”

The Hunter winced inwardly, still ruing that little event, but showed nothing on his face, nodded back, and undid the nurse’s restraints. This accomplished, as the nurse stretched and walked around and saw to the Old Man, he went to the rear of the car and rummaged in the storage compartment for a while before selecting a small propane stove, a saucepan, two bowls, three spoons, and three random cans of food.

Eventually, undoubtedly lured by the smell, the nurse and the Old Man came over to where he crouched over the stove. Without looking up, he poured a third of the food into two bowls and set them before the others. Taking the pan and a spoon, he sat down on the ground nearby and began to eat. After getting the Old Man settled on a blanket she’d dug from the car, the nurse took the bowls and she and Lampert also tucked in.

“What the hell is this?” asked the Old Man, grimacing at his first bite. “Some kinda goulash? Or what?”

“It’s food,” said the Hunter. “Eat.”

Lampert stared into his bowl for a moment and then shrugged and spooned up some more.

“Can’t argue with logic like that, now can I?” he said wryly, gazing at the Hunter over the sterile blue-white glow of the propane stove. They ate for a while before the Old Man had to open his trap again.

“Ain’t much for conversation, are ya?” he said, and grinned snidely. “Sorta the strong, silent, violent-as-all-hell type o’ guy, huh?”

The Hunter said nothing, face flat, and stared back. After a long moment, the Old Man shrugged again and went back to his food.

“Like I said,” he wheezed. “Not much for conversation.” He turned to the nurse. “So, Barb, you ever listen to much music?”

The nurse hesitated, eyeing the Hunter, before finally glancing over to the Old Man and nodding slightly.

“Some,” she replied. “I’m something of a jazz fan, actually.”

“Jazz?!” snorted Lampert. “Aw, that’s just for musicians to show off to other musicians. All those scales and the like, incessant noodling. Naw, what I mean is good old-fashioned rock and roll. Ya ever hear of a band called the Clash?”

“I don’t believe so,” said the nurse. “Were they popular?”

“Yeah, pretty popular,” said the Old Man. “Couple radio hits in the eighties. But more influential, I’d say. Anyway, they had this one song, Clampdown. Man, that was a good one!”

“I see,” said the nurse.

“Yup,” nodded Lampert, gazing pointedly at the Hunter. “Workin’ for the Clampdown. Makes you think, don’t it?”

“Um, yes,” the nurse said bemusedly. “I suppose so.”

The Hunter finished his portion of chow and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. Carelessly, he tossed the pan and the spoon next to the stove and glared down at the Old Man.

“Eat up, old dude,” he said evenly. “I need to get some shut-eye.”

Later, his captives restrained (but not too uncomfortably) in the car, the Hunter lay on his back on the ground, stared into the deep oblivion of limitless space, and, for the first time in his long career, gave some thought to the relative morality about what he was doing. It wasn’t so much that he’d had any sort of epiphany or come to some sort of realization, but rather that he knew and liked the song the Old Man had mentioned. In fact, it was on his compact MP3 player, filed under Classical Rock. If he felt like it, he could listen to it right now. But to have the sentiment of the song, a roaring indictment of the misuse of power and bully-ism, applied to him personally? Well, damn his shriveled old hide, but the Old Man was right; it did make him think.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Combat Ball! Combat Ball!

Are you ready for Wednesday Night Combat Ball?

The brutal Thugs of Cleveland are ready to fight,

And the vicious Beasts from Miami are doin’ it right!

Get your buddies together, get the vodka good an’ cold,

’cause the Combat Ball league is here for blood and gold!

—theme song for popular sporting event, VFX network, circa 2056

When Sergeant Lumler got to the Jolly Café, he found that, as feared, it was no longer in business. In fact, it was no longer technically there. A few smoldering timbers and a great pile of bricks and debris were all that was left. The café’s sign, half-burned, lay in the middle of the wreckage-cluttered street.

Lumler shook his head. Too bad. But then this part of New America had been hit particularly hard in the War. Buildings on both sides of the street were either damaged or destroyed. Few did not show the scars of bullets or rocket-propelled grenades. Resignedly, trying not to think too much about it, Lumler took a seat on the remains of a low retaining wall and waited for Santiago.

It was a cool day, with low clouds and a persistent drizzle, but, warm and dry in his long black PF overcoat, Lumler didn’t take much notice. The neighborhood, once a busy commercial district, was mainly deserted; those citizens of New America not employed in Vital War Industries had been drafted into the Army. Niceties like restaurants would just have to wait. The only activity was a couple of blocks over, where a bunch of Army grunts could be heard, shouting back and forth in hoarse, aggressive voices. Overhead, a huge flock of crows wheeled and flapped and cawed in the gray sky.

Finally Santiago came along, picking his way around the rubble, ambled up to Lumler and shook his head.

“Looks like breakfast is off,” he said sadly, eyeing the destruction. Lumler noticed that the man’s lab coat, usually pristine white, had blotches along the front like old wine stains.

“Huh, yeah,” said Lumler, rising. “Like forever. Well, never mind. I brought some stuff. Let’s walk down to the park.”

“OK,” shrugged Santiago. “Not like we’re gonna get anything here.”

They walked down West 9th Street, passing a series of big corn and soybean fields, where dozens of Agro citizens, distinct in their green vests, toiled away, weeding and fertilizing and watering the plants, all under the watchful eye of a red-shirted foreman and his three escorts, who lounged nearby under a tarpaulin, smoked, and checked their weapons.

“So what used to be here?” asked Santiago, waving at the crops. “Not bean fields, I presume?”

“Naw, it was like, mostly housing for the University. Frats, apartments. Over there, where them rice paddies are? That was the main campus.”

“No shit? Wow, they’ve been busy, haven’t they?”

“Gotta do it,” shrugged Lumler voluminously. “Can’t plant outside the perimeter no more.”

Santiago just nodded and they walked on. After five or six blocks, a spacious greenway appeared on their right and they turned into an overgrown but still attractive public park. Past the cracked, weed-grown slab and rusting fences of a set of tennis courts and a fallen-down utility shed, they came to an open plaza. Here they walked through the weeds to a decrepit fountain, where they cleared some vines and shrubs and sat down on the decaying marble edge.

Nearby was a huge looming metal structure, rusting badly, that seemed like it had been made of gigantic metal banana peels. In the drizzle, festooned on its lower half with overgrowth, corroded and dripping, it had sinister, imposing look. Lumler glared up at it and then nudged his friend.

“What the fuck’s up with that?” he asked, jerking his head at the thing.

Santiago looked up and smiled. “That, my friend, is what they call sculpture. Art, don’t you know.”

“Huhn,” said Lumler and shuddered slightly. “Gives me the fuckin’ creeps.”

“Yeah, like it is now, anyway. The amazing thing to me is that it hasn’t been torn down to go into the perimeter. Guess they must’ve missed it.”

“Eh, whatever,” Lumler grunted. “Who gives a shit?”

“What’s eatin’ you?” asked Santiago, after a short pause. “I mean, aside from the obvious.”

Lumler grimaced and shook his head. “Aw, I’m sorry, man,” he said, practically contrite. “It’s just… I dunno, the whole thing, I guess.”

“What whole thing?”

“This,” said Lumler, waving his thick arms. “All of this. The whole New America thing. I guess it just ain’t what I thought it’d be, you know?”

Santiago laughed bitterly. “Man, you got that right,” he said. “And the screwy thing? There’s only one guy who likes it the way it is! But hey, this is pretty big, coming from you!”

“Whattaya mean?”

“Well, you’re a Police Force officer,” said Santiago with a shrug. “And you’ve always been, well, what you might call a loyal follower of the Governor. No offense.”

“Naw, yer right,” said Lumler morosely, waving off the apology. “I used to think he was the greatest thing since flush toilets. But lately…” He trailed off meaningfully.

Santiago waited for him to go on. When he didn’t, Santiago sighed and took out a half-smoked cigarette. He lit it and smoked, waiting. Finally Lumler found the words.

“It’s like the other day,” he said, his voice low. “I had to go with the Chief to see the Governor. Regular thing, we gotta make this weekly report, you know? Tell the Big Man what we been doin’, who we arrested, all that. Usually, it’s pretty boring, but with all the Reformist agitation lately, well, the Governor’s been pretty jazzed about keepin’ tabs on us, you know? So anyhow, we go into the Governor’s office like always, and I read off the weekly blotter, like always, and then I sorta sit back an’ wait while the Chief gives his summary and the like, highlights of the week, blah, blah, blah. But right then, for the, like, very first time, I start lookin’ around at the Governor’s place. I mean, really lookin’, you know?”

“And?”

“And shit,” said Lumler plaintively, “the guy’s got more gold and jewels and expensive little doo-dads and paintings and shit than you could imagine! Like he’s some sorta king, you know? Or like one o’ them crazy rich oil sheiks from Before. Hell, he’s even got this chair that’s so big it’s like a damn throne! Got his name carved on it an’ everything.”

“Yeah? So what’s so bad about that? I mean, it’s not like any of that stuff has any intrinsic value anymore, is it? Not like ammo or gas or food.”

“No, but that ain’t my point,” Lumler frowned, struggling to express himself.

“OK, so what’re you saying? He lives too large?”

“Yeah, sorta,” said Lumler. “Aw, fuck I dunno. Maybe it just gets to me when I see some o’ the other folks around here an’ how they live. I mean, some o’ these people hafta work all day, seven days a week, an’ they live in fuckin’ shitholes, you know? Oh, sure they got running water and juice an’ all, but they also got rats and roaches. And half o’ them apartment buildings are practically fallin’ down around their ears! So I dunno… I guess it just bugs me is all.”

Santiago flicked his cigarette butt into the bushes, grinned widely, and shook his head.

“What the fuck’re you smilin’ at?” Lumler rumbled.

“You!” said Santiago. “You and your conscience! You actually care about these people, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah,” said Lumler. “I mean, most of ‘em, anyway. But it just seems unfair, you know?”

“Yes, I do know,” said Santiago, the smile fading. “I see these people every day. Well, I see the sick and wounded ones, anyway, and I know exactly what you mean. But then, what can we do? It’s the Governor’s show. He gets to call all the shots.”

“Yeah,” nodded Lumler. “The fat little creep. But I dunno. Maybe things’ll change.”

Santiago cocked an eyebrow. “Change, you say?” he said. “Or maybe… Reform?”

Lumler stiffened and glared at the Medico. “Don’t even say that,” he growled. “OK? Don’t even. That kinda shit’ll get you tossed into the IC in a fuckin’ heartbeat, Medico or not. Hear me?”

Santiago nodded gravely. “Yeah, OK, I hear ya. And I won’t say another word about it.”

“Good.”

“Hey, you brought it up, man!”

“Yeah, I know,” said Lumler. “But let’s just drop it, alright? Forget I said anything.”

Santiago nodded again and they sat in silence for a while. Finally Lumler grunted and, remembering that he was hungry, took two sandwiches he’d made at home from his voluminous coat pockets. One he handed over to his friend, the other he unwrapped and began to eat. Santiago unwrapped his and looked at it skeptically.

“What’s in this?” he asked, peering between the slices of hard, brown bread.

Lumler raised and lowered his wide shoulders. “Meat,” he said simply. “And some tomatoes and mayo.”

“What kinda meat?”

Lumler stopped chewing and looked blandly at his friend. “Look,” he said, “it ain’t human, OK? Promise.” Taking another bite, he frowned at the sandwich. “Personally, I think it tastes like horse.”

“Uh huh,” said the other, re-wrapping his sandwich and gently putting it down on the fountain edge. “Well, thanks for the generosity, my friend, but I think I’ll pass.”

“Suit yerself,” said Lumler, un-offended. “More for me.”

As Lumler ate, taking big bites and chewing deliberately, neither really tasting nor enjoying it, Santiago contented himself with another cigarette. Around them, the drizzle had let up and now the wind was starting to rise, bringing occasional whiffs of burned wood and gasoline from the front lines to the west.

“You hear about the mines?” asked Santiago, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “These abandoned mine shafts they say the deformos use?”

“Sure,” said Lumler. “It was in the paper the other day. What about ‘em?”

“Think it’s for real? Think they really live down there?”

“Could be,” said Lumler, tossing his sandwich wrapper—an old issue of the Patriot—into the weeds. “This whole neck o’ the woods was, like, riddled with mines. Coal, lead, zinc, salt, all kindsa stuff, you know? They used to have all kindsa trouble with cave-ins.”

“That right? And now they think the Muties are down there? But why? Why live in some broken-down old mine shafts when there’s plenty of open spaces and abandoned buildings and all?”

“Maybe they don’t live down there. Maybe they just like, use ‘em, you know? I mean, think about it. How come the deformos always show up where we least expect ‘em? Huh? How come all the surprise attacks and ambushes?”

“So,” said Santiago, “you think they’re using the mines as… what? Trenches? Infiltration routes?”

“Call ‘em what you want,” said Lumler. “But you gotta admit, somethin’ like that would be pretty handy for ‘em, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah,” said Santiago thoughtfully. “But haven’t you looked for these things? I mean, it seems like if you found one, you could just blast it, cave it in, you know?”

“Sure, if you could find ‘em,” said Lumler. “We been lookin’ for mine shafts for months now. Down in the fuckin’ sewers, cellars, basements, you name it. But so far? Jack.”

“Huh,” said his friend. “Well, that’s just strange. Have you thought that maybe the deformos have some help?”

“On the inside, you mean?” said Lumler. “Like the Reformists? Yeah, the thought’s crossed my mind. I ain’t that stupid. And neither is the Governor.”

“So with all that, I guess you’ve been pretty busy.”

“Yeah,” Lumler said tiredly. “Real busy. They got us snoopin’ around all over the place. More searches, more arrests, more… interrogations. I don’t even like thinkin’ about it.”

“Sounds pretty grim,” said Santiago. Taking a last drag of his smoke, he flipped a tiny butt onto the ground and stepped on it. “But then, that’s kinda how things are these days.”

“‘These days’,” said Lumler reflectively. “You know, I really hate that saying. These days… like you got any other days, you know?”

“Heh, good point,” Santiago smiled.

Something occurred to Lumler and he sat up and nudged his friend on the shoulder.

“Hey, I been meanin’ to ask you,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“About that Hunter dude. Guy you gave all the supplies to?”

“Sure. What about him?”

“Any sign of him? I mean, he was s’posed to go out and bring in some doctor types. So? Any new Medicos?”

“Nope,” said Santiago, shaking his head. “And believe me, I’d know if there was a new doctor! We’ve all been workin’ our asses off, last few days. Double shifts, every bed full. No, I’d have noticed a new medic. Huh, for that matter, I’d have noticed a new anything if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” nodded Lumler ponderously. “We don’t get too many new citizens no more, do we? Not like the early days.”

“Nope. I guess maybe everybody who survived is like, crewed up by now, you know? Gotta be pretty hard to make it out there on your own.”

“Got that right,” said Lumler. He eyed his friend. “So, just curious… how many fighters you think we lost so far? For real, I mean, not what they print in the paper. After all, you’re a doc. You gotta have some idea.”

Santiago shrugged. “Not sure. They try to keep those kinda numbers under wraps, you know? But an estimate? Oh, I’d say a couple hundred at least. And that doesn’t count the wounded, which would probably be another two or three hundred.”

“Shit,” said Lumler, nodding. He’d suspected as much but took no pleasure in being right. “No wonder they’re always drafting us PF guys—they need the bodies! Fuck, at this rate, if the War keeps up, we’re just flat-out gonna run outta citizens! Them deformo freaks’ll swarm all over in here and that’ll be that. So long New America.”

Santiago looked at him strangely. “What are you tryin’ to do, man?” he said. “Scare me? Cause it’s workin’, if that’s what you meant!”

“Hey, I’m just sayin’ is all,” said Lumler, tossing up thick hands. “There’s only so many of us, ain’t there? And it seems like there’s a like, unlimited supply of these muties. Do the goddamn math.”

Santiago scowled at him. “Geez, you’re a cheery bastard today,” he said bitterly. “What, you miss the pancakes at the Jolly Café that much already?”

Lumler had to smile, in a humorless, bulldog sort of way. “Yeah, maybe that’s it, pal. Maybe you’re right. Aw, don’t pay me no mind. Like I said, I just been feelin’ kinda down, I guess.”

“Eh, you should get out more,” said Santiago. “All you do is work and sleep. Shit, you should go down to the Big Time, find yourself a nice girl, maybe a have a drink or two.”

“At the Big Time?” scoffed Lumler. “Not fuckin’ likely. I seen the shit they put in the drinks down there. And them girls? Shit, some o’ them are older than my old mom!”

“Yes, well,” said Santiago philosophically, “we all gotta do what we gotta do to survive, don’t we? Even the State-sponsored, geriatric hookers. Like the Governor says, we all have a—”

“Place to Fill and a Job to Do,” quoted Lumler, finishing the other’s sentence. “Yeah, yeah, I heard that a million times, too, just like everybody else.”

Santiago stretched his arms and then rose from the fountain’s rim. “Well, it may be trite,” he said, “but that doesn’t make that little axiom any less true. Take me, for example. If I don’t get my ass back to the hospital, I’m gonna find have it handed to me on a platter. So…”

“Yeah,” Lumler said, rising and brushing crumbs from his coat. “I gotta get back to the station, too. Well, take care of yerself, pal. Don’t sew yer fingers together or nothin’.”

Santiago laughed, flashing white teeth. “I’ll try not to,” he grinned. “You take care, too. And don’t forget, as your physician, I prescribe a nice night at the Big Time, spent in the company of the youngest, prettiest hostess in the joint, plus at least two drinks of their very best hooch. To be taken internally, once per week or as needed. Got it?”

“Yeah, thanks Doc,” said Lumler. “I’ll see what I can do about havin’ that scrip filled.”

For a long moment he looked at his friend and something fearful stirred in Lumler’s chest and head, a strong sense this might be the last time he ever saw the man. With an effort, no slave to superstition or emotionalism, he shook the feeling off and offered his meaty hand.

“Take it easy, man,” he said. “An’ stay safe. I sure would miss you.”

“Yeah,” said Santiago softly, shaking his hand. “You, too. Now go on, get outta here. And next week? I’ll bring the food.”

“Deal.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

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—ad for Globo-Chem product, circa 2048

The day before Teresa left Baron Zero’s house began as innocuously as any, just another day of chopping weeds in the stupid, stupid bean fields, but by the end of it she was packing her things. And all because of one little can of Cat.

She’d stuck to her job and her studies for the last few days, but more and more she got the feeling that, try as they might to make her feel at home, she just plain didn’t belong with these people. It wasn’t their fault; all they were doing was trying to survive, same as anyone. But for that, did they have to be so desperately boring? Didn’t they ever want to grab a bike and go zoomin’? Or go out and shoot some coyotes? No chain fights, no dog fights, no chicken fights, nothing to bet on. Hell, most of ‘em didn’t even drink stupidwater! She got the feeling that partly it was because she was young and easily bored, but the fact remained; she just didn’t feel like a real resident of the House.

What was more, she found that the feelings of loss she’d felt for Justin Case (and the others, to be honest) just wouldn’t go away. Every day, as she worked in the fields or sat in the classroom, a significant part of her mind was taken up with mooning and recollection of the times they’d shared. She tried to concentrate, to banish the thoughts, but it was no use; like a bad hangover, they lingered in her head.

The final incident, the thing that made up her mind and got her packing, was an encounter with some long-term residents of the House. She’d had a tough day, puzzling over math and English and hoeing in the fields, but things had begun to look up when her boss, a nice old guy named Smitty, had come up and handed her a sheaf of papers with writing and pictures on them.

“What that?” she’d asked. “Shitpaper?”

“No, no,” Smitty had smiled at her. “It’s money! It’s your pay. For working in the fields.”

It had taken a while to get Smitty to explain about currency and how it could be exchanged for goods and services, but she’d snapped to it quickly enough once the concept was laid out and had readily taken the stuff.

“So, huh, thanks, Smitty,” she’d told him, still wary of some kind of a trick. Did he want something from her? Like most men? “Guess I can find somethin’ to do with this, hey?”

“Don’t thank me,” Smitty had waved. “It’s just how it we do it. You work, we pay you for the work, and then you can spend the money on whatever you want. Or nothing! Understand?”

“Sure,” she’d nodded. “I gotcha.”

Later, in the Bazaar, once she’d established that this paper/currency ploop was actually real and not some kind of a trick, she’d happily gone shopping. Smokes, some cans of beer, a smart new wool cap, and five cans of Cat had used up some of the paper money, but most of it went toward that most valuable and hard to obtain commodity, tampons. More dear than smokes or bullets or even gas, tampons (the use of which she’d been taught by Ugly Jane, the de facto matriarch of the Bloodclaws), were not something to be passed up, at any price, and she’d bought as many as she could afford. Then, tummy growling, feeling pretty flush, she’d headed down to the park to eat.

The park was a nice place, all trees and flowers and paths and benches. It was quiet and it smelled good. When she got there on the day in question, there were two other people there, an older woman and another girl about her own age, sitting at a table with benches built into it and playing some kind of game with dice.

Giving them a nod and a smile, Teresa went over and sat under a big bushy tree. Selecting one of the cans, she dug out her trusty spoon, polished it on her shirttail, and popped it open. For a moment she savored the smell, nice and tangy, before taking a big scoop. Mmm, it was delicious! Some folks liked their Cat heated up, but she liked it like this, at room temperature. Greedily, her protein-starved system begging for more, she downed the whole can and then licked out all of the salty jelly-like stuff at the bottom. Luxuriously, she licked her lips and belched. Then she heard the girl at the bench-table; it was hard not to.

“Eww, mom!” she said. “She’s eating cat food! Gross!”

“Hush, Ashleigh,” said the older woman. “She just doesn’t know any better.”

“But,” the girl protested, “it’s for cats! Oh, yuck, I can smell it from here! Eww!”

“Ashleigh, be quiet!” said the woman. “Now help me pick up the board.”

In another few minutes, they’d left. For a moment Teresa sat and stared at the can in her hand. Was the girl right? Was this supposed to be food for cats? She had always assumed that it was made out of cats. After all, every other can of food, be it beans or meat or ravioli, had a little picture on the label of what was inside; why not this one, with a shot of a fluffy white kitty? Was it the same with cans of Dog? And anyway, why on earth would anybody feel the need to feed a cat, and with special food from cans? Every cat she’d ever known had done just fine for itself!

She’d mulled it over and finally decided that she didn’t care one way or the other. Getting up to leave, she’d been about to toss the empty can into one of the many recycling bins they had all over like a good little resident, but had instead flung it violently into the bushes. That had made her feel a little better.

But it had stuck in her head and each time she replayed the incident, the more out of place and hemmed-in she felt. Not embarrassed, really; she had very little if any experience with the concept of shame. More just confined, bored, and generally unhappy.

And, to be honest, lonely. She’d never made new friends easily, even back with the Bloodclaws, and these people with their highfalutin ways didn’t make it easier. Oh, she got plenty of attention from the boys, hanging around her like crows on roadkill, but they were so clumsy and juvenile (especially in comparison to a certain tall, handsome whitecoat) that she invariably rebuffed their efforts. And as for the other House residents, well, they did things like sneer at you for eating food for cats.

Finally, hoping she wasn’t making a big mistake (but essentially unconcerned either way), she decided to leave. She’d miss the security here, how she didn’t have to stand watches or worry about random violence or having to go outside to crap and all, but the great big old world out there just wouldn’t shut up. Like the old triangle bell back at the Bloodclaw compound, its call was irresistible.

And so it was that, on a beautiful moonlit night, having stuffed her gear and some food into her old satchel and retrieved her boomstick from the gun bin, she quietly left the remarkable home of Baron Zero. She’d thought of talking to the man himself, maybe to thank him, maybe to let him know that she was leaving, but then had thought better of it; why bother? Why cause a scene? Better to just sort of fade into the night.

Now, hiking along through open country, her senses wide open and alert, feeling the cool air on her face and the hard ground under her boots, she felt better about the whole thing. Maybe she’d go back to Zero’s place some day and learn all about Civilization and how to be a good worker and earn more paper money, but for now, the open road, a gallon of water, and a few cans of food were all she needed or desired.

And tomorrow, at first light, she would start looking for Justin Case. Oh, it was a long shot, akin to backing a sick dog in a pit fight, but she figured what the hell; if it meant seeing Justin and Mr. Lampert again, she was down for just about anything. A happy smile on her perfect features, she broke into an easy jog, on into the night.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Ritabits are sweet and Ritabits are gray!

But most of all we love the way that Ritabits…

Help us to mind mommy and obey!

Oh Ritabits are sweet and Ritabits are gray!

Go tell mommy that you want some Ritabits today!

—TV ad for children’s breakfast cereal, circa 2055

Of all the odd things that he’d awakened to in the last few months, the dead rabbit that greeted Justin Kaes when he opened his eyes was, without a doubt, among the top five. Skinned and gutted, it lay no more than a foot from his face. With a violent jerk, he bolted away from the gruesome thing, a sharp tang of gamey meat in his nostrils, and scuttled on his backside into a nearby wall. Head pounding and feeling generally as if he’d been beaten from head to toe with a very large stick, Justin blinked, totally disoriented, and got his bearings.

He was inside a building of some kind, in a smallish chamber of about ten feet square with no windows that had, judging from the various implements on the walls, once been a small barn or tool shed. It smelled pungently of something rotten and the earthly reek of human crap. There were deep shadows in the corners and suddenly Justin realized that there was something there, something alive, and scrambled shakily to his feet. Was it an animal? It seemed too small to be human. Good Lord, thought Justin: Now what?

But it was only a child. Hairy, dirty, smelly, wild-eyed and ragged, but a mere child nonetheless. Warily, having skittered forward a few feet, into the light, it looked Justin up and down and frowned.

“Hey, little guy,” said Justin, in that high, gentle tone adults reserve for pets and children. “It’s OK, I won’t hurt you! Can you talk? Do you understand me?”

The child just crouched there like a skinny little monkey and stared edgily back. Justin, looking more closely, saw now that it was a boy, about seven or eight years old, and apparently healthy and alert. He was going to try speaking to the little fellow again when the kid snatched up the dead rabbit, thrust it in Justin’s direction, and mimed eating. Justin’s stomach churned as he waved the thing away.

“No thank you,” he managed. The kid eyed him curiously for a moment and then shrugged unconcernedly and, taking great, savage bites, tore into the carcass. Justin turned away in disgust and, in so doing, saw that there was a door, just behind him, with a promising glow of sunlight beyond. Slowly, watching the kid in his peripheral vision, he edged over to the door and put his hand to the handle. The kid watched but made no move to stop him and so he slowly pulled the door open and, shading his eyes, looked out into glaring midday sunlight. Tottering like a drunk, he mounted three steps and walked out of the shed.

Looking around, unsure of what to expect, he found that he was still at the tornado-ravaged farm. Dully, still in a fog from whatever the Small Man had used to sedate him, he recalled all that had happened and then had to sit down. For a long time, it felt like, as nauseating sounds of crunching and slurping came from the shed, he sat, numb as a stone, and stared at the ground.

After all they’d been through, all they’d had to overcome, they’d finally failed. For real. There would be no rescue this time, no deus ex machina to save them. The Old Man was gone and all of the terrible sacrifices of Justin’s colleagues and friends had amounted to a great big fat nothing. Zip, zilch, nada. Maybe someone out there would have the presence of mind to grasp Lampert’s importance, but the odds of that happening before the Old Man died were probably so slim as to be inconsequential. They had failed and now humanity itself was done for. The End.

So why did he have such a hard time caring? Maybe he was in shock, or maybe he was flat-out emotionally overloaded, but for whatever reason, it just didn’t seem to matter. He had almost mustered the energy to feel bad when Erin Swails suddenly came walking up through the tall grass. Hastily collecting himself with no small effort, he shook himself and struggled to his feet. Erin, looking haggard and beat up and generally unwell, came over to him and gave a sickly smile.

“Hi, Doctor Kaes,” she said. “Are you OK?”

Justin scowled. “No, not really,” he said bleakly. “In fact, I feel pretty lousy, all in all.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Erin. “But it wears off. I feel better than when I first woke up, anyway.”

Justin groaned and rubbed his temples. “What about him?” he asked, gesturing toward the shed. “The kid.”

“You got me,” shrugged Erin. “I woke up in there, with that weird little guy pokin’ a dead rabbit in my face. Ugh! So I came out here, had a look around. I was just coming back to see if you were awake yet.”

“Huh,” said Justin heavily. “I almost wish I wasn’t.” Something occurred to him and he cast about. “What about Bowler? Is he here, too?”

“Haven’t seen him. But then, somebody had to have dragged us into that shed, right? So who knows? Maybe he woke up before we did, hauled us in there and then went out exploring or whatever.”

Justin nodded; that sounded logical. Erin just stood and shuffled her feet. Justin tried to think, but it was all so pointless and he felt so sick and generally detached that it was far from easy. Finally he gave a resigned sigh and looked around at the ruined farmstead.

“So,” Erin said. “What are we gonna do?”

Justin shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. I need some time to think.”

“Yeah, OK, I hear that. As for me? I think I’ll have a look around, maybe see if I can’t find something besides raw rabbit to eat.”

Justin nodded. “Yes, of course. You go ahead and do that.”

Erin looked at him sadly for a moment. Then she clapped him lightly on the shoulder and eked out a thin smile. “Don’t worry, Doc,” she said. “We’ll be OK.”

“Oh, I suppose we will,” said Justin tiredly. “But what about the rest?”

Erin had no answer to that.

As it transpired, the Kid was more or less what one might consider feral. He didn’t speak, couldn’t understand English, and generally behaved for all the world like a poorly-trained dog. For that, though, Justin recognized a keen spark of intelligence in the boy’s eyes. He might be wild, but he was far from stupid.

He and Erin spent their first day as the Kid’s guest simply resting and recuperating. They couldn’t find anything else to eat, but they were able to find some old-fashioned kitchen matches in the shed, with which they started a fire to roast a rabbit. The Kid was flat-out amazed at the matches. Every time Justin lit one, he would jump and clap and make a strange hooting sound of unmistakable glee. He wasn’t as keen on the idea of cooked rabbits, though, and grimaced and shook his head when offered a roasted haunch.

Justin felt marginally better, at least physically, and after they’d eaten and cleaned up, sat back with Erin outside the shed and watched the sunset. The Kid, with no warning or explanation, came out of the shed and promptly vanished into the darkening landscape.

“So,” Erin said, uneasily breaking the silence, “what do you think, Doctor? About the kid, I mean.”

“I would say,” Justin sighed, “that he’s an orphan of the Plague. Like so many others.”

“Yeah, but how did he survive? Don’t you think he must’ve had some kinda help? I mean, he’s just a little kid!”

“Don’t be so sure,” said Justin. “There are recorded cases of feral children throughout human history. Maybe he just got lucky.”

“I suppose so,” said Erin dubiously. “I guess I was just hoping that there was somebody else around here, you know? Some adult, that is.”

Justin frowned. “I doubt it,” he said. “No, I think our little host is on his own. Unfortunately.”

“Do you think he’s got a name?” Erin wondered aloud. “After all, we can’t just call him Kid, can we?”

“I don’t suppose it matters,” Justin said. “Even if he had a name, he can’t tell us what it was. And if he never had one, well…” he trailed off. Erin just nodded.

“What about the body?” she asked, after a pause. “Cornell’s body, I mean.”

“What about it?”

“Well, it’s gone, isn’t it?” Erin said. “So where did it go?”

“You don’t think,” Justin said queasily. “Not the child, surely? He wouldn’t… eat someone, would he?”

“I don’t know,” she said, making a face. “I guess it’s possible. Or maybe Bowler did something with the corpse. Buried it before he wandered away.”

“Maybe.”

Erin nodded again and went quiet. Justin tried not to think about what had happened to the body of poor Cornell. There was a long pause as they sat and watched the sun sink into a bank of black clouds. From out in the gloom there came some animal noises, odd yelps and grunts Justin didn’t recognize. Then silence again.

“Doctor Kaes?” said Erin, very softly.

“Yes?”

“What are we going to do? I mean, we’re not going to stay here, are we?”

Justin considered for a moment, but then found that he’d already decided on what he wanted to do next, as if his mind and willpower had been working independently and now offered their conclusion.

“Well,” he said, sounding a lot more resolute than he felt, “first off, I think we should rest and get some more food. Whatever that little bald psycho shot us up with, probably an animal tranquilizer, it was nothing to mess with. I still feel like hell. And then we’ll need some sleep. I think, oh, another day or so should do it.”

“And then?”

“Then, we go on,” said Justin. “After all, as far as we know, Mr. Lampert is still alive. And as long as he is, there’s still a chance, however slim. Oh, I know that this man—the one who took Mr. Lampert—I know he’s got a car and guns and we’re on foot and that theoretically we have no more chance of finding him and catching up to him than we do of flying to the moon, and even if we do he’ll likely just shoot us, but still, I propose that we try to follow him. It may be hopeless and it may be stupid, but until I see Mr. Lampert’s body or have definite proof of his death, I can’t quit. Not even after all this.”

He thought of telling Erin that he didn’t expect her to come along, that she’d more than done her duty and could go her own way if she so desired, but then, feeling that it would be somehow deeply insulting, said nothing. Swails herself only smiled and nodded.

“You know something?” she said.

“What’s that?”

“I was really hoping you’d say that.”

“Well, good,” said Justin. “So it’s settled. Now let’s see if we can’t find somewhere decent to sleep.”

Since it was the only intact structure in sight, they bedded down as best they could in the cramped, smelly shed. The Kid returned as they were doing so, appearing as silently and unexpectedly as he’d left, with a pair of what looked like gophers clutched in his grubby fists. Going straight to Erin, he proffered the dripping, bloody things, but she shook her head in disgust and held out both hands in rejection.

“No thanks!” she said. “Not a big fan of raw rodent, thank you.”

Unconcerned, tossing the little carcasses into a corner, the Kid crouched at a safe distance like an untamed cat and stared at them. Justin couldn’t help but notice that he spent most of his time gazing at Erin.

“I think he likes you,” smiled Justin.

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” said Erin. “but man, he sure stinks, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, well, personal hygiene is probably not too high on his list of priorities.”

“Guess not. Do you think we should try to, I don’t know, civilize him? I mean, we could at least give him a bath.”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” said Justin. “After all, just look at him: Does he look like he’d just hop into a nice tub of hot soapy water?”

“No, not at all,” ceded Erin. “In fact, he looks like he’d take my arm off if I so much as tried to touch him.”

“Indeed.”

“How old do you think he is?” wondered Erin.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Justin. “Six, seven years? It’s kind of hard to tell, and I’m no pediatrician.”

“Pretty amazing,” said Erin. “But, what about later, when we go? We can’t just leave him here on his own, can we?”

Justin shrugged. “I suppose it’s his decision. If he wants to come with us, well fine. If not? Well, he seems to have survived this long.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Through this exchange, the Kid, a deeply quizzical expression on his smudged features, sat riveted in attention, as if he was watching the strangest thing he’d ever seen, and looked from speaker to speaker as if it was a tennis match. When they fell silent, he refocused on Erin.

“Well,” said Justin finally, yawning, “at this point, I don’t much care, I’m afraid. We’ll just see what happens.” He lay back on his makeshift bed (mostly rags and grass) and heaved a sigh. “Now get some sleep. We’re going to need it.”

“What about him?” Erin said. “I mean, do you think it’s safe to just go to sleep around this kid? What if he does something while we’re asleep?”

“Like what?” said Justin wearily. “Rob us? We don’t have anything! Or kill us? He could have done that any time he’d wanted to, while we were unconscious and helpless. No, I think we’re safe enough.”

“Well, OK,” said the other. “I just wish he wouldn’t stare at me like that.”

Justin almost laughed. “Don’t worry,” he told Erin. “It’s probably just a schoolboy crush. You should be flattered!”

“Hey, great,” said Erin acidly, trying to get comfortable. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t bring me any more presents.”

The next day, they were basking in the sun, digesting a meal of oatmeal (scavenged from the flotsam) and fried gopher, when the Kid, who’d been sitting and watching them, as always, suddenly bolted to his feet. Thin frame tensed, he tilted his head back, sniffed the air, and cast about. Then, gesturing madly for Justin and Erin to follow, he ran for his shed. In another two seconds, he had vanished within.

“What’s eating him?” asked Erin. “It’s like he’s scared of something.”

“Yes,” frowned Justin. “And if he’s afraid, maybe we should be, too. Come on, let’s get under cover.”

They hid in the shed for a few minutes, watching out of a crack in the door, as the sun beat down and the flies buzzed, but nothing happened. Justin was about to give up and leave the sweltering little pillbox, but then he heard the sound of footsteps and the swish of someone walking through grass. Tensing, he looked around for a possible weapon, but soon sagged in relief as a familiar voice rang out.

“Hey, anybody here?! Doctor Case? Y’all in there?”

“Oh, thank Christ,” said Justin, sagging. “It’s only Bowler.”

“Yeah,” Erin sighed, wiping her brow. “Bowler. Now, what say we go see what he’s been up to.”

As it turned out, the young man had evidently been up to quite a lot. Excitedly, once he’d had some water and a little oatmeal, he told his tale.

“I woke up and y’all were still dead to the world, so I dragged ya’ll into that little shed thing, and there was this kid—well, I guess you met him by now. Anyway, I got up, feeling like shit, and looked around and whatnot, had some water an’ some of the kid’s rabbit meat. But y’all were still out, you know? And the kid, he didn’t talk or nothin’, so I figured well, I better see if I can’t find some help, you know? Maybe there’s somebody or something around that can help us.

“Anyhow, I just started walkin’ up the road, you know? I thought maybe there’d be an old strip mall or something. Even a survie compound. So I walk and I walk, all morning, and finally I come to this old convenience store. Like an SA. It looks pretty beat-up, even burned a little, but it’s still standing, you know? So I go over to the place, wary-like, and look around, and there’s obviously still some stuff left in there. Food packages, cans, bottles… well, y’all know what that’s like, when you find somethin’ like that, you gotta go for it. Not like there’s a lotta that kinda stuff left, you know?”

“Yes, of course,” nodded Justin. “Go on.”

“OK, so I go on in there, right? Real careful, takin’ my time. And it looks OK. No one around, nothin’ stirrin’, place don’t look like it’s gonna fall down or nothin’, and I go over to this rack, where there’s some chips, you know, and then Wham! All of a sudden, this big fuckin’ hole opens up, right under my feet, and I fall, like, shit I dunno, twenny feet or so. Just whoosh! And all of a sudden I’m layin’ at the bottom of a hole!”

“Are you alright?” asked Erin solicitously. “Were you hurt?”

“Naw, I’m OK,” waved Bowler. “Couple scrapes. But here’s the weird part: it wasn’t just a hole. It was more like a shaft, you know? Like a tunnel. Course, it was dark, so I couldn’t see too far, but it had to go on for quite a ways.”

“A tunnel?” Justin shook his head. “Is that so remarkable?”

“No, wait,” said Bowler, “I ain’t told y’all the really weird part. See, there was the tunnel, OK, but there was also somethin’ down there. Somethin’ alive. I got no idea what, cause I climbed outta there fast as I could, but yeah, it was somethin’ living, you know?”

“Like what?” asked Justin. “An animal?”

“I dunno,” said Bowler, face scrunched in concentration. “It was weird, like it was a man, a human, ‘cept that it had extra arms or something.”

“What?” Erin said incredulously. “What’s that mean? Extra arms?”

“Now, take it easy,” said Justin, waving. “Let’s slow down and take this from the beginning.”

As he questioned Bowler more closely, the Kid slowly, warily made his way out of the shed and sidled up to them. Justin stopped talking then, as the Kid suddenly, eyes wide and fearful, backed away from them. Holding his nose disgustedly, he pointed urgently at Bowler, grimaced, made some grunting noises, and shook his furry head.

“Now what?” said Erin.

“Yeah, what’s his problem?” asked Bowler, looking down at himself.

“He smells something,” said Justin. “Something he obviously doesn’t like.”

“Yeah, well,” said Bowler hotly, “he ain’t one to talk, now is he?! Fuck, just look at him! He reeks! Crazy little bastard.”

“No, not that,” said Justin. “I mean that you must have picked up the scent of this tunnel of yours. And our little friend here isn’t too fond of it.”

“Oh, I getcha…” said Bowler. He plucked at his tattered flannel shirt and sniffed it. “But I don’t smell anything, do you?”

“Well, no,” said Justin. “But obviously he does. At any rate, I think maybe we should just avoid this whole thing. Chances are, it was just an animal you saw and I see no need to go poking around in some decrepit old tunnel, so let’s just give it a wide berth.”

“Fine with me,” shrugged Bowler. “Just thought it was weird was all.”

“Yes, well,” said Justin, “there are a great many weird things to be found nowadays, aren’t there?”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

He’s a zombie and he’s a pizza delivery boy! And his boss is always mad; will he ever get it right? And he’s gay! Don’t miss the new season of That’s My Zombie, on UZS network, Thursday nights at 8:00, 7:00 central!

—ad for TV show, 2057

They had been back on the road for only about an hour when the car’s rad detector began to twitch. At first the Hunter wasn’t concerned; he’d gotten used to low levels of stray radiation. But then, when the thing jumped to its midpoint, indicating a pretty hefty dose, he knew that what he’d feared had mostly likely come to pass: Wolf Creek One had burst its containment. He slowed the car to a crawl, hoping the detector would calm down, but instead it notched up, first a tick and then another, and he slammed on the brakes and brought the car to a halt. For a moment, he waited and watched for any change.

“Whatcha doin’?” asked Lampert, peering over at the dashboard. “What’s that doohickey? Hey, wait—ain’t that the Geiger counter?”

“Yup,” said the Hunter.

“Well, uh, I’m no expert, mister, but ain’t that a tad on the high side? It does say danger there, and the gauge is all red and shit.”

The Hunter glanced over at Lampert and scowled. Angrily, he cranked the wheel, turned the car in a tight u-turn, and headed back the way they’d come.

“So now what?” asked Lampert, as they watched the rad detector slowly drop. “You gotta take a detour now, huh?”

The Hunter didn’t bother to answer. Once they’d traveled back far enough for the rad meter to level off, he pulled the car over, turned it off, and got out. For a while he paced back and forth on the sun-baked, weed-eaten highway and cursed his luck. This meant going a hell of a long way out of his way, on roads with which he wasn’t familiar, and through country he’d heard was as hostile and gang-ridden as any there was. And with that yappy old fart flapping his gums the whole way. All in all, not the skate of a trip he’d envisioned. Still, there was nothing for it but to get on with it, so he spat a final curse, dug out his weather-beaten AAA map, and spread it on the hood of the car.

For a long while, he traced various lines with a finger and muttered to himself. This way would avoid that hazard, but that way was shorter. Finally, satisfied that he knew where he was going, at least for the day, he carefully refolded the precious map and tucked it into a pocket in his nano-suit. Then he got back behind the wheel and, ignoring the Old Man’s questions, got back underway.

They’d been rolling along for about another hour, the car at its annoyingly pokey top speed of about 35 MPH, when Lampert quit blabbering about how much he liked some ancient 2D TV show called Futurama and announced that he had to piss. Again. But this time, the Hunter was ready for him.

“Use the bottle,” he said, jerking his head toward the back seat.

“What bottle?” said Lampert. “You expect me to piss in a fucking bottle?”

“Yeah,” the Hunter said. “What, ain’t you ever been on a road trip before? Now crawl on back there and get on with it. Or you can wait.”

“Or piss myself.”

“Guess so,” shrugged the Hunter. “Yer choice.”

With much grumbling and ado, the Old Man clambered into the back seat. This would not have been terribly difficult for any able-bodied person, as the interior of the car was designed to allow this sort of movement, but for Lampert it was practically an Olympic Event. Finally, though, after a lot of grousing and banging around, he made it to the back seat and went about his business. As best he could, given the horrible condition of the side road he’d been forced to use, the Hunter kept watch in the rearview mirror. After nearly ten minutes, with Lampert still in the back and apparently finished, he grew impatient.

“You done old dude?” he asked.

“Guess so,” said Lampert. “Hard to tell sometimes with these old pipes.”

“Well get yer ass back up here. Now.”

“Yeah, alright,” said the Old Man crankily. “I’m comin’. Damn maniac, makin’ me pee in a fuckin’ bottle.”

And on and on in a similar vein, climbing back into the front. Finally resettled, he went back to staring out the window. The Hunter drove on.

About midday they came to a washed-out culvert, where a storm sewer had collapsed, and were again forced to stop. Getting out, he walked over and surveyed the damage. It didn’t look too bad if he could find some tree limbs or boards or something. Nodding to himself, he went back to the car, kicking grasshoppers through the weeds, and stuck his head inside.

“I got some work to do,” he said. “So I’m gonna let you out ‘til I’m done. No bullshit and nobody gets hurt. Got it?”

The nurse nodded solemnly. Lampert just waved and made snotty comments. First the Hunter went over and freed Lampert. Then, climbing into the back, he went to undo the nurse’s restraints. And just then, as he was getting out of the car, the Old Man suddenly gave a groan and pitched, more or less headfirst, onto the ground.

“Urrrghh,” he moaned, writhing weakly. “I think it’s my ticker.”

Concerned but still wary, the Hunter went quickly back to the other side of the car and stooped down over the Old Man.

“What’s wrong old dude?” he said. “You sick or somethin’?”

Just then he caught something in his peripheral vision and his entire being went into survival mode, but it was too late; the nurse was, despite her size, too quick for him and he’d been far too distracted. Snake-like, she stabbed him in the back of the neck with a hypodermic and then, before he could grab her or get out a weapon, scampered away into the bushes.

In a flash it hit him, the whispered confab, the stall in the back seat, when Lampert must have undone the nurse’s restraints. How could he have been so stupid? Seeing red, the Hunter snatched the now-empty syringe from his neck, glared uselessly at it for a second, and then crushed it underfoot. Already he could feel a numbness creeping down his spine. Whatever the bitch had hit him with, it was strong and fast-acting; even the nano-suit’s automatic anti-toxin module couldn’t keep up. With an effort, he staggered a few paces and then sank to his knees.

Mr. Lampert, chuckling dryly, struggled to his feet, dusted himself off, and walked over to the Hunter. His performance had been masterful; who’d have guessed the old fart could still move around like that? Standing over him, the Old Man shook his head in mock sadness and clucked.

“Too bad,” he said. “All this way, and what happens? You get hoodwinked by an old man and a nurse. Yup, just a real shame.”

“Damn you old man,” grunted the Hunter hoarsely. “Hope you get eaten by cannibals.”

“Hey, that’s the old spirit!” said Lampert merrily. “But I don’t think yer gonna have much to say about what happens to me anymore. Know what I mean? The flying monkeys blew it. Now be a good little maniac and say good night, Senor Psycho.”

The Hunter gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, willing every ounce into staying conscious, but it was a losing battle. Within three minutes, his suit overloaded and his system awash in chemicals, cursing the very name of Howard Lampert, he keeled over into the dust. In the brief intervening time, as darkness crowded his vision and the world faded, all he could wonder was: What the hell is a flying monkey? And then he was gone.

Chapter Forty

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Justin woke up the next morning more than ready to leave the Kid’s malodorous shed. Eager as he was, he and Erin had spent a good half hour getting some supplies together before they realized that one of them was conspicuously absent. Bowler was nowhere to be seen and there was no trace of where he might have gone.

“Eh, who knows?” was Erin’s reaction. “Probably out foraging somewhere, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so,” said Justin, scanning the horizon. “And I suppose it’s his prerogative to do so, I just wish he’d tell us if he was going to wander off like this.” Turning to the Kid, who was never far from Erin, Justin stooped down and spoke plainly. “Did you see where the other man went?” He mimed long hair and then a looking-for gesture. “The man with the long hair. Did you see where he went?”

The Kid grinned and clapped at Justin’s performance, but, of course, offered nothing in response. Justin gave a sigh and rolled his eyes.

“Well,” said Erin, “what do you think? Should we leave without Bowler, or wait around to see if he comes back?”

“Oh, I think we should just leave,” said Justin. “That is, I don’t mean to sound callous, but young master Bowler has shown, several times, that he’s more than capable of, shall we say, sudden flight?”

“You mean, he’s prone to bugger off when the chips are down.”

“Well, yes,” Justin said. “Let’s just say he seems to come and go as he pleases. And if he wants to, he’ll probably find us, just like he did before, after St. Alferd’s.”

Swails nodded. “I agree,” she said. “Now let’s see about some more food.”

Yesterday, scouring the wreckage, both of the farmhouse and the debris dropped by the tornado, they’d found a few useful things: A couple of cans of chicken noodle soup, several packages of dried food, a sack of dog chow, an aluminum baseball bat, some clothing, a length of rope, a few other odds and ends they thought might come in handy, and what was going to have to pass for luggage, an oversized diaper bag. This last, a violently garish, padded shoulder bag with images of baby animals all over it, was so wildly incongruous and absurd that Justin considered looking for something else, even a garbage bag, but then decided that the time it would take wasn’t worth it; they’d just have to suffer whatever little indignity it caused.

As they gathered and stowed things in the hideous bag, the Kid watched, attentive as always, but if he understood what it meant, there was no way of knowing. Finally, Justin and Erin were ready to leave and looked at each other and then the Kid.

“Well, we’re going,” said Justin tentatively. He mimed walking away and waved at the Kid. “Going away, yes? Leaving.”

The Kid just sat there.

“Oh, don’t waste your breath, Doctor Kaes,” said Erin. “You might as well be talking to a monkey.”

“Yes, well—” said Justin.

Then he stopped short, as the Kid was doing his nose-to-the-wind, hyper alert, there’s-something-coming bit again. Justin looked around warily, but could see nothing unusual. He looked back to the Kid. “What is it, boy?” he asked, for all the world as if he was encouraging a dog. “Is someone coming?”

Erin also looked around and then shrugged. “I don’t see anything,” she said, shielding her eyes with one hand. “Anyway, it’s probably just Bowler. Again.”

Paying them no mind, the Kid, as before, bolted for his shed. Justin frowned. Wouldn’t the child be used to Bowler by now? He wouldn’t run like that if were only Bowler, would he? Suddenly he felt exposed and vulnerable.

“Come on,” he told Erin. “Let’s not second-guess the expert.”

Huddled in the smelly confined space once again, they waited for a good long while. Justin considered the possibility that the Kid was wrong this time, that he was just over-skittish. But the Kid, scrunched into a corner, almost invisible, showed no sign that he thought it safe to come out. And he’d never been wrong so far. Fretting, Justin waited and watched.

His vantage point wasn’t the best; peering from a crack in one wall of the shed, he could only see a slice of the farmstead clearing. As time passed and the Kid remained hidden, nothing stirred but a few grasshoppers. Then, his straining ears caught a sound and he tensed as he recognized footsteps. Human footsteps. Someone was out there, and very close. Was it Bowler? No, he would have simply walked up and announced himself. So who could it be? Slowly, his hand shaking, he reached down, grasped a rusty shovel, and raised it above his head. He glanced at Erin and motioned her to silence, but it was an entirely fatuous gesture; she was frozen like a statue.

Then there came a series of raps on the wooden shed door: Shave and a haircut, two bits! Justin blinked and gripped the shovel handle until his knuckles went white. He glanced at Erin again but she just shrugged, eyes wide, and stared at the door.

Suddenly the door swept open, bathing the shed interior with bright yellow sunlight and silhouetting a figure without. Justin, the shovel raised and ready, peered into the blinding glare, but all he could make out was that it was definitely a woman. And a shapely one at that. With a shotgun leveled. But wait. It couldn’t be her. Could it? Finding his voice with no small effort, he lowered the shovel a few inches.

“Tuh… Teresa?” he whispered. “Is that you?”

And, against all odds and surpassing his wildest hopes, it was. It wasn’t a hallucination and he hadn’t finally gone totally insane. It was really her.

“Hey, ya doopy greeps!” came her bell-like voice. “Whatcha doin’ hidin’ in there?”

Justin almost fainted in relief.

“So,” asked Teresa, “where Bowler at now?”

For a long moment, stunned and amazed that she was really, actually there, Justin said nothing and simply took her in: voluptuous lips, big dark eyes, a perfect combination of jaw line and cheekbone, with a complexion like aged porcelain and a body so perfectly proportioned and shaped as to be almost inhuman. She’d picked up some new clothes at Zero’s house, but they were much like her earlier choices in apparel, tight and, if not scanty, definitely provocative. In short, Justin had never seen or even imagined a more beautiful woman and, even with all they’d endured and the dim prospects before them, he couldn’t help but be a little bit happy. Oh hell, he was over the moon! Finally Erin Swails—who’d also had to apprise the younger woman of their recent adventures—answered the question.

“We, uh, don’t know,” she explained, shooting Justin a glance. “He just wasn’t here when we got up this morning.”

“Henh,” Teresa said. “Guess he doin’ what he want, hey? Like usual. An’ what about the ‘jacker? This greep that took Lampert? He say where he goin’?”

“No,” said Erin darkly. “He just drove off. That way.” She pointed, down the road and off to the north.

“Huh,” nodded Teresa. “An’ jus’ one dude, huh?”

“That’s right,” Erin said. “But this was no ordinary survie. He had all these weapons, some kind of a reactive camo-suit, a state-of-the-art motorcycle, from Before, not to mention he was like, hard as nails. He gave me the impression that he was, I don’t know, like a soldier or a cop or something.”

“Real death-bringer, heh? Eh, we see ‘bout that.”

Justin, barely registering what was being said, smiled and inhaled deeply, savoring her familiar scent of crisp flowers and leather, still gaping like a moron, until he realized that both she and Erin were staring at him and that he’d been sitting there gaping like a love-struck teenager for God knew how long. He blushed and looked away. Teresa, already blushing, looked away. Erin, giving a little throat-clearing noise, looked away in discomfort. Finally Justin blinked hard a few times and found his voice.

“Yes, uh,” he said. “He was a most unpleasant, violent man. And it was a most unfortunate and terrible event. In fact, it downright sucked. But what are you doing here? Why did you leave Baron Zero’s House? And how did you find us?”

“Heh, you wasn’t hard to track,” she said dismissively. “That car had easy treads. Real differ’nt, y’know? Piece a pie. An’ that other groop, why I left Zero’s place an’ all? Well, that my bidness. Track me?”

Justin nodded. “Fair enough, I suppose,” he said, not really caring. “If that’s how you feel, I’m just so amazed that you’re actually here! It’s kind of hard to believe.”

“Be-lieve it, Doc,” said Teresa boldly, smiling beatifically. “The T-girl is inna house an here to save yer doopy asses! Now, tell me ‘bout this here Kid, hey?”

She jerked a thumb at the child, who squatted nearby, and Justin looked over to see that, if he’d been enamored of Erin Swails, it was obvious that the Kid was positively ga-ga for Teresa. Like a cross between a crush-stricken grade-schooler and a hungry wolf eyeing a piece of meat, he stared unabashedly at her, mouth agape and eyes dreamy and wide. Justin smiled and shook his head.

“He’s our host,” he said wryly. “This is his home. Such as it is.”

“OK, but where his peoples at?”

“As far as we know,” said Justin, “he has none. At least, we haven’t seen anyone, and we’ve been here a few days.”

“No peeps?” said Teresa suspiciously, eyeing the child. “Aw, that just doopy. He just a little kid! How he live out here by his own self?”

“We don’t know,” Justin shrugged. “I guess he just managed to survive.”

For a moment all three of them looked at the boy, who still sat, absolutely rapt, and gazed at Teresa.

“Why he gleepin’ me like that?” Teresa finally asked.

“Well,” said Justin judiciously, “he seems to be somewhat infatuated. With women in particular. Probably some kind of mother-longing, I suppose. At any rate, I guess you might say that he has a thing for the ladies.”

“Muh huh,” said Teresa unenthusiastically. “Jus’ like any other man, hey? Well, whatever. We gotta get movin’. If we wanna catch this scary death-grunker o’ yours, we gonna hafta jet. See you got yer gear, there, all packed, hey?” She grinned. “Gotta tellya, Doc, that a real nice satchel you got there!”

Justin looked down at the frightful diaper bag and grimaced. “It was all we could find,” he said defensively. “And besides, what it looks like is hardly important.”

“Fuck it ain’t!” snorted Teresa. “That thing so bright, people see you a mile away. Naw, you gotta wipe some dirt or somethin’ on there. Dull it up, hey?”

“Hmm, yes,” said Justin. “You do have a point.” Dutifully, he knelt down and started smearing mud and grass over the blaringly cheerful bag. “And you know something? This is just the kind of thing that you’re so good at! I would never have even thought it.”

“Heh,” said Teresa huskily. “An’ that ain’t all I good at, neither.”

Justin blushed again, not caring a bit, and felt his heart lurch in sudden desire. It was suddenly all he could do to not take her in his arms and smother her with kisses. Swails, though, shuffling uncomfortably nearby, coughed facetiously and broke the mood.

“What about Bowler?” she asked.

“Huh?” said Justin, nudged from his thoughts. “Who? Oh, yes, Bowler. Well, we’ve already waited a few hours, what with this little reunion, so I think we’ve done all we can as far as that’s concerned. As I said before, if he wants to find us, he will.”

Erin nodded. “Good enough for me.”

“What about the kid?” asked Teresa. “He comin’ with, too?”

“Well, we don’t know,” said Justin. “We were just about to leave when you showed up, and we were going to let him come along if he wanted, but what do you think? Should we take him with us?”

“Don’ care,” said Teresa tersely. “He wanna stay, let him. He live out here on his own so far, he be alright. An’ if he do wanna come with? Guess I won’t stop him.”

As it turned out, the Kid did want to go with them. When Justin and the others started walking away, he sat forlornly for a moment and then dashed into his shed. Before they’d gone a half mile, he came running up the road, a misshapen bundle in one hand and a tire iron in the other, and, his dark eyes rarely leaving Teresa, fell into step with the group. A strange expression that Justin took for a smile graced his grubby face.

“Well,” said Justin, “it looks as though we have a new traveling companion.”

“Hey, marverous!,” said Teresa scornfully. “Jus’ juicy. Eh, guess if worse comes to worst, we can always eat him.”

Justin gaped at her until she glanced over and cracked a smile. “I just foolin’ witcha, Case,” she grinned. “You know me, I don’ even like people meat! Now c’mon, we gotta make some time.”

Chapter Forty-One

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Signing in for the second half of his fourth double shift in as many days, Sergeant Lumler decided that he’d finally had enough. Despite its perks and privilege, he no longer liked his job. In fact, he was really beginning to hate it.

It was midnight, the start of the late shift, but the IC was bustling with activity and Lumler had to thread his way past a couple of officers struggling with a wild-eyed, thrashing perpetrator, an obviously deranged, gibberish-spouting old woman, and a phalanx of cheap desks, where red-eyed PF men toiled at their endless paperwork, to make his way to his own little office. Here, sitting behind his desk, he found his latest assistant, Nails, already waiting for him.

He didn’t know much about Nails, either where he came from or what he’d been Before, but then again, he didn’t really care. Average in height and weight, dark in complexion and hair color with a long, sharp beak of a nose and beady little, close-set eyes, the man was obedient enough, always quick to act on orders, but Lumler just didn’t like him. He was the kind of guy who would smile and salute to your face and then stab you in the back—maybe literally—the very first chance he got. In other words, an average, dedicated, hard-working Police Force officer.

Lumler nodded a greeting as Nails quickly gave up the seat and moved to stand at the ready. On the desk was a clipboard with the latest list of suspected traitors to be investigated or brought in. With a heavy sigh, flipping the pages, he saw that it was even longer than the last, almost two dozen names. Feeling Nails standing there waiting, annoyed for no good reason, he grunted without looking up:

“Coffee, Nails. Black.”

“Yessir!” snapped the other. “Right away, sir.”

Then the breath caught in Lumler’s beefy throat as a name on the list leapt from the page like it was written in fire: Santiago, Norman S., Medico Third Class. Frowning darkly, he read and re-read the name, but there was no mistake. It was his friend. And under the name, the usual, ominous, non-descript order: Wanted for questioning.

Lumler threw down the clipboard and rubbed his temples. Questioning. Yeah, that was a good one! Oh, folks got questioned, alright, but that was far from all! No, even someone of Lumler’s phlegmatic, blunt-edged nature had to admit that the best term to describe what went on in the IC cells was nothing less than torture, plain and simple. In the last week he’d witnessed more of them than he liked and the screams alone haunted his sleep. The screams, the blood, the terrible smells and the crack of bones breaking, the raw, chunky sound of joints being ripped apart… And over all of it, Chief Hanson Knox’s mad, blood-flecked, smirking face, a mask of lustful, maniacal pleasure at the pain he was causing. And now his friend—his only friend, truth be told—was next in line for just such treatment.

Nails returned with the coffee, the usual weak, acrid brew like watered-down battery acid, and took a seat in the other office chair. Lumler glared at the printed words and slurped some coffee. Some part of his stolid mind noted that he’d never known his pal’s first name. Norman? Go figure. He wondered what Santiago had done to land on this list, but then shook his head; it could have been almost anything. An idle remark, a careless word in the wrong ear, would be enough, and Santiago, a born smartass if he’d ever known one, had never been one to keep his thoughts to himself. Like a living thing, something fearful twisted deep in Lumler’s guts.

“Looks like another busy morning, eh Boss?” said Nails eagerly.

Lumler only grunted in reply.

“How’d that EI go the other night?” asked Nails conspiratorially. “The one you helped the Chief with. Did the guy finally crack?”

Lumler glared at Nails from under thick brows and scowled. “Yeah,” he said. “He cracked.”

“Aw, I knew it!” said Nails happily, as if rooting for a favorite team. “Ain’t nobody can take the Chief fer long! Hell, I hearda one, he ripped this guy’s—”

“Nails, shut the fuck up, OK? Lumler growled, cutting the man dead. “Do me a favor and just keep your trap the fuck shut.”

Nails blinked at the rebuke but recovered and nodded smartly. “Yessir,” he said curtly. “Can do.”

For a long moment, Lumler stared at the arrest order, but there was just no way around it: He was being ordered to deliver his friend to almost certain, probably very painful, death. Finally, he got up from the desk, handed the clipboard to Nails, put on his blacked peaked cap with gold badge, and got ready to face the morning’s work. It was going to be a long day.

Chapter Forty-Two

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Coming to the ruined Super America store, Teresa halted their march and brought out Justin’s trinocs for a long look. Erin Swails and Justin took a seat on a guard rail. The Kid, obviously fascinated with the trinocs, not to mention their user, hopped about nearby. Finally, when nothing stirred, Teresa put the glasses away.

“Don’ see nothin’” she said. “Might as well go have a gleep, hey?”

Setting a blistering pace, pausing only now and then to scan the gravel shoulder, Teresa had led the way all morning and they’d made good progress under sunny, balmy skies. She’d pointed out the tread-marks that she said they were following, but to him they were no more than scratches in the dirt. How she could follow them, let alone pick them out from the others, was utterly beyond him; just another of the woman’s considerable talents.

Now, though, surveying the half-wrecked SA, Justin frowned and shook his head.

“No, I disagree,” he said. “Bowler said the floor was unstable, remember? He fell right through it! No, I say we don’t risk it.”

“Aw, c’mon, Case,” Teresa cajoled. “They might be all kinda good scroungin’ in there! Food, smokes, sparkers, who know? Don’ wanna pass all that up, do we?”

Justin considered. It would be nice to stock up on some basic amenities. Right now all they had was some rabbit meat, some water in a gallon jug, the clothes on their backs and the odds and ends they’d scavenged from the wrecked farmhouse. Indeed, having gone without for almost a week, he would risk quite a lot for just a roll of dental floss. And if Teresa thought it was safe, who was he to judge? Finally he gave up and nodded.

“Alright,” he said. “But let’s be very careful, OK? We don’t need anyone breaking a leg or something.”

“We be wary,” Teresa said. “Alway. Now how ‘bout it? Me? I hope they gots some jerky beef. Maybe some stupidwater.”

Trailing Teresa, they walked up to the ruined building. The Kid, who followed warily once he saw where they were headed, followed behind. A big signpost lay on its side, the sign itself smashed to pieces, and the gas pumps had exploded, leaving torn, rusting sheets of metal and twisted remains of wire and pipe work. The front windows had been shattered, the frames charred and twisted, and one corner of the roof had collapsed. Justin grimaced and shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said leerily. “Up close, it doesn’t look very safe. I mean, look at that hole in the roof!”

“Aw, ain’t no thing,” said Teresa. “I seen worse. Jus’ watch where you step, hey?”

Leading the way, she paced carefully across the parking lot to the front door. Here she took out her shotgun and peered into the place for a moment before stepping inside. Eyes glued to the glass-strewn ground, Justin followed, Erin taking up the rear. The Kid, eyes wide, was evidently having none of it and remained outside, a worried sort of look on his little face that Justin wasn’t sure he liked.

“OK, here’s yer hole,” said Teresa, gesturing. “So stay away from ‘at, hey?”

Justin edged a little nearer and peered into what he soon saw was a considerable subsidence of some kind, a yawning pit in the concrete floor like a ragged sinkhole. It was pitch black at the bottom, but something on the jagged edge, a scrap of something bright, caught his eye.

“What’s that?” he pointed. “See?”

Teresa peered at the scrap and then, almost giving Justin a heart attack, simply walked over, reached down, and snagged the thing.

“Careful!” blurted Justin, but Teresa was already away from the hole. She held the scrap out to him.

“Piece a cloth, look like,” she said.

Justin took the scrap and then a sinking feeling hit him in the stomach as he recognized the pattern. Red with blue and brown checks, it was, without a doubt, a piece of Bowler’s weathered flannel shirt. He lowered the scrap and gave a little groan.

“What?” asked Teresa. “So it some shred o’ somethin’. So what?”

“The pattern,” said Justin. “Don’t you recognize it? Plaid flannel?”

“You mean Bowler, don’t you?” said Erin, keeping a respectful distance. “It’s from Bowler’s shirt.”

Justin only nodded. Teresa took another look at the scrap and then nodded as well.

“Guess you right,” she said, frowning. “He musta fell down there, got snagged, tore his shirt.”

Gravely, she flipped on the flashlight mounted to her weapon and shone the beam down into the hole. Justin, leaning in behind her, saw that the shaft went down for about ten feet, where the light showed loose rubble and twisted rebar.

“Don’ see nobody,” she said. “Smells kinda funny, but who know what that is? Wonder what down there, hey? Don’ you? Din’t Bowler say there a tunnel?”

“Yes, he did,” said Justin. “But he was kind of vague about it, really.”

Teresa frowned at the pit and then experimentally felt the hole’s edge with one booted foot. A few pieces of fractured cement rolled into the pit, but it didn’t collapse any further. Teresa stepped back and re-slung her shotgun.

“I say we check it out,” she said. “I mean, I know Bowler ain’t like, the juiciest survie on the road or nothin’, but he ain’t such a bad dude. What if he hurt an’ layin’ down there where we can’t gleep ‘im? Just checkin’ it out don’ hurt.”

Justin scowled and thought about it, but, loath as he was to admit it, she was right. Maybe the scrap had gotten there when Bowler had fallen into the pit the first time, but then again, there was always the chance that it was more recent. They owed it to Bowler to at least look. Reluctantly, he nodded to her.

“We have some rope,” he said. “But just take a look, alright? Don’t do anything dangerous, alright?”

Teresa smiled impishly at him. “Don’ worry, Case. This ain’t the first wrecked-up SA I been in. Be jus’ fine, you see.”

Justin and Erin waited as Teresa deftly rigged up, tested, and then scrambled down the rope and vanished into the hole. For a few minutes they heard nothing, but then Teresa’s voice rang out from below.

“They is a tunnel down here!” she called. “Gonna check it out!”

“What about Bowler?” shouted Justin, hands cupped to his mouth. “Any sign of him?”

“Not so far!” called Teresa. “Be right back!”

Justin glanced worriedly at Erin, who just frowned and shrugged.

“Teresa?” Justin yelled. “Where are you going? What’s going on down there?”

Listening, he heard her voice, yelling something, but it was so distant and faint that he couldn’t make out the actual words. A cold sort of feeling stole over him and he suddenly realized that this was probably a bad idea. Maybe a very bad one.

“Teresa?!” he hollered into the hole. “Can you hear me?!”

Nothing. Not a peep. For an eternity, they waited and listened, but still nothing.

Justin looked at Erin. “I’m going down there,” he said urgently, going for the rope. “Something’s wrong.”

“Wait, Doctor Kaes,” said Erin, grabbing him by the arm. “Don’t!”

“But—” said Justin, tearing away.

“No, I mean listen,” she said, putting a finger to her lips.

Justin listened, his heart beating double-time, and heard Teresa’s voice again, just as faint, and then, making him start as if electrocuted, a shotgun blast. It was muffled and far-off, but it was unmistakable.

“Oh shit!” said Justin. “She’s in trouble! Out of the way, I’m going down there.”

This time she didn’t try to stop him, but he was only a few feet down the rope when he heard a commotion coming from beneath him and scrabbled back up. Just as he turned to look back down into the hole, vaguely aware of a disgusting, musky smell, first Bowler and then Teresa came bolting into the light. In an instant, prodded by Teresa, the two scaled the rope and were back above ground.

“What happened?” asked Justin. Teresa seemed the same, if excited, but Bowler didn’t look so good. His clothes were ragged and torn, his hair was even wilder than usual, and there was a frantic, hunted look in his eyes that spoke of some profoundly disturbing experience.

“Later!” snapped Teresa, eyeing the hole. “We gotta get outta here. Now move! Go on, go!”

They did, snatching a few convenience store treasures on the way out. Teresa didn’t let them stop until they were a good half-mile away, but finally they took a break and sat down under a big, solitary tree. Justin turned expectantly on Bowler and Teresa.

“Well?” he demanded. “Are you going to tell us what happened?”

Teresa looked at Bowler, but the young man had drawn his knees up to his chin and sat staring vacantly at the ground. Justin noticed that he was only wearing one cowboy boot; his other foot was bare. Teresa shrugged, seemingly unruffled.

“Went down the tunnel, hey?” she said. “Real dark, got this funk-ly smell, too. An’ then I sees this one, comin’ down the tunnel like he on fire, hey? An’ then I sees why, cause they somethin’ chasin’ him. Somethin’ nasty, hey? Din’t get a good gleep, but it was big an’ real fearish-lookin’ for sure. So I blasted it. Leastway, think I did. Anyway, it went away, back into the dark, hey. An’ then we ran like, fast as can, an’ here we are.”

“Good God!” Justin said. “What was it? An animal? A mountain lion or a bear or something?”

“No,” said Bowler, in an odd, flat way. They all looked at him, but he only stared at the ground. “Not an animal. Not human, neither.”

“What?” said both Justin and Erin.

Justin waved Erin to be quiet and stood up, went over to the young man, and offered their liter canteen of water. Very slowly, Bowler looked up. His eyes were haunted, dark-circled and with an almost inhuman depth.

“What happened, Bowler?” asked Justin softly.

The young man shuddered from head to foot, and then took the water bottle and had a deep swig. Wiping his face with one hand, he looked at Justin again and at least some of the intensity was gone.

“They’re monsters, Doc,” he said desperately, the words coming faster as he went. “I don’t know what else to call ‘em. They got extra arms, some of ‘em, or extra legs, an’ some don’t have arms at all and some got things like tentacles instead and some got these super long hands or arms or just like lumps for heads, and—-”

Justin gently interrupted; Bowler was babbling, unbalanced, maybe hysterical. This kind of talk wasn’t helping anyone.

“Bowler, stop,” he said. “You must not be thinking right. There are no monsters.”

The younger man glared up at him hotly and scowled. “No? How do y’all know, huh? You ain’t seen ‘em! I mean, you can say what you want, Doc, but that don’t change a damn thing. I know what I saw.”

“Hey, never know!” put in Teresa. “I hearda all kinda stories ‘bout muties. Ain’t you?”

“OK, OK,” Justin said indulgently. “Just take it easy, alright? Both of you. Start from the beginning. Bowler, you obviously went back to the store, after we agreed to avoid it. What happened?”

“They grabbed me, that’s what!” said Bowler, shuddering again. “I was in there, just gettin’ some stuff, and then… then there was this thing, an’ it grabbed me an’ it knocked me out. When I woke up, I was down there. I tell ya, Doc, they got a whole damn world down there. Must be miles an’ miles of tunnels. Freaks me out just thinkin’ about it. But hold on! I ain’t told ya’ll the kicker! See, check it out: they got the Old Man!”

Justin sat up like he’d been poked in the back with a knitting needle. “What did you say?” he demanded. “What about the Old Man?”

“They got him, man!” wailed Bowler. “Them monsters. They got him.”

“Are you sure?” asked Erin. “I mean, how do you know?”

“Heard ‘em talkin’ about it,” said Bowler. “Before I got loose. Oh, they got him alright.”

Justin resisted the urge to take the young man by the shoulders and shake him till his teeth rattled, but managed to keep his cool. His voice, though, had a very sharp edge.

“What, exactly,” he said, “did you hear?”

Bowler frowned in concentration. “I can’t remember every word, man,” he said sulkily. “But I know for a fact that one of ‘em said the name Lampert, that Lampert was in a cell. Guess like the one I was in, you know? This little room with no windows, like a cave.”

Reeling, followed comically by the Kid, Justin stood up and paced agitatedly back and forth. Lampert alive? And somewhere relatively nearby? It was more than he could have hoped for, monsters or no monsters! A sudden spate of hope bubbled in his heart. First Teresa, now this?

“What about Barb?” asked Erin. “Nurse Cass. Did you see her? Hear anything about her? Or the man who killed Cornell, the little guy. What about him?”

Justin hadn’t thought of this and whirled on Bowler. “Yes,” he asked. “Any sign of them?”

Bowler shrugged. Some of the panicked urgency had gone out of him and he seemed suddenly tired and listless. “Not that I heard,” he said. “But then, I didn’t stick around, neither.”

“At’s a question, too,” said Teresa, eyeing Bowler suspiciously. “How you get loose? Them monsters jus’ letcha go?”

“I broke out,” said Bowler. “This cell they had me in wasn’t much, just a like, latch thing onna door, an’ I managed to get it open. An’ then I ran away!”

“Uh huh,” said Teresa dubiously. “You say so.”

But Justin wasn’t paying attention. A sort of febrile excitement had come over him and the prospect that the Mission might not be doomed made him almost giddy. Grinning, he turned to the little group and threw out his arms.

“We are not done yet!” he said exuberantly. “Don’t you see? We can still do this thing!”

No one seemed too thrilled. Erin Swails made a wry, eye-rolling face; Teresa smiled but looked a bit confused; Bowler shook his head miserably and groaned, and the Kid emitted a series of baffled hoots. Justin didn’t care—there was still a chance! And even if it meant crawling down into some sort of tunnels and dealing with God knew what kind of thing Bowler had mistaken for monsters, he still didn’t care. He had back two things he’d thought lost forever; the love of his life and the chance to save what was left of humanity. Life was, if not good, at least not as bad as it had been. And in the world of After, that was all anyone could ask for. Now, to question Bowler more closely, formulate a plan. Suddenly there was lots to do.

Chapter Forty-Three

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Lumler and Nails were just pulling up at the address, a smaller bungalow-type thing in a quiet part of town, when suddenly a motorcycle, a big, modern job carrying two helmet-clad riders, came roaring from the attached garage and sped off into the night.

“Shit!” Lumler spat. “After ‘em, Nails! Go!”

And they were off, the heavy, souped-up ‘62 Transauto GT leaping over the cracked pavement as Nails eagerly cranked the wheel and Lumler braced himself on the interior chassis. In another minute, they were gaining on the fleeing bike.

It had been Santiago’s house, of course; Lumler had been there several times. And the more he’d thought about it, the more it had made sense. Santiago had always talked about Reform and how crazy the Governor was. He was what they used to call a Liberal, one of those kind of people that were always worried about the poor and the sick and whatever. Yes, it added up. The only thing now was, did he care? Did it even matter anymore? After all, the way the War was going, who knew who long New America would last? Already there were some who said it was all but over.

Suddenly the car veered crazily as Nails negotiated an Army roadblock. Helmet-framed, angry faces floated past and Lumler swore as they almost hit a brick wall. Then Nails got the car under control, mashed the accelerator again, and the roadblock was behind them.

The bike was vastly more maneuverable and speedy than their car, and often they lost sight of it on a sharp turn (especially because its driver had been clever enough to disconnect the rear lights), but on the straightaways the car’s toughness and acceleration steadily closed the gap.

Careening off of a side street, they turned right onto the city’s main thoroughfare, Massachusetts Street, a straight shot from north to south, and swiftly gained on the bike. Within another minute, they were twenty yards behind their quarry and Lumler was wondering what to do next (as in, run them down? Shoot at them? Forget the whole thing and go home?) when the bike’s passenger suddenly turned, raised his arm, and threw something at the car.

They were moving too fast to tell what it was, but whatever it was smashed into the windshield with enough force to spider-web the glass into a million little cells. Suddenly unable to see where he was going, Nails hit the brakes, but they were moving so quickly that this sent the car into a skid that had them traveling almost sideways down the street.

Lumler swore viciously and held on as Nails struggled with the wheel. When the car was back under at least some semblance of control, he lurched forward and, striking with heavy, bear-like blows of his leather-gloved fists, bashed out the windshield. Most of the tiny bits of safety glass flew into their laps, and suddenly the cool night air was roaring through the car’s interior, but at least now they could see where they were going. Desperately, Lumler peered into the wind, down Massachusetts, but there was no sign of the bike.

“Fuck!” he snarled. “We fucking lost ‘em!”

Nails slowed the car down. “Sorry, Sarge,” he said. “But whatever they throwed at us… Shit!”

Lumler thought for a moment and then an idea came lumbering up in his mind.

“Keep goin’,” he told Nails. “South on Mass.”

“Whaa? Why? They gone, Sarge.”

“Just shut the fuck up and drive,” Lumler said. “I’ll tell you where to go.”

“You the boss.”

They pulled up in front of Santiago’s clinic about ten minutes later. There was no sign of the bike, but that didn’t mean much, thought Lumler; of course they’d hide the thing. Then again, maybe it was already a mile away from here and getting further every second.

Lumler grabbed a shotgun from the back seat as they exited the car and Nails drew out his .45 as they approached the building. It was a low structure, one story with only a few windows, and it was dark inside. Lumler led Nails up to the front door and peered past the glass panels and thickly welded bars. Nothing stirred.

“You think they’s here, Sarge?” whispered Nails excitedly. “You think?”

Lumler said nothing but the glare he gave the other man shut Nails up just the same. He tried the door and found that it was unlocked. Funny. This place, with all its valuable drugs and supplies, should be locked up good this time of night. Slowly, he opened the door and moved deliberately into the clinic. Nails, his eyes left, right, and out the back of his head, jittering like a squirrel, followed along.

A noise, a scraping bump, made Lumler stop short. Before Nails could say anything, he glared the man to silence and started toward the doctor’s offices, from which the sound had come.

It was dark back there where the moonlight didn’t reach, and when they came to the first office Lumler reached inside the doorway, felt around, and snapped on the bright overhead lights. Nothing, just a sterile-looking exam room, with padded table, chairs, and a shelf with a couple of boxes and jars.

Moving along, Lumler did the same for two more exam rooms. Again, nothing of interest. He was starting to relax a little, thinking that the noise was probably just a rat or something, and snapped on the lights in the last room.

Caught in the glare like he was paralyzed, eyes wide, mouth in a broad ‘O’, Santiago knelt in the corner of the exam room, just behind the stirrup table. Before him was a duct or grille of some kind, propped open, down which Lumler saw a pair of legs quickly vanishing.

“Hold it right there!” shrieked Nails, brandishing his pistol in both hands.

Seeing that Santiago wasn’t obviously armed, hands up and empty, Lumler brushed past him and quickly knelt and looked into the vent, but whomever had crawled down the shaft was already long gone.

Lumler stood up and looked down at Santiago. Nails, vibrating in place, his knuckles white on the .45, stood nearby in a crouch.

“We got one, Sarge!” he said, excited as hell. “Shit, we got one!”

Santiago looked up at Lumler. His expression was apologetic, regretful and tired, but his dark eyes sparkled as brightly as ever.

“Hiya, Doug,” he said glibly. “You uh, you come by for a check-up?”

Lumler didn’t say anything. Something deep in his ponderous mind was talking to him and, for the first time in his life, and at this unlikely moment, he decided to listen to what it said. For what undoubtedly seemed like a long time to the others, he stood and fingered the shotgun, clicking the safety on and off, on and off, and listened. Santiago just waited, hands laced atop his head, but finally Nails could take no more.

“What’s up, Sarge?” he said. “You OK?”

Lumler looked over at him. “Fine,” he said, flat as a pancake. “Just fine.”

“So,” said Nails uncertainly, “whata we do next? We takin’ him in, right? Or should we jus’, you know, take care of him right here?”

“Yeah, Sarge,” Santiago said sardonically. “Whatcha gonna do?”

Lumler frowned. He quit flipping the safety. He was done listening now and whatever it was that had stirred and risen in his mind had ultimately won him over. His thick reasoning processes didn’t allow for anything like a revelation, but whatever it was, it was right, in just about every sense of the word he could imagine, and right was right. Nothing else was.

Before Nails could react, Lumler whipped the barrel of the shotgun around and let the other PF man have it with both barrels. The gun, a riot model of a 12 gauge double barrel loaded with solid slugs, made an enormous boom in the small exam room. Nails, his face a study in surprise and confusion, was hit in the chest and neck. Blood and flesh splattered the walls, smoke wafted in the still air, and Nails, dropping his gun, slid shuddering to the ground to lie in a growing puddle of his own blood. In an instant, a loud, incredibly violent and gory instant, the man was stone dead.

Lumler busted open the shotgun, ejecting the two spent shells, and jacked two more from his pocket into the breech. Santiago still knelt before him, hands behind his head. Looking from the dead man to Lumler, his eyes were wide but unafraid.

“Holy shit!” he breathed. “You killed him!”

“Nice diagnosis, Doc,” said Lumler wryly. “Any further observations?”

Santiago slowly lowered his hands and shook his head. “You know what you just did? You know what’ll happen to you?”

Lumler shrugged, a small mountain shifting position. “Guess so,” he said. “But that’s only if they catch me.”

Santiago slowly grinned. “So that’s it? Now you’re one of us?”

Lumler considered his words. “You gotta make choices sometimes,” he finally said. “An’ sometimes they’re hard choices, you know? I guess I just made a pretty hard one.”

“I guess you did!” said Santiago, eyeing Nails’ oozing corpse. “But did you have to do that?”

“Yup,” said Lumler placidly. “Trust me, he would never have let me let you go. And he would never have kept his mouth shut. So yeah, I had to. Anyway, he was an asshole. He had it comin’.”

Santiago nodded gravely, got to his feet a little unsteadily, and glanced at the still-ajar vent. Lumler noticed and gestured at the aperture.

“Who was that?” he asked.

Santiago shrugged. “Friend of mine. Name of Stiletto.”

“Stiletto?! Christ, is that really his name?”

“Her name,” corrected Santiago. “And you can pretty well guess how she got it. But don’t worry, you’ll meet her soon enough, I guess. I mean, you do want to come with me, don’t you? Or are you gonna, you know, try it on your own?”

“Oh, I’m with you, pal,” said Lumler, shouldering the riot gun. “I mean, where else I got to go, right? Not like I can go back now.”

Suddenly the radio on Lumler’s shoulder went off in a burst of static and the tense, nasal voice of none other than the Chief himself issued forth.

“Sergeant Lumler, report at once! Repeat, Sergeant Lumler, your report is required immediately! Report!”

Lumler glared at the radio for a moment. Then he reached up and tore it from its velcro mount. He was about to crush it underfoot, maybe in some kind of stupid, defiant gesture, but then decided that it might be useful and instead simply switched it off.

“Fuck you, Chief,” he said to the dead radio. “Fuck you and the Governor and the whole goddamn thing.”

“Amen to that, my friend,” said Santiago, nodding and smiling. But then he abruptly frowned. “But it ain’t gonna be so easy, explaining you to the others. My other friends, that is. I mean, after all, you are—or were, anyway—the second in command of the PF! These folks aren’t exactly going to welcome you with open arms, you know?”

Lumler scowled. “Not much I can do about that. Guess they’ll just have to trust me. You’ll have to trust me.”

“Yeah, well,” said Santiago, without hesitation, clapping Lumler’s broad shoulder, “once I tell ‘em about Officer Nails there, it should be a little easier. Now, let’s go find you some normal clothes. Cause if we walk in with you wearin’ that, Nails or no Nails…”

“Yeah, alright,” said Lumler. “An’ we should get the fuck outta here, anyway. We’ll just leave Nails. They’ll find him soon or later.”

“Agreed,” said Santiago, and exhaled a deep, pent-up breath. Looking up at Lumler, he grinned again, a dopey sort of relieved look on his face, and then led the way out.

“Man, this is weird,” he said, shaking his head. “One minute I think I’m gonna be grabbed or shot by the police, the next I’m walking away with the Deputy Chief. And he’s…” he trailed off.

“Turned coat?” finished Lumler. “Gone traitor? Trust me, pal, it’s a hell of a lot weirder for me!”

“Yeah,” said Santiago, nodding at the sound of approaching sirens. “Well, one thing for sure, if we stay here much longer, we’ll both go to the cells. Now c’mon. Let’s blow.”

Chapter Forty-Four

Got the Sick, got the Sick!

No more fun, no more tickety-tick!

Gonna jump on the burnin’ pyre,

Say goodbye to all the sinners and liars!

—lyrics from Illness Becomes You by Pox Populi, Sanitation Records, 2062

Knowing nothing of spelunking or geology or anything pertinent to such subterranean pursuits, Justin was at something of a loss when it came to planning their next move, but he knew that a few things were essential. A source of light, for one thing, and more rope, plus all the rest of their meager possessions, food, and water. But beyond that, he was stumped. Who could say what they might need down in this purported tunnel system?

Bowler had not been exactly forthcoming when it came to relating his experience, traumatized and fearful as he’d been, but finally Justin had pried enough out of the young man to be satisfied that they should definitely go down into these tunnels in search of Mr. Lampert. He had no idea what the “monsters” Bowler spoke of actually were, of course, probably some figment of Bowler’s imagination or a simple exaggeration, but then again, it didn’t matter to him in the least. If Lampert was down there, then there he must go, monsters or not.

He’d listened to the opinions of the others, as well, Erin’s misgivings that anyone might have when faced with this sort of endeavor, fears of cave-ins and poison gas and such, plus Teresa’s mythic lore about “muties” and “trogs”, but again, they made little impression. Lampert was the only thing that mattered.

Now, having spent the rest of that day returning to the ruined SA and gathering everything they could carry that seemed evenly remotely useful, they were just finishing a very satisfying meal of packaged, good old fashioned, pre-Fall junk food. All but the Kid, that is. After one sniff of a bag of Nacho-flavored Krillo Chips, he produced a nasty-looking chunk of some kind of meat from his rabbit-skin bag and made his own dinner.

The sun was about an hour from setting and the evening had turned cool, with a hint of low-slung clouds. After covering the hole with debris, they had cleared out a corner of the SA, the less ruined part in the back room, in which to spend the night, but no one seemed overly eager to turn in. Justin was wracking his mind, trying to think of what he hadn’t thought of, so to speak, when Erin Swails gave a little laugh and shook her head. Justin looked over at her.

“What is it?” he asked gently. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, I was just thinking,” said Erin wistfully. “Remember when those guys from the so-called U.S. Government flew over New Atlanta? That dinky little plane and those stupid leaflets, the Official Proclamations?”

Justin nodded and frowned. “Yes, I remember. What was that, about three years ago? What about them?”

“Oh, just the futility of it, I guess. I mean, here the whole damn planet is dying and these guys still think they’re in control! Typical, I suppose. But think about it. I mean, does anyone think there’s really still a president in the White House? And if there is, was he elected? And even if he was, does it even matter? Hell, what would he be president of? Don’t you need citizens to have a president? And these guys who survived the Fall, they spent all their time and all that energy in printing leaflets, flying around dropping ‘em on us. I don’t know, for some reason I was just thinking about it and, well, it’s just so ludicrous that it’s funny!”

Justin smiled crookedly. “I suppose so,” he said. “It did seem sort of futile, at that. I’m sure Mr. Lampert would find it quite amusing! But then, we saw all kinds of futile schemes, didn’t we? I suppose people just did what they thought they had to do. Even us.”

“Yeah, I know,’ said Erin. “Desperate times and all that.”

Justin was about to say something more but then came up short when he noticed that Teresa was staring at him. The Kid had settled down into a sort of fetal position ball and Bowler just sat and stared, but Teresa was gazing at Justin, very intently, and with something more than conversational interest. Something a lot more. Suddenly he felt flushed and whatever Erin was saying went in one ear and out the other. Reminiscences, chit-chat, and even planning could wait. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than simply to be alone with Teresa. But where could they be in private? The SA was far too cramped, they had no tent or vehicle, and the others were around.

Pragmatic as always, though, Teresa solved the problem for him. Rising, she jerked her head in a come-with-me gesture and then turned and walked away, off across an open field toward a stand of willow trees. The way her hips rolled and the perfect round globes of her behind all but jerked him to his feet and suddenly he felt a powerful lust like a physical hunger.

Lamely, he stammered something to the others about waiting here, that he’d be back, and then, uncaring of their indulgent nods, trotted to catch up. In passing, he noticed that the Kid tried to follow, wont as he was to trail Teresa literally everywhere, but Erin, bless her soul, managed to distract him and keep him from tagging along.

Teresa led them to the willow trees, a half-mile or so from the SA across open countryside, where they found a small pond, shallow but cool and clear, around which the trees had clustered like a protective wall. Beneath the drooping branches were broad open spaces matted with fallen leaves, like little arbors, and they walked slowly around the pond to a particularly beautiful spot. Here Teresa carefully lay down her shotgun, plus a small pistol and a couple of knives from her pockets, before she turned to him and, with no further ado, flung her arms around him and clamped her mouth to his.

“Missed you, Case,” she said breathily, the dying rays of the sun reflecting in her perfect eyes. “Missed you a lot!”

“I missed you, too,” said Justin, melting. “More than you’ll ever know.”

Teresa beamed, managing to be both sexy and comic at the same time, and started to undress.

“Shut up, Doc,” she said. “An’ let’s us get busy!”

An hour later, the sun having set and the heat of their coupling cooling in the night breeze, Justin propped himself on an elbow and simply stared at Teresa. After some time, maybe feeling the gaze, she languidly looked over at him.

“Yeah?” she said. “Somethin’ on yer bean?”

“Oh, not really,” sighed Justin, lying back. “It’s just so good to have you here. I can still barely believe it.”

“Eh,” Teresa said, rolling over to face him, “that Zero’s House giggy weren’t for me. Too many rules an’ doop. An’ beside, how you gonna do yer Mission wit’out me?”

Justin sat up and smiled at her. “That’s very noble of you. Very altruistic.”

“Uh huh, you say so,” she said. “Whatever that mean. But I gotta tellya, Case, an’ maybe you don’ want me like that, but I still gotta tellya, I din’t leave Zero’s an’ come all this way for no Old Man or no Mission. Naw, I did that cause o’ one thing—you. Track me?”

Justin almost broke out crying. “I don’t know what to say,” he managed, his voice tight. “Except that… I love you, Teresa.”

She looked up at him and smiled strangely. “Is that what this is? I heard all ‘bout love and that gloop, but…” she paused and seemed to think. Then she smiled at him again and nodded. “You know what, Case? I love you, too! Ha! Ain’t that the juiciest?”

Laughing, happier than he had any right to be, Justin fell back and, for the delightful present at least, lost himself in her arms.

Once they’d worn themselves out again, they lay in the gathering darkness. Justin wasn’t thinking of anything in particular, but for some reason a question floated up in his mind and he turned to Teresa.

“I’ve always meant to ask you something,” he said softly, “if it’s not too personal…”

She looked over at him. “Yeh? What?”

“Why did you leave the group you were with, back when we met? What did you call them?”

“Bloodclaws,” said Teresa evenly. “An’ as fer why I left ‘em? Well, they was reasons, but mostly, ‘member the leader greep we had, tall an’ skinny with a mohawk?”

“Yes, what was his name… Sharp, wasn’t it?”

“At’s right,” she said. “Well, ol’ Sharpie, he was real skeeked on me. Said I was gonna be his One an’ Only. His baby-momma, hey? An’ I din’t want that, no how. So? I left. Simple.”

Justin smiled and nodded. “I think I understand. And, truth be told, I’m very glad that you did! But now, I think we’d best get back. Besides, I’m hungry!”

“OK, Case,” she said easily, rising and reaching for her clothes. “Let’s go see if they any more o’ them Twinkles cakes!”

She meant Twinkies, of course, a newly-found favorite, but he didn’t bother to correct her. Trying to control the dopey grin on his face, he led the way back to their home for the night.

Chapter Forty-Five

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The Hunter had never been tortured before. He’d been beaten up, kicked and punched and smacked with pool cues and baseball bats; he’d been knifed four times and carried the marks of over fifty stitches on his chest and back; he’d had three separate bike accidents, one of which was bad enough to require a new hip and a rebuilt jaw; he’d been shot twice, once superficially and once in the gut, and he’d once had a nasty run-in with an electrified fence. All in all, he was no stranger to hospital emergency rooms. But none of it, not even all of it together, was as bad as this. This made him want to die.

He’d awakened, groggy, shivering, and naked, in a cave of some kind. It was almost completely dark, just a pinhole of light from under a thick metal door, and smelled horribly of rotten meat and some other nasty, unidentifiable muskiness. He’d scoured every inch of the cave, but there was nothing there except some old bones, some loose rocks, and a lot of rough, sometimes wet, stone walls. Making do, he’d gripped a fist-sized rock and then settled down to wait.

Naturally, he’d wondered about things. For one, where the hell was he? Was this really a cave? It had the feel of being underground, so maybe. For another, how had he gotten here? Last thing he remembered, he’d been drugged by the nurse, out on the side of the road somewhere. What had happened? Had someone found him and brought him here?

He’d been sitting there wondering for maybe three hours when the door rattled and then swung open. Light, feeble but nonetheless blinding, had poured into his cave. He’d been ready, poised behind the door with the rock, but no one had come into the cave. Instead, he’d heard a strange, high-pitched voice from without:

“Come out, come out!” it had called, sing-song and sounding like either a woman or an adolescent male. “We gotcha covered, so don’t try anything stupid! Come out, come out, whoever you are!”

Warily, his eyes struggling to adjust to the brightness, he’d come forth, still gripping the rock, into a larger cave lit by crude torches. And then he’d dropped the rock and nearly shit his pants (if he’d had any) as he’d looked around.

Standing, squatting, leaning and even hanging on the walls, were what he could only think of as monsters. About ten in number, some were tall and thin, with grossly elongated limbs and digits and tall thin heads. Some were smaller and wide, with squished-down bodies like flabby pink trash bags. One had three great flipper-like appendages sprouting from his chest, and another had no legs but a great, slug-like pseudopod instead. And while most had what passed for eyes and mouths, comprising vague approximations of faces, the effect was more horrifying than humanizing. Yes, it was a whole crew of flat-out, no shit, dyed-in-the-wool monsters.

Blinking, horrified and confused and wondering if he wasn’t still asleep, drugged and dreaming, he’d cast about at these… things, but none of them had said anything. One of them had sort of grinned at him, if that was what it was doing, and one had licked its lips, but none of them spoke.

“Wha…” he’d stammered. “What the fuck is this?”

Then one of them had spoken up, but this one hadn’t been a monster. From out of their midst instead had come a regular, normal human man. Well, normal in comparison, anyway. Thin and slight, with long blond dreadlocks and a girlish, clean-shaven, paper-colored face, he wore an outlandish costume of some kind, once probably a stage outfit, that of an Elizabethan-era king, tights, doublet, robes and all. It reminded the Hunter of a picture he’d once seen of Henry the Eighth, only this guy was thin and had dreads. And was standing there in a gang of monsters straight out of a fever nightmare.

Smiling a weird, crooked sort of smile, this bizarre individual had strutted out from among the freaks and eyed the Hunter up and down. For his part, the Hunter had waited and had tried not to laugh at this weirdo, to not make a move by trying to fight or flee, to not go insane from the sheer freakiness of it all, and to not puke at the sight of the misshapen beings and the stink all around him. It hadn’t been easy.

Finally the skinny dude in the king suit had had enough of eyeballing him.

“What have we here?” he’d said, his voice like cotton candy covered in syrup. The Hunter had waited and glared back, trying to look as tough as he could, standing there completely nude as he was, until the little weirdo had gone on. “A topsider, for certain, but of what sort? Do you have a name?”

The Hunter had considered. “Jack,” he’d finally said. “And you are?”

“Ha ha!” the man had said gleefully. “I thought you’d never ask! I, my good man, am none other than the Emperor Johnson, Lord of the Underground, King of the Mutants, Brother to Jesus Christ and the Savior of the World! Hail Emperor Johnson!”

Around him, most of the monsters had burbled and croaked, as if in response:

“Emperor Johnson! Emperor Johnson!”

But the effect had been nothing less than horrific. Either these things didn’t have vocal cords or the ones they did have were as twisted as they were. The Hunter hadn’t been able to suppress a shudder.

“Yes, yes,” the man, Johnson, had said, nodding to his companions. “That’s very good, my lovelies. Very nice.” He’d looked at the Hunter and made a conciliatory sort of face. “You’ll have to forgive my friends. They are not yet adept at speaking. So far, that’s all I’ve been able to get them to say, in fact, but no mind! After all, a friend is a friend!”

“Uh huh,” the Hunter had said. Obviously this guy was nuts, but how nuts? Delicately, he nodded and tried not to scowl. “But, uh, what is this place? Where am I?”

“This?” Johnson had said, waving his arms like he was showing off the Taj Mahal. “This, my new friend, is the Exalted Realm of Below! Here we live, here we love, and from here we issue forth to bring ever more subjects to the arms of Emperor Johnson!”

Again the dreadful gurgling, rasping, “Emperor Johnson!” from the peanut gallery of freaks. If he never heard that noise again, it would be too soon for the Hunter.

He’d been about to put a few more questions to the weird little man in the king suit when suddenly the man had waved grandly at the Hunter and told his “friends” to take him to the Funhouse. This hadn’t sounded so bad, and he’d gone along with the freaks, down some tunnels and up some stairs, but then they’d shoved him into a big chamber filled with things that didn’t look at all like they belonged in a funhouse and he’d begun to worry for real. Tables with restraints at the corners. Sharp things, knives and probes and pointy things. And a floor stained blackish-brown with dried blood.

“Hey, hold on now,” he’d tried, turning to the Emperor Johnson. “Let’s talk about this, huh? Emperor?”

But the Emperor had only grinned maniacally and gestured for his minions to bind the Hunter to a table. He’d resisted, of course, with every muscle in his body, but it had been no use; there were too many of the monsters and he was weak from hunger and drug-fatigue. In no time, he’d been strapped down and ready for the crazy bastard in the king outfit. And then things had gone seriously downhill.

Now, still on the table, almost lost in a haze of pain, anger, and confusion, fading in and out of consciousness, some part of him still had to ask why the lunatic Johnson was doing this. He hadn’t even asked the Hunter any questions! Why torture someone if you didn’t want information? To soften him up? Or just for fun? Yes, that was probably it. The little fucker was just a pain freak, a violent sadist. All he wanted from the Hunter was the thrill of making him hurt. And that wasn’t good. Very likely, his life was in danger.

Through a reddish fog, he saw Johnson’s face suddenly loom up in his field of vision. Flushed and excited, the man’s eyes were wild and somewhat crossed, making him look even crazier than ever.

“Well, that’s all for now, my new chum,” he said, stripping off a stained pair of surgical gloves. “I have a lot of important things to do and I’m afraid we can’t spend the whole day having fun. But don’t worry! We’ll have lots of time to play, later on. OK?”

“Fuck… you,” croaked the Hunter. Mere speaking was painful. “Crazy motherfucker.”

“Now, now,” the maniac cooed. “There’s no call for harsh language. So uncouth. But now, my friend, I have to go. My associates will see you back to your accommodations.”

And with that, he left. The monsters unstrapped him and carried him back to his cave cell, where they dumped him to the floor and left him in the dark. He considered trying to move, to even roll over, but then gave it up and let the darkness and pain take him down. Maybe if he was lucky, he’d die in his sleep, nice and peaceful-like.

But no such luck. He’d been asleep for no more than an hour or so (judging by his normally spot-on internal clock) when some loud noise woke him and he came to in a world of pain. Letting out a groan that went right down to his toes, he rolled his aching body over and blearily looked around, but there was nothing to see, just the cool darkness and the horrible stink, and he fell back and wondered what would become of him. It didn’t look too good.

He was falling back into a painful slumber when a new sound reached his ears and he forced himself to listen. It was him again, Johnson, and he was talking to someone, apparently in an adjacent cell or otherwise nearby.

“… new friends, don’t you?” the crazy man was saying. “I know I do! Now, don’t you want to be nice and come and play with me and my other friends?”

“Get bent, ya fuckin’ loony,” said another voice, one that he knew but couldn’t place at the moment. “Just get the fuck bent.”

“Oh my,” Johnson clucked. “Now that’s not very friendly. Not at all.”

There was some more, the Emperor lisping and cloying, the other voice gravelly and hoarse and maddeningly familiar, but the Hunter didn’t have the strength to stay awake any longer and finally just gave up and let himself fall back to sleep.

The next time he woke up, it was to someone coughing. He felt a tiny bit better, not quite so desirous of death anymore, and sat up on the floor of his cell and gave himself a cursory physical inspection and evaluation. Not so bad, really, he found. Oh, he felt like he’d fallen down a flight of stairs into a dumpster full of jagged rocks and he was bruised and sore from neck to feet, but the madman had fairly well dressed his wounds so that there was no bleeding or on-going injury.

Relieved a bit by this, the Hunter looked around and saw that someone had deposited some things in his cell: a ten-gallon plastic bucket, empty, a dirty old blanket, an ancient, rusted coffee can full of water, and another smaller can, opened, of what appeared to be lima beans. With a grunt, he crawled over to these items and drank some of the water and then made a sort of serape or robe out of the blanket.

Donning this crude garment, which was better than nothing, he couldn’t help wonder about his beloved n-suit. Over the last few months, he’d really come to rely on that crazy thing. It kept him warm in the cold, cool in the heat, and meant that he needed to eat and sleep about half as much as usual. Even more, it had been very expensive and even harder to get; he’d had to call in a lot of favors to procure it. Yes, even more than his weapons and gadgets, the suit was a bad thing to have lost. He was balefully eyeing the lima beans (why lima beans? He hated lima beans) when the coughing came again and he cocked his head to listen. After a while, though, the cougher, whoever he was, went silent and the only sound was a slow drip of water.

After another sip of the water (which was warm and tasted like old rust), he rose painfully, went over to the wall where he’d judged the sound to come from, and knocked on the wet stone with a rock.

“Hey!” he rasped, just above a whisper. “You there! Can you hear me?”

There was a short silence and then he heard some whispering, as of two or more people, and then came the familiar voice he’d heard earlier.

“Who’s that?” it asked. “Who’s there?”

“My name’s Shipman,” said the Hunter. “Jack Shipman. Who are you? And how many of you are there?”

There was some more whispering, a few coughs. “Just the two of us,” said the voice. “Just me an’ the nurse.”

“The what? The nurse?” hissed the Hunter. Then it finally dawned on him and he groaned and held his forehead with one hand. “Oh no,” he said miserably. “It’s you, ain’t it, Old Man?”

“None other!” cackled Lampert. “Old as dirt and twice as filthy! Is that you, Senor Psycho?”

The Hunter groaned again but didn’t bother to reply.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” came Lampert’s voice. He coughed a while before he went on. “Well, mister tough guy,” he rasped, “it looks like the tables are turned, now don’t it? Be ironic if it wasn’t so trite. Anyway, you’re in here with us, now. You and me and Cass and a whole mine-full of loonies and deformed freaks. An’ I gotta tellya, of all the fun places I been on this little excursion, this is definitely the worst. Shit, even the cannibals were better than this! Well, I guess that’s how it goes these days, but then again, who’d of thunk it, you know? I mean, damn!”

Lampert laughed again but it quickly devolved into a coughing fit. To tell the truth, the Old Man didn’t sound so good. Kind of labored and weak.

The Hunter scrubbed his face with his hands and groaned again. What the hell had happened? How had they gotten here? Christ, what the hell had he gotten himself into now? Underground god-damn mutants? And, even more importantly, how the hell was he going to get out of it? Nothing presented itself, but then he’d learned over the years that, however hopeless things seemed, there was always a way. You just had to wait and watch and pick the right moment to act. What he’d done all his life.

What was more, he now knew that he wasn’t alone. Even if his fellow captives were folks he’d lately kidnapped, and thus perhaps a bit unreceptive, the very idea was a comfort; he wasn’t the only sane man in the nuthouse. Grimly, he went over to the can of lima beans, picked it up, and began shoveling them into his mouth.

It was the next day (or night; it was impossible to tell) that they brought him a cellmate. Unceremoniously tossed into the cave by a couple of big freaks, naked and bruised with a bloody bandage on his thigh, his new roomie was an average-sized, black-haired man of stocky build with a thick mustache and the dark skin of a Latino. Struggling to his knees, the newcomer looked around the cave and shook his head disgustedly.

“Fuck,” he said simply. “Wouldn’t you just fuckin’ know it.”

The Hunter offered the rusty water can. “Here,” he said. “It tastes bad, but so far it ain’t killed me.”

The man greedily took the can and drank. “Gracias,” he said. For what seemed like a long time, he stared at the Hunter, who could almost hear the gears grinding, before posing an obvious question. “Who are you?” he asked. “I mean, I know you ain’t Army, an’ you ain’t PF, neither. So where you come from? Who the hell are you?”

“Shipman,” said the Hunter. “And no, I ain’t from New America. Well, I’m no citizen, anyway, but I was hired by the Governor. Sort of a freelance job. What about you? You got a name?”

“Rodriguez,” said the man. “Chui Rodriguez. But everyone calls me CJ.”

“You’re Army?”

The man didn’t reply at first; instead he eyed the Hunter again, much more intently, before giving a shrug.

“Yeah, I’m Army,” he said. “But that’s about all I’m gonna say. Cause, no offense pal, but I don’t know you from shit. For all I know you could be some kinda rat. A plant, you know?”

The Hunter nodded. “Fair enough,” he said. “I guess you got no reason to trust me. But don’t forget, the same thing goes for you. I got no reason to trust you, neither.”

They eyeballed each other for a while before CJ finally snorted and let out a bitter laugh. “Aw, to hell with it!” he said, shaking his head. “At this point, I seriously doubt that it even matters anymore. Whole goddamn world is dyin’ an’ here we are, stuck in a filthy hole and ready to turn on each other like fuckin’ chickens in a cockfight! That’s fucked up, esse.”

The Hunter allowed a thin smile and nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s a fucked-up world now, ain’t it? Well, first things first, CJ. Let’s get you something to wear…”

Chapter Forty-Six

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Chafing to get started, imagining Howard Lampert’s ancient body getting more ancient by the second, Justin didn’t think too much about Bowler’s change of heart. When the younger man appeared next morning, ready to descend into the tunnels with them, he more or less just chalked it up to the fellow’s mercurial nature. Teresa, though, was more circumspect and gave Bowler a suspicious look.

“Change yer mind, hey?” she said. “How come? Las’ night, you said no fuckin’ way.”

Bowler shrugged and stared back at her evenly. “Y’all might need me,” he said. “After all, I’m the only one who’s been down there, ain’t I? And besides, we all gotta, like, stick together, don’t we? Safety in numbers an’ all that.”

Justin stepped in. “Yes, yes,” he said, clapping Bowler on the shoulder, “of course we need to stick together. Now, can we get going? Please?”

And so they did, climbing down first into the pit and then, switching on their flashlights, into a long, narrow passage in complete darkness. The Kid, after some obvious internal debate, came climbing down last and trailed along at Teresa’s hip like a frightened pet. Justin led the way, but there wasn’t much leading to do, since the tunnel proceeded straight, level, and uncluttered, for as far as they could see. Interested in the construction, he shone his light on the walls and ceiling and saw that this was a man-made passage, marked with regular scoring and cuts, and supported every twenty yards or so by creosote-smeared wooden trestles.

“Is this a mine?” he wondered aloud, his voice echoing eerily. “It’s certainly not a natural cave.”

“Looks like it,” said Erin Swails. “Can’t think of any other reason for tunnels like this.”

“And what is that smell?” asked Justin. “Like some kind of animal. Like at the zoo.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty rank, alright.”

They walked for quite a while, instinctively crouched, and the tunnel kept on straight and level. They’d gone at least a mile when Justin finally called a rest break. As the others had some water, he directed his light down the tunnel, but there was nothing to see except more tunnel. He turned to Bowler.

“How long is this thing?” he asked. “How far do we have to go?”

Bowler shrugged lackadaisically. “Pretty far,” he said. “Like I said, these holes go on forever. Miles an’ miles. But, I dunno, we should come to a, like, intersection, pretty soon, an’ after that there’s all kindsa tunnels, up an’ down and all over.”

Justin frowned. “That sounds as if it would be easy to get lost. Are you sure you can find your way back?”

“Yeah, dude,” said Teresa edgily. “I don’ wanna get stuck down here, hey?”

“Relax,” said Bowler. “I know where I’m goin’.”

Suddenly worried, in an infuriatingly impotent way, Justin nodded and tried not to think about it. They’d made their choice and, short of turning around right now and leaving, they were committed. There was no sense in second-guessing.

Unfortunately, his more animal instincts were not so reasonable and a looming sense of where he was began to take over. The darkness, the way every sound echoed so eerily, the horrid musky smell… But most of all he was aware of the tons and tons of earth and stone over his head, a vast physical weight that could suddenly fall and bury them so deeply that no one would even know they’d ever been there at all. And to think that there were apparently people living down here? It made his skin crawl. With an effort, trying to set a brave example, he shook it off and got them moving again.

They went along the tunnel for maybe another mile and, though it was slight, Justin noticed that it sloped steadily downward. Was that significant? All it meant to him was that there was even more earth, more weight, hanging over their heads.

At one point there was a hissed exchange from the rear of their little group and Justin stopped and turned to see that Teresa, with the Kid glaring protectively from around her knees, was in some kind of dispute with Bowler.

“Go ahead, dude,” she was saying, motioning for Bowler to proceed her. “I gots the back, hey?”

“Yeah, OK,” said Bowler, shrugging sullenly. “Whatever.” And he fell into line ahead of Teresa and the Kid.

Justin gave Teresa a questioning look, but she only made a “who knows?” kind of face and shrugged. More concerned with their surroundings than Bowler’s (only natural) reticence, Justin turned back to the tunnel and kept going.

After another quarter mile or so, they came to a spot where a large grate of some kind, like an ancient portcullis, set into the ceiling, emerged from the darkness. Luckily, it was raised, allowing them to walk right under it, but Justin saw that, once lowered, it would block the passage as effectively as a cave-in. He looked around, shining his light all about, but there didn’t seem to be any mechanism for raising and lowering the thing.

“What is this?” Justin asked, looking to Bowler.

“How should I know?” said Bowler testily. “Some kinda gate, looks like.”

“Could be a storm grate,’ said Erin, playing her light on the thick, rusty bars. “In case of a flood, you know? They could’ve closed it off, to minimize damage.”

“Hmm, yes,” said Justin. That sounded reasonable enough. “Well, whatever it is, it’s not blocking our way or anything, so let’s go on.”

And so they did, for about another two hundred yards, when suddenly a couple of things happened, and neither of them was good. First, Justin heard a clanking, grinding noise, coming from both ahead and behind them. Then a weird, high-pitched laughing, so utterly bizarre that it made Justin’s hair stand up, echoed down the tunnel.

Stopping dead in his tracks, his blood going cold, Justin looked back to the others and saw that they were all similarly frozen in place. All that is, but Bowler, who wore a sort of rueful, hangdog expression and stood off to one side as if nothing much had just happened. Justin blinked at the man.

“Wha… what is this?” he stammered. “Bowler? What…”

Teresa whirled on the man, her shotgun leveled at his chest from about two feet away, brilliant eyes flashing, and cleared it up.

“Trap!” she snarled. “I knew it! He took us into a fuckin’ trap!”

“Bowler?” said Justin desperately, hearing something moving, off in the darkness ahead. “Is this true? Oh no, what have you done?”

“Sorry, Doc,” said Bowler guiltily, eyes downcast, “but y’all know how it is. We all gotta do what we gotta do to survive, don’t we? An’ these guys, the mutants, well, they made me the sorta offer I just couldn’t pass up, you know? Ain’t nothin’ personal.”

“Nothing personal?” sputtered Justin, reeling. “Are you kidding me?”

Teresa glared daggers at the man. “I should blast you in half, ass-monkey,” she told him, her thin fingers white on the blue-black gun. “Gimme jus’ one reason not to.”

Bowler cringed. From the tunnel ahead, there was now definitely someone or something approaching. It sounded like a crowd of people, all shuffling their feet, and a faint, bobbing light soon appeared. Justin turned desperately back to Bowler and the others.

“Don’t kill him,” Justin told Teresa. “That won’t solve anything.”

“But he got it comin’!” she said hotly, eyes riveted on Bowler. “Ain’t nothin’ but a fuckin’ rat! Fuckin’ vermin, hey?!”

“Teresa, no,” said Justin firmly. “Do you hear me? Shooting Bowler won’t help us.”

Glancing down the tunnel, Teresa seemed to think it over for a second before nodding and turning to face the approaching sounds.

“Fine,” she said, peering down the tunnel. “I won’ blast his vermin ass. But I ain’t gonna get killed by no muties, neither.” Whirling back to Bowler, she motioned with the shotgun. “Yo, rat!” she said, her voice like steel. “Get up here, hey? Out in front, greep. Move!”

Slowly, Bowler did as told and walked a few paces ahead, down the tunnel. After a quick glance at their immediate surroundings—just an average piece of tunnel with nowhere to hide—Teresa snatched the pistol from her boot and pressed it on Justin.

“Here, Case,” she said. “Take this an’ don’ fire til you see they eyeballs, hey? That a little gun, so let ‘em get good an’ close!”

His hands leaden and stiff, he took the pistol and looked at it stupidly. This was all happening too fast for him to react. Should they try to run away? He certainly didn’t relish the idea of any sort of gunfight. And what was that horrible smell? Weakly, he flipped the gun’s safety to off, told Erin and the Kid to stay back, and, joining Teresa in a kneeling position on either side of the tunnel, waited for whatever was coming.

Chapter Forty-Seven

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The Hunter and the Soldier had lots of time to talk, but, taciturn by nature, they mostly sat in their inky cell in complete silence. From next door, they heard nothing more. Either the Old Man and his nurse had been moved or they were dead. Ultimately though, out of sheer boredom and small measure of curiosity, the Hunter finally spoke up.

“So what’s the deal in New America?” he asked peremptorily. “What’s with this here war you were talkin’ about?”

The other man said nothing for a while and the Hunter could sense him staring back in the dark. Finally the Soldier snorted and gave a bitter laugh.

“New America,” he said acidly. “That’s a fuckin’ laugh! Shit, if that’s the new version of the U.S., I say piss on it! Buncha fuckin’ assholes. You know the hell of it? I actually swore an oath to that Governor pendejo! Maricon pajero fuck! But I guess that don’t mean shit no more. I mean, both of us are prob’ly as good as dead, anyway.”

“Yeah, looks like it,” said the Hunter laconically. “But what about the war? Who’s the enemy?”

“These fucks!” said CJ. “These deformo freaks. They been swarmin’ up outta the ground like cock-a-roaches for the last six months. Come in big gangs, fifty, hundred at a time. Not so well-armed, mind. All they got’s like, axes and knives and clubs, some old rifles an’ pistols. But when there’s a hundred screamin’ muties at a time, well, even all our fancy assault rifles don’ mean shit. Plus, they’re fuckin’ smart, man! Use diversions, sneak attacks, all kinda shit. Don’ know how they can be so clever, to look at ‘em, but there you go. An’, like you can see, they’re like, fuckin’ underground. They use these mine shafts, the sewers, pop up wherever they want.”

“Jesus,” said the Hunter, “that’s rough. But what about the muties themselves? What are they after? Whatta they want?”

“Who fuckin’ knows? Maybe they just wanna take over, you know? Take all our food an’ all our stuff. I mean, some people say that they eat people, sure, but right now? I personally don’ wanna think about that. Know what I mean?”

The Hunter felt a slight shudder; one of his few unreasonable fears was of being eaten by cannibals. Not that he cared if people ate other people, really, that was their business. He just didn’t want it to happen to him. And to think that all those monsters out there were man-eaters? It gave him a shock.

“What about this Emperor freak?” asked the Hunter, deliberately changing the subject. “You met him yet?”

“Emperor?” said the other. “Never heard of him. Who is he?”

“Not so sure about that,” said the Hunter. “I mean, he calls himself Emperor Johnson, king of this, lord of that. What I do know is what he is, and that’s nothin’ more or less than a fuckin’ lunatic. Straight-up batshit sadistic, psychotic crazy.”

CJ gave a pained groan and then an acidic laugh. “Oh, man! That is really fuckin’ good, you know? Maravilloso! I come from one loco motherfucker in charge, right into another one! Is everybody in charge insane? Is that how it works? Dios mio, this is a fucked-up world, amigo!”

The Hunter sat up. “You mean the Governor, right? That who you mean?”

“Yeah, who else?”

“An’ you’re sayin’ he’s crazy?”

“Kind of a relative term, these days, ain’t it?” said CJ. The Hunter could hear him shift position. “But yeah, I think it’s safe to say that the Governor is one loco, power-drunk kinda fucker. Shit, you should hear one’a his speeches, the ones in the last month or two. I mean, he sounds kinda reasonable, he ain’t screamin’ or mumblin’ or nothing, but what he says? Like everything’s just fine an’ there’s nothin’ to worry about and how New America’s better than ever, like, jus’ totally outta touch, you know? I mean, I ain’t no head-shrinker. I can’t say what’s crazy an’ what’s not. But, ask me, this dude is one beer short of a six-pack. An’ that don’t even take into account all the shit people say about him! How he’s a maricon boy-fucker, a drug fiend, how he lives like some kinda king, all walled up in his mansion with all them PF goons all over. Shit, don’t even get me started on those pendejo bastards!

“Who, the Police Force?” said the Hunter. “Why, what’s the trouble with them?”

“Fuckin’ thugs, man,” said CJ angrily. “Like them old-time fuckers, them Nazis, comprende? Grab anybody they want, no reason, and take ‘em off to the cells. An’ you don’ wanna know what goes on there! Rape, torture… an’ nobody ever comes out. Never.”

“And these are the Governor’s men?” asked the Hunter. “His personal goons?”

“More or less,” CJ said. “I mean, they’re supposed to be the police, you know? Like Before, they’re supposed to catch thieves and shit. But now? Fuck, now all they do is make anyone the Governor don’t like just go away. Word has it, they dump the bodies in the big burner down at the algae plant.”

“No shit?”

“No shit, amigo. These are bad men. Only one of ‘em I ever thought was worth a damn was the Deputy Chief, this big dude named Lumler. He was OK. But even he’s gone now. Say he was killed in a fight with Reformists, but I dunno for sure. Anyway, with Lumler gone, means the Chief himself is totally in charge. And, wouldn’t you know it, the Chief is as loco as any of ‘em. Like I said, man—everybody in charge is fuckin’ crazy!”

“What’s wrong with the Chief?”

“Pain freak,” said CJ baldly. “Jus’ like this Emperor pendejo of yours, I guess. Gets off on hurting people, you know? Does all the torture, personal-like, word has it. I never met the dude, but I heard all kindsa stories from guys who did, an’ every last one of ‘em said the same thing: dude is bad fuckin’ news.”

The Hunter sat silent for a while, thinking. This was news to him; the last time he’d met the Governor, the man had seemed as sane as anyone. Prissy and fat and annoying, yes, but nonetheless sane. The same went for the Police Chief, whom he’d met twice before leaving New America. He was maybe a bit intense, sort of nervous and twitchy, but not obviously crazy by any means. So what had happened? Had the stress of events pushed the leaders of NA over the edge? Or had they been loonies all along? It made him wonder. Finally the Hunter shook off these musings when CJ broke the silence.

“How about others?” he asked. “You seen anybody else down here? Anybody normal, I mean.”

“Just the guy,” said the Hunter. “This Emperor freak. But before you showed up, there was an old man and a woman in the next cell. Don’t know what happened to ‘em, but I ain’t heard from ‘em lately, so who knows? Other than that? Nobody.”

“Shit,” CJ said, “I was kinda hopin’ there were more, you know? More Army prisoners, that is.”

“What? Why?”

“Cause of all the guys that went missing. See, just about every time we had a big fight with these freaks, somebody would get wounded, left behind, separated from his unit, and just kinda disappear, you know? We figured the deformos grabbed ‘em, took ‘em prisoner. But I guess not, eh?”

The Hunter said nothing. Likely as not, CJ’s comrades had been butchered and eaten by the monsters. No point in telling the poor man that, of course; he’d put two and two together easily enough. Finally, though, he felt something like pity and spoke up.

“Never know,” he said, trying to sound confident. “Maybe there are others. These mines seem like they go on forever, so…” he trailed off.

“Yeah, mebbe,” said CJ wanly. He seemed about to go on when there came a clamor from outside their cell/cave and then the door was opened. A flickering, dirty sort of light gleamed from without and then, sending a shiver down the Hunter’s spine, came the high-toned cackle of the madman who called himself the Emperor:

“Come out, come out!” he warbled. “You wouldn’t want to miss the party, would you?”

The Hunter looked at CJ, who seemed as puzzled as the Hunter felt.

“Party?” mouthed CJ. “Is this pendejo fuckin’ kidding?”

The Hunter groaned and shook his head. “Don’t think so,” he said. “Now come on, let’s go see what this ding-dong is up to. Tell ya right now, though, I got a pretty good idea we ain’t gonna like it.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

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—ad for popular snack food, circa 2045

As a human being and a survivor, Justin was disgusted, appalled, and deeply confused, but as a doctor and an epidemiologist, he was absolutely fascinated. What were these creatures and how had they come to be here? What had caused their astonishing physical deformities and how had they remained unknown to medical science? And why were they down here, in some deserted mineshaft in the middle of nowhere? Plus, there were so many of them! Dozens, at least, from what he’d seen, maybe hundreds. Things being what they were, though, he had very little time for speculation.

In the end they had not put up a struggle when the host of misshapen beings had come for them. Trapped, unable to go forward or back and outnumbered, even Teresa had seen the wisdom of surrender. Or maybe she was simply afraid. When she’d handed over her shotgun, her hand had shaken like a leaf, and Justin couldn’t blame her. Like horrible caricatures of human beings, all distended limbs and pasty, bumpy, malformed flesh, the creatures didn’t exactly inspire endearment, not to mention they reeked to high heaven.

The only one of them not taken prisoner had been the Kid. Like the wary animal he was, he had, despite the narrow confines of the tunnel, simply vanished; one minute he’d been at Teresa’s side, the next he was just plain gone. Where he was at the moment was anyone’s guess.

Once relieved of their weapons, they’d been led by their captors (and Bowler, who skulked along in the back) to their present location, a damp, smelly cave of some kind, apparently deep in the earth and connected, as promised, to a whole network of tunnels and caverns. Here, despite efforts by Justin to talk to them, the creatures had simply shoved them in and locked a thick metal door behind. Now, maybe an hour after their capture, he, Teresa, and Erin sat in the pitch darkness and, in desperate whispers, talked it over.

“What are these people?” asked Erin, voicing Justin’s foremost question. “I mean, is this some side-effect from the plague or some kind of radiation poisoning or what? Doctor?”

“I don’t know,” said Justin honestly. “That is, there are a few medical precedents, at least in extreme cases, for such deformities. Things like Marfan Syndrome and Loeys-Dietz, examples of Multiple Endocrine Neoplasia, but to this extent? I just don’t know.”

“What all that ploop?” asked Teresa, fidgeting. “Some other kinda Sick?”

“Yes, in a manner of speaking,” said Justin. “But unfortunately I have many more questions than answers. These… people, their condition, and in such numbers, are absolutely unprecedented.”

“Hey, great,” moaned Erin. “So we don’t even know what they are, let alone who!”

“Can ya catch it?” demanded Teresa. “Like the Sick? Cause I don’ wanna end up lookin’ like these greeps! Blech!”

“No, no,” said Justin. “It’s nothing like that. This is some kind of genetic mutation, unless I miss my guess. But how could it have become so extensive, and without anyone knowing about it? And why here, specifically? I have to say, it’s intriguing.”

“Intriguing?” hissed Erin bitterly. “Here we are, locked up in some stinking, God-forsaken hole by a bunch of freaks and you call it intriguing? Jesus, Doc!”

“Yes, well,” said Justin brusquely. “I suppose you might call it professional curiosity. But the real issue here is not these unfortunate people or their strange affliction. Don’t forget, we’re here to find Mr. Lampert.”

“What, locked in here?” said Erin. “How are we supposed to do that? And anyway, how do we know he’s even here? Bowler lied about everything else. Why not about that, too?”

“Enh, that fuckin’ rat,” snarled Teresa. “Shoulda blaster-ated him good!”

“Maybe so,” said Justin. “But that’s beside the point. And as far as Lampert really being down here, well, I don’t know what to say. Maybe you’re right. Maybe the Old Man is a hundred miles from here. Or even dead. But we still have to make sure.”

“I suppose,” said Erin miserably. “But I dunno, Doctor. I think maybe we’ve finally run out of luck, you know?”

“Could be,” Justin said. “But then again, I’ve had that very thought about a dozen times since we left New Atlanta, so who knows? We’re not dead yet.”

“At’s true,” said Teresa. “An’ if these mutie freakers wanted us dead, we be worm chow by now. Naw, they savin’ us for somethin’.”

“Like what?” Justin hesitantly asked.

“Who know?” Teresa replied. “Make us work, mebbe, slave-wise. Sell us to someone else? Course, they might just be cannibos. Mebbe they savin’ us to eat, like later on.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Justin, a new sinking feeling in his gut. “And I suppose you’re right, but that remains to be seen. For the present, I fear there’s little we can do but wait.”

“Grrr,” said Teresa. “I hate waitin’.”

It was only about an hour before their cell door was opened and a familiar figure, that of Barbara Cass, was shoved into their midst. There was a glimpse of malformed limbs and a lumpy head in the tunnel outside and then the door slammed shut again and they were back in the dark. Justin went straight to Cass, who had seemed well enough at first glance, if flustered, and gently touched her arm.

“Barb?” he said softly. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

Cass gave a sort of shuddering sigh. “I guess so,” she said, not sounding all that sure about it. “I mean, I’m not injured or anything. But good Lord, Doctor Kaes, these people! I mean, Jesus, have you seen them?”

“Yes, we have,” said Justin. “And they are rather disturbing in appearance. But Barb, I have to know, what about Mr. Lampert?”

“Oh, he’s here,” said the nurse. “Somewhere. They grabbed us both, after we got the better of that little psycho guy who killed Cornell.”

“But the Old Man is here, in these tunnels?”

“Far as I know,” said Cass. “Last I saw him, he was having a little chat with the Emperor.”

“He… what?” said Justin, shaking his head. “Wait, I think you’d better back up. What happened? After we were tranquilized, that is.”

Cass sighed again and sat down heavily on the wet floor. “Well, we tricked him,” she said finally. “To make a long story short, Lampert caused a distraction and I shot him up with enough synthorazine to put down an elephant. So we were free. We were going to take the car and come find you, but then these… people showed up and, well, there were so many of ‘em, and they were just so weird looking and all, and, well, we had to give up. They took us down into these tunnels, stuck us in a cave, and…”

“And?” prodded Justin. “What then? Where is Lampert?”

“Well, here’s the thing, Doctor Kaes,” said Cass. “These things have a leader. A human leader. This man who calls himself Emperor Johnson. And Emperor Johnson? Well, let’s just say that he’s not exactly playing with a full deck. In fact, though I’m no expert, I’d have to say that he’s violently insane.”

“Oh, wonderful,” moaned Erin. “Just great.”

“But what about Lampert?” Justin persisted. “You say he was chatting with this Johnson person, but is he alright? How is his health?”

Cass shook her head sadly. “Not that good, I’m afraid. It’s these horrible damp caves, the food and water they give us. I tried my best to keep him warm and dry, but, well, he has a bad cough. Maybe early stages of pneumonia. If we don’t get him out of here, it won’t be good.”

Justin nodded grimly, worried. “Yes, of course, but how to do that? What about this Emperor fellow? Why do you say he’s insane? Can’t we reason with him?”

“Maybe, but I doubt it,” Cass said. “This guy is pretty out there. Wears this whole costume, all dressed up like an old-time king, you know? And he’s… I don’t know, like a child or something. Like brain damaged or just totally bonkers. No grasp of reality. You know what he calls this place? This stinking shit-hole? The Exalted Realm of Below! No, I wouldn’t count on reasoning with him.”

“Damn,” said Justin, thinking furiously. “That doesn’t sound very promising. But why is he the leader of these others? Doesn’t he have the same deformities?”

“No,” said Cass. “Physically speaking, anyway, he’s normal. No lumps or freaky long arms or tentacles or anything. Mentally speaking? Well, that’s another issue.”

“He say what he want?” asked Teresa. “What he gonna do with us, mebbe?”

“No, not exactly,” said Cass. She looked at the younger woman for a long moment and then cocked her head quizzically. “But what are you doing here? I thought you were back at Baron Zero’s House. And how did you all come to be here, anyway?”

Erin filled the nurse in on their latest misadventures, but Justin sat back, massaged his temples, and tried to think. He’d had all kinds of experience with madmen in the course of their travels, from simple homicidal maniacs to complex paranoid psychotics, and knew that there was usually a way—generally a specific, unique way—of dealing with them. One had to identify and then appeal to whatever it was they were fixated on; humor them, give them what they wanted, and then, if possible, beat a hasty retreat. More or less talk one’s way to freedom. And with any luck the same strategy would apply here.

What worried him more was Cass’s description of Lampert’s health. If she was right and the Old Man was coming down with pneumonia, the end would not be far off. He knew Lampert’s ancient body wouldn’t be able to fight it for more than a day or two. Frustrated, he shook his head, gave a feeling sigh, and turned back to Cass, who had now been brought up to speed.

“What about others?” he asked. “Besides this Emperor person, that is.”

Cass nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “There are others here like us. Matter of fact, the guy himself is here, the one who tranq’ed you and stole Mr. Lampert and the car. Or, at least he was.”

“Really?” said Erin. “They got him, too, huh? Where is he?”

“Dunno,” said Cass. “They moved us, after the first day. I get the feeling he’s not the only one, either. There are a lot of these caves down here, cells like this one, and I’m pretty sure, judging from the noise, that a lot of ‘em are occupied. God only knows by who or what.”

“Interesting,” said Justin. “And this Emperor man said nothing about his intentions? You have no idea what he’s up to?”

“Not a clue,” said Cass. “I mean, this guy is nuts, OK? Who knows what he’s doing or why? There was one weird thing, though…”

“Yes?” prodded Justin.

“Oh, just that there was this big room, this big cave, you know? They brought me through it on the way here. And damned if it wasn’t all decorated and set up like they were gonna have a party! Streamers, balloons, tables and chairs all set up… damndest thing I ever saw.”

“A party?” said Erin. “Down here? What are they celebrating, Ground Hog Day?”

No one laughed. Justin frowned and scratched his chin. “That is strange,” he said. “But then, like you say, who knows what this man’s particular problem could be? I think our best bet is to wait and see what he wants.”

Everyone nodded and fell quiet. Justin noticed that Teresa no longer complained about waiting.

Chapter Forty-Nine

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Lumler had never liked it when people talked about him as if he wasn’t there. It reminded him of when he was a little kid in the pediatrician’s office with his mom and the doctor telling her that her son was big-boned and had better watch it or he’d get fat when he grew up. Like he was livestock, or some kind of science project. Like he wasn’t there.

At the moment, though, there wasn’t much he could do about it. Santiago had led him a twisted way to this place, a big abandoned warehouse on the south side of town, and then asked him to wait. They’d found some clothes that fit Lumler (not an easy feat) in a half-burned store along the way so that now, instead of his snappy black uniform, he sported a cheap suit, brown, ill-fitting, and of a style popular about twenty years ago.

Adamantly not thinking about what he’d done and what the repercussions would be, he’d sat in the big empty space and listened to the little sounds of rats, dripping water, and the faint pop of rifle shots from somewhere outside. He’d started when a police siren suddenly blared forth from somewhere not far away, but then the noise had receded and faded out and he’d relaxed. He’d been waiting for an hour or so when finally the sound of hushed voices and footsteps told him that Santiago had returned. And he’d brought his friends.

Now, sitting between a group of Santiago and six other men and women, he tried to sit still and keep his face flat as they debated his fate. Still, it felt just like the pediatrician. With an effort, he shook off the thought and listened to the argument. It didn’t sound too promising:

“He’s a fucking Pig!” one of the group said. This was a short, thin black man with a shaved head and very intense dark eyes. “And you know what these fuckers do! Or have you all forgotten Miss Sarah and Fat Billy and the others? I say we shoot his ass right now, have done with it, and dump him in the fuckin’ river.”

Another man, this one older, white, with a sort of scholarly air to him, nodded at the other man’s statement. “He’s right, Santiago,” he said solemnly. “I don’t normally condone capital violence, but this man is obviously a plant, a cheap effort to infiltrate our group. Yes, I think Daniel is right. Get rid of him now, before they can trace him to us.”

“Now, hold on, Prof,” said a woman, a tallish gal, maybe forty years old, not bad looking but with a severe sort of aura. She walked up to Lumler and eyed him with a sneer before turning back to her comrades. “Maybe we can use this Pig. We could ransom him, for one thing, or we could even turn him, send him back to the Governor as a double agent. At the very least, we could sell him to the cannibals out by the East Gate. You know they got those AK bullets we need.”

“Oh, come on, Still,” said Santiago, walking forward. “Get real! I mean, do we really want to stoop to that? Do we want to be as bad as the people we’re fighting?”

Cowed, the six men and women shuffled and mumbled. Apparently his friend held some sway with these folks. That was good. Santiago let them grumble for a little while and then spoke up again.

“Look, everyone,” he said reasonably. “I know this isn’t easy for you to wrap your heads around. The PF are responsible for a hell of a lot of pain, misery, and death. That’s a fact. But here’s another fact: People make choices and people can change. And Doug made a choice, understand? When he saved my life, when he gunned down another PF officer, he made a choice. And he changed.”

Santiago paused—for effect, Lumler supposed—before continuing. “Now, I think that each of you should ask yourselves a question: What are we doing here? What’s our purpose?”

He waited for a moment and the little black dude, Daniel, finally answered.

“Overthrow the Governor,” he said, as if this was self-evident. “Reform New America. Ever’body knows that.”

“Exactly!” said Santiago, raising one forefinger. “Overthrow and Reform. That’s what we’re all about. Not politics, not squabbling with each other. We don’t have that sort of luxury, know what I mean? So here’s the deal, either we accept Doug—and let him tell us all about the PF, how they work, their routines and little secrets—or we can turn him out and lose all that juicy intelligence. And for a measly couple of boxes of ammo? Well, you decide. But if you ask me? You’ll let him join, no question.”

The others, with varying expressions of distaste and concentration, listened to Santiago’s little speech and then, nodding and talking softly with each other, withdrew to another part of the warehouse. Santiago stayed with Lumler. When the others were out of earshot, he grinned at his friend and slapped him on the shoulder.

“Pretty good speech, huh?” he whispered.

Lumler scowled. “What,” he hissed, “was all that shit about me tellin’ ‘em all about the PF? We never agreed to that!”

“Hey, look,” said Santiago. “I had to give ‘em something, didn’t I? They aren’t just gonna say ‘what the fuck, let’s let the former Second in Charge of the Police Force in on our cabal to overthrow society’, now are they? Besides, what did you think? We were just gonna forget about it? Forget that you were Deputy Chief? I mean, we gotta use every weapon we got, man!”

Lumler scowled some more, but his friend was right, as usual. “Yeah, OK,” he said finally. “But I ain’t too crazy about it. Some o’ them guys are pretty decent dudes, you know?”

“Only some of ‘em?”

“Yeah, well, a lot of ‘em—shit, most of ‘em—are just big dumbass goons, but still. I mean, the PF has almost a hundred guys, not all of ‘em are assholes. An’ don’t forget that a lot of these dudes were just plain shanghaied into it. They showed up here in New America and no matter what they’d been Before, if they were big guys they got stuck on the PF. Shit, look at me! I was a damn warehouse grunt! Think I really wanted to be a cop?”

“I know, I know,” said Santiago. “That happened to everybody. We all have our jobs to do, all that crap. But like you said yourself, most of ‘em are goons and assholes, right?”

“More or less. I mean, they’re none of ‘em somebody I’d like dating my sister or anything, if I had one, but some of ‘em ain’t so bad. Like there’s this one guy, Wilson, over in the Eighth Sector? An’ he’s—”

Santiago interrupted him with an upraised hand. “Quiet,” he whispered. “Looks like they’re comin’ back.”

Lumler looked at the six as they came back into the room and tried not to glare. Besides the ones whose names he knew, the Professor, Daniel, and the hard woman called Still (short, no doubt, for Stiletto), there was a short, older Hispanic guy, a tall, gangly, horsy sort of gal, and an old gray-haired lady dressed in Agro coveralls. All in all, he had to say, not the most imposing bunch by any means. But then, they’d been giving the Governor and the PF fits for almost a year now, so maybe looks didn’t count for much in this case. At any rate, whatever their names and abilities, they seemed to have come to some sort of decision. The woman called Still came out from the group as spokesperson.

“OK, here’s the deal,” she said tersely. “We decided to keep him. Cause yer right, Santiago, this dude is way too valuable to just trade away to slavers. But we got a couple o’ stipulations.”

“Such as?” asked Santiago.

“Well,” said Still, eying Lumler, “first we wanna have a nice long chat with the former Sergeant. See what he can tell us, right? And if he gives us somethin’ good, somethin’ we can really use? Well, then we’ll see how it goes from there. How’s that sound?”

Lumler scowled but stayed quiet. He didn’t much like the idea of being grilled by these people, but then he was pretty sure that they weren’t the type of people to use torture, either, so it didn’t worry him overmuch. Santiago shrugged and looked at his friend.

“Well, Doug?” he said. “Up to you, I guess.”

“OK by me,” said Lumler evenly. “But I wouldn’t waste a whole lotta time, neither. Cause Reform or no Reform, if the Army don’t stop the deformos, if they lose the War, well, you ain’t gonna have nothin’ left to reform. Get me?”

“Yes, well,” said the older man, the Prof, “we have our own plans in that respect. But for the present, what say we have some lunch. And then? A nice long, detailed discussion.”

“Fine,” said Lumler, rising, his stomach gurgling. “What you guys got to eat around here, anyway?”

Santiago laughed. “Oh, you’re gonna love it,” he said. “All the tofu you can eat!”

Lumler muttered a curse. “Figures.”

Chapter Fifty

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Justin had never thought about the word or used it very often, thinking it overused and often trite, but, looking at the mind-bending state of the great mine chamber before him, the term ‘surreal’ most definitely came to mind. That or nightmarish. Because the huge area, maybe a hundred yards long by fifty wide, with an uneven ceiling some thirty feet up, was, just as Cass had said, decorated and fully equipped for some kind of party. Crepe streamers of all colors hung from the jagged ceiling, a series of tables, laid with festive place settings and mixed, haphazard decorations (a Santa Claus next to a big Valentine’s heart, a Hanukah menorah alongside a bridal display), had been set out, complete with folding chairs, and balloons of every shape and size bobbed and waved in the stinking, dank air. Yes, definitely surreal.

At one end of the chamber were positioned what looked like tables of honor, three in all, set in a T shape, with even more garish and outlandish decorations. The place was glaringly lit as well, with a whole bank of big work lights casting knife-edged shadows of the streamers and balloons. From one corner came the wildly incongruous sounds of a sing-song recording of children’s music. Justin was pretty sure it was The Bear Went Over the Mountain.

Naturally, all of this would have been odd enough, down at the bottom of an abandoned mine shaft as it was, but what put it over the top were the assembled party-goers. Like something out of a bad dream, the various twisted, freakish residents of this place gathered at most of the tables were as adorned as the chamber itself; funny conical hats, paper leis, goofy glasses and mustaches, little cowboy Stetsons. They looked like some crazy person’s idea of kids at a ten year old’s birthday party.

More ominously, Justin saw that, placed in the middle of the chamber at about ten yard intervals, there were eight ten-foot tall wooden poles, old telephone poles, probably, that had been set firmly into the dirt floor. Lashed to each of these, hands above their heads and looking both scared and ridiculous in party hats and fright wigs, was a human being. Men and women, they were a mixed bunch, but most wore the remains of soldiers’ camouflage uniforms and all were more or less beat up, bruised and wounded. With a start, being hustled past these unfortunates, he saw that one of them was the Small Man, the one who’d kidnapped Lampert. He stared at the man, but the other was glaring at nothing, a spot on the ground, and didn’t seem to notice.

Jostled along by a trio of gigantic, smelly, tentacle-armed beings, Justin, Teresa, Erin, and Cass were led past all of this to the head table, where only two chairs were currently occupied. At the end, in a ridiculously ostentatious, throne-like chair, festooned with feathers and glitter and balloons, sat a smallish man, beaming like a bridegroom, dressed in the complete costume of a Medieval king. Very pale, with long blond hair all matted and clumped together, this individual was flanked to his right by none other than Mr. Howard Lampert. Looking pissed-off and not all that well, sort of pale and listless, the Old Man looked up as the others approached and shook his head.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he said quietly. “If this don’t beat all, I don’t know what fuckin’ does. I mean, holy shit Doc, am I wrong, or is this about the craziest fuckin’ thing ya ever saw or what?”

Justin tried to rush forward to Lampert’s side but one of the big deformed guys grabbed him and forced him into a chair, two spots down from the head on the other side of the table, and jammed a ridiculous pointed party hat onto his head. Desperately, Justin leaned over the table.

“Are you alright, sir?” he asked, watching the Old Man critically. “I was told you were not so well.”

“Just a cold,” said Lampert brusquely. “Bit of a cough.”

“Yes, well,” Justin said, but then the strange man at the head of the table cut him off. Standing up, the man in the king outfit grinned at each of them, nodding and bowing, before raising a pink plastic cup.

“I bid you all welcome,” he called, in a dreamy, lilting way. “And thank you for coming to my Birthday Party! Yeah!”

At this, the ensemble of malformed party guests hooted and clapped and made disgusting, sloppy noises of approval. King Suit waved them to silence.

“This year,” he said, “we are lucky to have so many new friends! But sadly, the Emperor Johnson, Lord of the Underground, King of the Mutants, Brother to Jesus Christ and the Savior of the World, has not had the pleasure of making each one’s company! So, why don’t all of you be nice new buddies and stand up and tell us your names?”

Justin looked around the table, but the others, sitting there in their wildly incongruous little party hats and garish leis, all looked too stunned to speak. Finally Justin cleared his throat and, feeling the stares of dozens of eyes, both normal and deformed, stood up.

“Uh, my name is Dr. Justin Kaes,” he said, trying to summon a smile. “I’m an epidemiologist from New Atlanta.”

“Isn’t that interesting?” gushed the man, Johnson. “You meet so many interesting people these days, don’t you think? I do! Now what about you ladies?” he asked, addressing Teresa, Erin, and Cass. Justin was shoved back down into his seat.

Erin Swails hesitated and then stood up and gave her name.

“Erin,” said King Suit contemplatively. “That’s another name for Ireland, did you know that?”

Swails nodded indulgently. “Yes, I did know that,” she said deliberately. “My, uh, mother was Irish.”

“Fascinating!” said King Suit. He seemed to zone out for a moment, staring glassily at nothing, before recovering and looking down at Teresa. “And what about this charming lady? Are you Irish, too? What’s your name?”

Teresa looked helplessly at Justin, but he could only shrug. Finally she half-stood from her place, mumbled her name, and sat back down.

“Teresa, is it?” said their host. “Why, that’s a very pretty name. Do people ever call you Terry?”

Teresa glared at the man. “No,” she said. “Not nobody.”

“Nobody but me!” said King Suit, grinning. “Because I think Terry is even better than Teresa. And since it’s my birthday, I get to decide.” Teresa glowered but remained silent. King Suit went on. “And this other lady I already know, so that takes care of the introductions. Best of all, though, we have a very special new friend! Everyone, let me introduce you to Mr. Howard Johnson… my grandpa!”

The throng of weirdos clapped and hooted and slobbered as Lampert gave a half-hearted wave. Initially confused, Justin then tipped to the ruse and nodded and smiled slightly; the clever old bastard! He’d managed to convince this maniac that he was his grandfather! Howard Johnson indeed! But what would come of it?

As King Suit rose and started passing out miscellaneous bottles of soda, liquor, and other beverages, Justin looked down and saw that, among the party favors and confetti on the table were scattered packages of pre-Fall food. His stomach rumbling, suddenly oblivious, he grabbed a pack of chocolate frosted Krillo Kakes, tore it open, and devoured the sweet, only slightly stale food. Following his example, the others snatched up their own chips and cookies and crackers; who knew when they’d get another chance to eat? And food from Before was not to be passed up, even under the strangest of circumstances.

Finally King Suit (Justin categorically refused to even think of him as Emperor anything), having doled out the libations, resumed his place at the head of the table. From over in the corner, the scratchy, ancient record player cranked up another ghastly children’s favorite, Teddy Bear’s Picnic, and the deformed party guests all noisily and messily drank their drinks. King Suit himself opened a dusty old liter bottle of vodka with a flourish, and then tipped it up and downed almost a third of it in one long guzzle. Justin stared in horror; a drunken madman? That couldn’t be good.

With a belch, King Suit slammed the bottle down on the table and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his regal robe. Up close, Justin could see that the costume was stained and flecked with food crumbs and other, less identifiable, bits of matter.

This and the alcohol use aside, though, it was starting to look like this Johnson person might not be as bad as he’d feared. Eccentric, perhaps, maybe very, very eccentric, but not apparently violent or dangerous. Maybe this would work out after all. He was considering talking to the man, mainly to satisfy at least some of his curiosity about these people and their astounding deformities, when King Suit, having downed another inch of vodka from the bottle, stood up again and waved everyone quiet.

“And now, my friends and relations,” he said cheerily. “It’s time for me to open one of my presents! Hooray!”

Again the congregation of the deformed applauded and made nasty sounds of encouragement. Justin was thinking that this didn’t sound so bad, unwrapping a gift of some kind, when Johnson, leaving his ridiculous throne, suddenly whipped out a large and very sharp-looking kitchen carving knife. With a look in his eyes that made Justin’s hair stand on end, he gazed at the blade for a long moment and then, skipping, flounced away toward the center of the chamber.

Justin looked at Lampert. “What’s he doing?” he hissed. “What’s he going to do with that knife?”

“How the fuck should I know?” hissed back the Old Man. “Cut somethin’, most likely.”

Confused, with a terrible dread churning in his guts, Justin turned back to see that Johnson was now standing before one of the pole-shackled prisoners, a middle-aged woman in camo pants and a green T shirt. Moving slowly, almost sinuously, he waved the wicked knife before his own face as the poor, wide-eyed woman thrashed and grunted against her restraints and the deformed throng clapped and gurgled like mad.

Almost involuntarily, Justin tried to get up from his chair and intervene, but strong, eel-like arms thrust him back down. He was going to shout something in protest, but doubted that he’d be heard over the celebratory din, or heeded if he was. Frantic, he looked to the Old Man, who was watching, mouth agape, and pleaded.

“Mr. Lampert, please,” he said feelingly. “If you can, you have to do something! Don’t let him do this!”

“Yeah, guess yer right,” said Lampert, nodding. Shakily, he levered himself up from his seat and, unimpeded by the freaks, walked over to the madman and his victim. Sweating, his breath coming in gasps, Justin watched.

“Hey, kid!” said Lampert, getting King Suit’s attention. The man paused from his bizarre dance and looked at the Old Man. The woman tied to the post stopped struggling and also watched. Casually, Lampert took out a cigarette, lit it, and used it for emphasis as he spoke.

“Whatcha doin’, here?” he asked. “What kinda party game is this?”

“Oh, it’s not a game, Grandpa,” smiled Johnson strangely. “That’s for later! These are my Birthday Presents! And since it’s my birthday and since I get to decide and since they’re such lovely presents, I just have to open them! Hee hee! Open them up, see what’s inside!”

“Jeez, I dunno, kid,” said Lampert reasonably. “Ain’t that gonna make a helluva mess? I mean, all that packing and wrappings and ribbons and all? Gonna get all over the place, ain’t it? You don’t want some big mess, doya?”

King Suit seemed to think about it, but it was hard to tell; maybe he was just zoning out again. But then he looked at Lampert, refocused, and grinned horribly.

“Don’t worry, Grandpa,” he said. “My friends will clean it up! They always like to help!”

With that, the madman raised and then slashed the knife across the captive woman’s exposed throat. Justin cringed and looked away, vaguely seeing the shocked faces of his companions as the chamber swam in his vision, but even over the hoots and clapping he could hear the appalling sound of splashing liquid. And then chopping, hacking noises, accompanied by savage screams of insane laughter from Johnson.

Feeling as though he might faint, throw up, or go stark raving mad (maybe all three), Justin saw that his companions were just as horrified. Cass was very pale, holding one hand over her mouth, and Erin was actually puking, doubled over in her seat. Teresa just looked angry. Very, very angry.

Not at all wanting to, Justin turned and looked back at the horrible scene. Ignored, Mr. Lampert had taken a seat among the freaks nearby, his chin disconsolately on his chest. The madman Johnson was now kneeling before the flayed, eviscerated, chopped-up corpse of the woman, scooping up little puddles of blood and wiping them on his face. In the harsh light, the hallucinatory decorations, and the assembled, jeering throng of misshapen beasts, it was a tableau straight out of Hell.

Justin felt gorge rise in his throat and a nightmarish dread at the sheer savagery of the murder. This man wasn’t just dangerous, he was absolutely lethal. And if he was capable of this, what might he do next? Surely he’d get around to “opening” Justin and the others soon enough. Again, bile rose in his throat but he swallowed hard and kept it down.

The world itself, or at least Justin’s part in it, suddenly teetered on its access and threatened to spin off into the void. Despair, a sense that nothing in the whole world meant anything anymore, a crushing realization of life’s futility and its gross, animal nature washed over him like a flow of lava. What kind of world were they living in? What had become of Humanity? Was this the fate of their species, degeneration to madness and murder? To pray on each other, to see each other as objects, to be used, expended, at the whim of the insane and the powerful? And if this was the fate of humanity, did he want any part in it? Or any part in saving it? Maybe Mr. Lampert wasn’t so wrong after all. Maybe, if this was its destiny, humanity did deserve to die off. Maybe, if all that was left were madmen and violent predators, extinction wasn’t such a terrible thing.

After all, what had they encountered, merely trying to get from one place to another, here in the world of After? What had become of the people who’d survived? Where they all destined to become evangelical cannibals, homicidal maniacs, and brutal, casually violent thugs, killing and enslaving each other? And more to the point, did a butt-end, ignorant, violent, self-consuming remnant of a species such as this really deserve to live? Maybe they should all just give up and join Johnson, take their places in the Dance of Death and bathe in the blood of their fellow man. Just give up, jump onto the funeral pyre, and put an end to all of the pain and struggle and madness. It would be a lot easier.

But then, for no obvious reason, the face of Baron Zero loomed up in his mind’s eye. Fuzzy, smiling, bespectacled, honest, friendly and sharply intelligent, the image somehow made him feel a little bit better. Maybe if there was one such leader, one such light in the darkness, there were others. Maybe there was still a spark of humanity after all. Maybe there were some who didn’t want to dance. Grimly, like a wrestler facing a stronger opponent, he took control of his thoughts and emotions as best he could and tried to pay attention to what was happening.

“Holy shit, Doc,” came the Old Man’s voice. He’d tottered back to the head table and now, pale and shaking, spoke past the big tentacle-armed guard. “This motherfucker is out there! What the fuck are we gonna do? Shit, even I don’t wanna get carved up by this nut job down here in this fucking stinking hole! We gotta do something!”

“I’m,” Justin swallowed, “uh, open to suggestions.”

“Rush him, I say,” said Teresa darkly. “Get my hands on his neck.”

Justin shook his head. “No,” he said, feeling almost disembodied. “Don’t do that. These people would have you in a second.”

“Then what?” said Lampert. For the first time Justin could recall, there was real fear in the Old Man’s reedy voice. “What are we gonna do?”

Justin tried to think, but his mind was like a bicycle on an icy street and he couldn’t get any traction. What should they do? Tangentially, he saw that Erin was done throwing up and was now sitting, blank-faced and empty-eyed like a catatonic and that Barb Cass had lowered her head to the table as if she was taking a little nap. What should they do?

Then Teresa grabbed his arm, fairly painfully, and snapped him back to reality.

“Hey!” she whispered urgently. “Over there, behin’ that pole!”

“What?” said Justin, utterly lost. “What are you talking about?”

“That kid!” she said, staring at something over Justin’s shoulder. He was about to turn around to see what she was blathering about—what kid?—when she jerked him back. “No, don’t look,” she said. “You give him away.”

“What,” Justin managed, tires spinning on the ice. “Who?”

“She’s right, Doc!” said the Old Man, looking in the same direction. “I mean, I never met this Kid of yours, but it’s either that or one scrunty-ass little mutant.”

Something like understanding came to Justin; one of his tires hit a dry spot. The Kid. Yes, the little boy they’d come here with. Of course, how could he forget? But he’d disappeared, gone away. What was he doing here? He very much wanted to turn and see what was happening, but Teresa held him in place with her eyes.

“What’s going on?” he hissed.

Teresa, staring intently, whispered back: “OK, he like, mixed in with the freaks. Wearin’ a doopy hat an’ that. Like a dis-guise, hey?”

“Yes, yes?” prodded Justin, both wheels suddenly taking purchase. “And what’s he doing?”

“Dunno,” said Teresa, frowning. “He, like, gettin’ up behind one’a them poles. One with some greep tied to it, hey? Some little dude with a shave head.”

“What about Johnson?” Justin asked. “And the others? If they notice the Kid…”

“They ain’t gleeped ‘im yet,” Teresa muttered. “Lucky.”

“Shifty little bastard,” said Lampert, “ain’t he?”

Justin ignored him. “What’s he doing?” he demanded.

“He’s…” Lampert began, but then stopped abruptly and gaped in wonder. There was suddenly a similar look of shock on Teresa’s face and it was obvious that something dramatic was happening.

Snapping around and sorting through the crush of malformed bodies and party decorations, Justin was just in time to see the Kid, improbably festooned in a sparkly party hat and bright orange lei, make his move. With a motion almost too quick to see, the child, a slice of something bright in one hand, lunged at the tethers around the wrists of one of the pinioned victims. This individual, the small bald man, immediately reacted by whipping down his arms and then wading into the surrounding misshapen, startled throng like a little cyclone of fists and feet. In a matter of seconds, three of the freaks were down, bleeding, punched and kicked to the ground.

Meanwhile, moving like a snake, the Kid went down the row of poles and freed the other intended victims. In matter of seconds, the entire chamber was chaos as the freaks, screaming and hooting, clambered over each other to attack the freed victims while the freed victims, to a varying degree, fought back with all they had.

At his side, Teresa suddenly gave a savage whoop, ripped the silly cowboy hat from her head, and erupted from her chair. Startled, unsure, the big tentacle-men who’d been guarding them were caught off guard and she easily ducked past them when they tried to grab her. Then, much like the Small Man, she disappeared into the horde, fists and feet and knees pumping like well-oiled pistons, leaving prostrate enemies in her wake.

“Holy fuck!” barked the Old Man, one hand going to his forehead. “Lookit her go!”

Justin looked over to Lampert and saw that his own guard, a particularly repulsive, smelly creature with five ropy arms, had run off to join the fight. He was wondering what to do with this sudden liberty when a bottle, flung by one of the combatants, came whipping through the air, missing the Old Man’s head by about an inch, and shattered into a thousand glittering pieces.

“Get down!” said Justin, and dragged the Old Man to the floor. He did the same with Cass and Swails and then pulled everyone under the table. Around them, the deformed masses put up a terrible noise and commotion, screeching and bellowing like a zoo full of starved animals and overturning tables and chairs.

Through the crush of bodies and upended furniture, Justin could now see that the fight had devolved into a sort of standoff. On one side were the small bald man—their erstwhile kidnapper—another short, stocky Hispanic man, plus two others and Teresa, and on the other were a momentarily cowed horde of flailing, shrieking monsters, King Suit at their fore. At a sign from their leader, the deformed masses quieted down some, to a slight din, and Justin could hear that King Suit and the Small Man, face to face, crouched in tense readiness, were engaged in some kind of odd colloquy.

“You don’t play nice,” whined the madman in the costume. He was flushed, breathing heavily and blood-smeared, and his eyes rolled like spheres of glass beneath the crazy tangle of blond hair. “And now you’ve ruined my Birthday Party! Simply ruined it! How can I open my gifts like this? No, you don’t play nice at all!”

The Small Man just sneered and stared fixedly at the gore-covered knife in the other man’s fist. On the balls of his feet, he took two steps toward the lunatic as the others, Teresa included, stood with their fists up, one with a folding metal chair, and watched.

“But we can still play a fun game,” said King Suit, a slimy meanness coming into his voice. “Should I tell you about it?”

“What fuckin’ game?” snarled the Small Man, a thin stream of blood running from his nose. “What the fuck are you sayin’?”

“The Cutting Game, silly,” said the madman, waving his knife. “Now just stand still for a minute, and you’ll learn all about it.”

Warily, King Suit moved in, but the Small Man circled him, moving like a cat, and the two men engaged in a sort of spastic dance in a clearing between the two parties of combatants. Holding his breath, the Old Man’s skeletal hand painful on his forearm, Justin watched as they circled, around and around, before finally the madman struck. Quick as a snake, he lashed out with the knife, aiming a blow at the Small Man’s midriff, but his foe was ready and even faster than he was. Grabbing the madman’s wrist with both hands as he dodged the thrust, the Small Man jerked the knife-hand to the side and then, with a deep grunt, drove the blade up and into the other man’s belly. With a sickening, tearing noise, he then tore the blade deeply through King Suit’s guts. Blood, by the bucketful, and gray loops of intestine came gushing from King Suit in a frightful, sudden spasm, and the man, his face a study in surprise, fell heavily to his knees, his hands fluttering about the ghastly wound like frightened birds. The entire throng of deformed creatures gave a deep, collective groan.

“Ouch,” said King Suit stupidly, his eyes already glazing over. “That… hurts.”

The Small Man, a remorseless, flat look to his bruised features, the carving knife now in hand, stood over him and said nothing. Then the madman, all blood and stained robes and dreadlocks and doublet-and-hose, fell forward onto his face, twitched a few times, and lay still.

For a long moment, nothing happened. No one moved and no one spoke. The only sounds were heavy breathing and the madly incongruous strains of The Itsy Bitsy Spider from the record player. The Small Man, beaten and bloodied, slumped wearily and then walked over to the prostrate madman and gave the body a sharp kick in the ribs. The man was obviously stone dead.

Seemingly satisfied, the Small Man nodded, as if to himself, and then, with a stagger and a failed attempt to break his fall on a table, crashed heavily to the ground. After a single attempt to rise, he fell back into the mess of sweet cakes and confetti and streamers and lay still. Again, a very tense silence fell on the scene as everyone—even the freaks—looked at each other and more or less collectively shrugged; what now?

“Do somethin’, Case!” whispered Mr. Lampert urgently, shaking Justin’s arm. “Get out there!”

“What, me?” said Justin. “But what would I do?”

“Shit, I dunno,” hissed the Old Man. “Talk to ‘em. Take charge!”

“Me?” said Justin again, utterly dazed. “I… I suppose I could.”

“Yeah, go on!” said Lampert, shoving. “Do somethin’!”

Feeling utterly ridiculous, very intimidated, and afraid for his very life, Justin slowly crawled from beneath the table, rose, took a few paces, and noisily cleared his throat. Dozens of eyes, some not in pairs, turned to stare at him. What are you doing? clamored some sane part of his mind. What was he supposed to say? For a long, crazy moment, he drew an utter blank, his mind a mass of useless, fearful, disjointed thoughts, but then he finally spoke.

“It’s over,” he said simply, holding up his arms. “This man, this Emperor of yours, is dead. See there? He’s bled to death, understand? It’s over.”

This seemed effective. With a mass movement of resigned, even sad resignation, the throng of badly-made creatures, the blobs and the tall, spidery ones, the tentacle-men and the slug-bodied, wart-covered trolls, all sort of slumped and groaned in bewildered loss and shock. Gurgling and blurping, they shook their heads and shuffled, looking at each other and their human foes confusedly. Finally one of them, a loathsome specimen with a slug body and a head like an insect, came forth alone and tenderly gathered King Suit’s corpse into its four rubbery arms. Then, in a sort of crude, ugly procession, the corpse-bearing creature led them from the chamber. Within another five minutes, dragging off their wounded and dead, they were almost all gone and the lately embattled group relaxed and watched them leave. All, that is, but the stocky Hispanic fellow, who went over to the corner where the record player was still playing (Billy Goat’s Gruff), raised a chair over his head and, with a savage blow, smashed the antique to smithereens.

“Thank you!” said Justin, nodding at the man. “That was terribly annoying.”

As he saw to Lampert, Cass and Swails, Teresa came over to him, eyes still flashing from the thrill of the fight, and he saw that, other than a good bruise on one cheek and some skinned knuckles, she was unharmed. On the other hand, he found that Erin Swails was still out of it, staring vacantly at nothing, her mouth half-open in a dumb, slack line. Cass, likewise seemed to be in shock, only vaguely aware of what was happening, and would only look around fearfully and mutter to herself. Justin frowned, deeply worried, but he knew that he couldn’t do much for them at the moment. He would have to get them all out of here, away from all this death and pain and madness, as soon as possible. Still feeling almost disembodied, but maybe a little bit more in control, Justin turned to Teresa, who’d been joined by a grinning, capering Kid.

“We have to get out of here,” he said gravely. “All of us, and quickly.”

“No argie from me!” said Teresa. “Grab our gear an’ the Ol’ Man an’ jet!”

“Everyone else, as well,” said Justin. “We can’t leave anyone here with these creatures.”

“Even this guy?” asked Mr. Lampert, standing over the inert form of the Small Man. “The dude that murdered Cornell an’ stole all yer stuff? You gonna save his ass, too?”

Justin thought about it, but it wasn’t really an issue. Not even the worst, low-life cannibal survie deserved to be left to the mercy of these things. And besides, he’d had to admire the man’s spirit in a fight.

After a moment, he went over to where the Old Man stood, knelt down next to the man, and looked him over, but there were so many individual injuries, from bruises to lacerations to strange, already-bandaged cuts, that he couldn’t really judge the man’s overall condition. He thought of dragging Cass over here to administer First Aid, but then demurred. Barb was in no shape to do much of anything at the moment. Justin looked up at the Old Man.

“We can’t just leave him,” he said. “Can we? I mean, even if those creatures don’t get him, he might die from his injuries. We have to bring him along.”

“Eh,” said Lampert, coughing. “I guess so, if you wanna stick with the whole altruistic, humanity’s worth saving kinda shtick. Me? I still ain’t so sure, but there ya go.”

“Yes, well,” said Justin grimly, “for a moment there I almost had my doubts.”

“Yeah?” the Old Man smirked. “Heh. Well, welcome to my world, Doc.”

They were interrupted by the approach of the powerfully-built Hispanic man and the other two surviving would-be victims. The first of these was an older man, maybe sixty, tall and thin, bearded and wearing only a sort of loincloth, with flashing gray eyes and a big, toothy mouth. The other was a small woman, maybe twenty-five years old, with tangled brown hair, a very pale complexion, and a generally filthy appearance, who very warily followed along. The Hispanic man rushed to the side of the Small Man and knelt across from Justin.

“How is he?” he asked, flicking a party favor from the Small Man’s chest. “Is he dead?”

“No,” said Justin. “He’s not dead. But he’s not in very good shape, either.”

The man eyed Justin for a moment. “Who are you, man?” he finally asked. “What the fuck you doin’ here?”

“I, that is,” Justin gabbled. What was he doing here? And, for that matter, who was he? Finally, he swallowed hard and frowned. “My name is Kaes,” he said. “And we were captured by these creatures.”

“Huh,” said the man. “Same as us. Well, my name’s CJ. This here,” he gestured at the older man, who nodded back, “is Seymour.”

“Well, uh,” said Justin, “it’s nice to meet you. What about her?” he asked, meaning the small, dirty woman lurking behind him. CJ looked at her and shrugged.

“No idea,” he said. “Just laid eyes on her today, when they was tyin’ us to them poles. “Hey, you!” he called to the woman. “You got a name?”

The woman glared back at them, her eyes darting from face to face, but she said nothing. CJ looked back to Justin and shrugged.

“Guess not,” he said. “But then, if I hadda be down here with these deformo pendejo freaks much longer, I might be kinda shook up, too. You know?”

“Indeed,” said Justin. “I feel a bit lightheaded myself.”

CJ nodded and, after another long look at the Small Man, stood up and looked around. Then he stripped a checkered tablecloth from a nearby table and began to tear it into strips, obviously for bandages.

“Gotta patch this dude up,” he said. “Get him stable.”

“I can do that,” said Justin hesitantly. “If you’d like.”

CJ eyed him again. “Why, you some kinda doctor? A nurse or somethin’?”

“Or something,” Justin said. “Not exactly an expert, but yes, I have some training.”

With a grunt, CJ handed over the torn tablecloth. “Suits me. Anyway, we gotta have us a look aroun’ this place. At least find the way out!”

Justin thought for a second, but his mental bicycle was hitting an icy patch again. All he knew was that he needed to treat this man for his more obvious injuries and get himself, the Old Man, and the others out of here as soon as he could. Staying, for even a short while, was about as appealing a prospect as having his head nailed to the wall. But then, he had to admit that, given the maze of tunnels and chambers, he had no idea how to leave. Woodenly, he nodded at CJ.

“That sounds good,” he said. “You go have a look around.”

Teresa (and the Kid, just at her heel) stepped forward and proclaimed that she was going to go with CJ and Seymour.

“Fine with me,” said CJ. “You’re sure as shit good in a fight!”

“Hey, wait!” said Justin; he didn’t like the sound of this. Desperately, he looked up at Teresa. “What if we need you here? What if those things come back? Or what if you find more of them? These tunnels go on forever; who’s to say what you might run into? No, I think you should stay here.”

She looked at him and her features softened and she smiled. “You always lookin’ out for me, huh, Case? But here’s the think: I gotta get my stuff back, all the gear they stole when they grabbed us, hey? My satchel, my boomstick, they’s gotta be aroun’ here somewheres.”

“Yes, but,” Justin tried and then gave up; there was just no use in arguing with her. “Well, alright,” he sighed. “Go find your things. But please, be careful. And don’t waste any time. The sooner we’re out of this place, the better.”

“Trackin’ that,” nodded Teresa. “We be back before ya know.” Decorously, almost girlishly, she knelt and kissed him on the cheek. “You jus’ sit tight, Case, an’ watch yer Ol’ Man. We be back right zip.”

With that, she, CJ, Seymour, and the small, angry, dirty woman trooped off into one of many tunnels that led out of the big chamber. With a fresh new lump in his throat, Justin finished bandaging the Small Man as best he could and found that while the man’s injuries were extensive and numerous, none seemed fatal. Obviously, what he lacked in size he more than made up for in toughness. After doing all he could with the very limited resources at hand, Justin wiped his hands on his pants, stood up, and looked around.

After a time, sick of the sight of them, he went over and covered the horrible gory blotch where Johnson had died and unlashed and covered up the maniac’s unfortunate victim. Then he sat at a table, off to one side, and, as the minutes dragged into hours, tried to collect his thoughts. It was neither pleasant nor easy.

Chapter Fifty-One

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He’d thought that maybe they’d start out small, but when the Reformist Council told him that their first order of business was to assassinate Chief of Police Hanson Knox, Lumler knew that this was not to be. These people wanted him to help kill his former boss. And, thinking it over, he had to admit, it was a pretty good idea. Remove the head and the body will die. Besides, the crazy psycho bastard had it coming, big time.

“But it ain’t gonna be no cakewalk,” Lumler told them. “This dude is one shifty fucker.”

They were assembled at the group’s headquarters, the basement of a former recording studio, now heavily reinforced, barricaded, and stocked with weapons, with a set of city maps spread before them on a table. Over the past two days Lumler had been shown around, so to speak, and had met all kinds of members of the Reform. Now he was back with the seven leaders.

“An’ anyway,” he continued, “what the hell does whackin’ the Chief do towards stoppin’ the deformos? You said you had a plan for that, something to end the War, right?”

“That’s right,” said the Professor. There was something familiar about this older, dignified-type man, Lumler had decided, but he couldn’t quite place where or when he might have met him. “And this is part of it.”

“How?” asked Lumler, his thick brow knitting. “I mean, the Chief’s got nothin’ to do with the Army. Sure, you take him out, you’re gonna have a lot easier time with the PF, but if the Army don’t hold off the muties, what then?”

“Haven’t you noticed?” said the woman called Stiletto, whom he’d come to grudgingly admire.

“Noticed what?” said Lumler.

“No fighting!” said Stiletto, waving an arm. “Think about it. Have you heard anything for the past two days? Anything other than the odd gunshot?”

Lumler frowned; come to think of it… “Yeah,” he said, “you’re right. So what’s up with that?”

“It’s the Emperor’s Birthday!” said the Professor, as if this made all the sense in the world. “They’re all busy with his party.”

Lumler scowled angrily. “Look,” he said, “if you guys are just gonna talk shit and jerk me around, I can just go sit over here in the corner and have a nap. I mean, what the fuck?”

Santiago intervened, laughing. “Oh, take it easy,” he said. “Don’t get all pissed off. We know a lot more about the deformos than you might expect. See, the Professor here was in charge of a kind of special project the Governor set up to study ‘em. Know your enemy and all that.”

“Huh,” said Lumler. “And?”

“Well,” said the Professor, taking over, “I was able to examine quite a few deceased specimens and even a couple of living ones. It was most enlightening. In fact, it’s quite a fascinating phenomenon, really. That is, if my theories are true.”

“Yeah, like how?” said Lumler.

“Well, as I see it,” said the Prof, warming to the subject, “these beings are actually nothing less than an offshoot of human evolution. A subterranean race, perhaps as old as mankind itself, that has evolved completely beneath the surface, maybe at depths that we couldn’t conceive.”

“No shit?” said Lumler. “But come on, how come we didn’t know about ‘em? Before, I mean. Hell, if they’re like, a whole race of people, wouldn’t there have to be a whole lot of ‘em? How come nobody ever saw one before the Fall?”

“They were too deep,” said the Professor. “And they kept out of our way, which was easy enough, considering that even our deepest mines and drillings penetrate only a fraction of the Earth’s crust.”

“But what did the they eat? What did they do down there? And why did they come up and attack us?”

“Good questions,” said the older man, nodding. “But I fear I don’t have all the answers. As far as why they’ve surfaced, I have to think that it’s because of the Fall. Somehow they sensed that something had happened, something that had killed off all of the surface-dwellers. Something had opened the door to the world they’d known but never been able to explore. In other words, they saw we’d all died and have come up to have a look around.”

“And that ain’t all!” said Stiletto. “Freaky bastards.”

“Yes, well,” continued the Prof, “to return to your questions, we have no clue as to what exactly their society or organization, if any, is like, as they do not speak anything like English. Or any other human language, for that matter. Personally, I think that they are of the most primitive nature, probably with very little culture as we know it, self-predatory, and violently cannibalistic. Of course, they’re photo-sensitive, almost blind above ground, which explains why they only attack at night.”

“Hey, great,” said Lumler wanly, “cannibal humanoids from the deep, huh? Some kinda creepy mole people? Is that what I’m hearing?”

The Professor frowned and then shrugged. “More or less, if you want to be simplistic about it. But as I said, it’s really quite an amazing phenomenon! After all, just think about it—thousands and thousands of them, down in the deep crust of the Earth, for hundreds of thousands, even millions of years. And why not, really? After all, the earth’s surface is only the mere skin of the entire planet. The interior, while not terribly hospitable for us, may have spawned all manner of life! What if there are more life forms such as this down there? Even among the specimens I’ve seen, I’ve been able to identify at least a dozen distinct permutations of what we call mutants. There is the lagomorph group—the short, fat ones—and then the endomorph group, which can be further divided into the pseudo-pod or tentacle subsets and—”

“OK, OK,” said Lumler, interrupting. “I get it. There are whole swarms of these things. I mean, the whole thing sounds like something out of a shitty science fiction book, but what the fuck, you know? These days, there’s all kinda weird-ass shit like that, so maybe you’re right. And maybe you’re out of your fucking mind. But whatever. Can we get back to the issue here? What does all of this have to do with somebody’s birthday?”

“Ah, well,” said Santiago, “that’s where the Emperor comes in. See, for some reason, this one man, some total nut-job survivor named Johnson, managed to hook up with the muties. Maybe they liked him, maybe he did something for them or gave them something they wanted or whatever, but however it worked out, he ended up as these things’ leader. Every other normal person on earth, they just want to kill and eat, but this guy? They love him.”

“Why?” asked Lumler.

“Nobody knows,” said Still. “An’ most likely? We never will.”

“Huh, OK,” Lumler said. “So anyway, they got a leader. A human leader. And what? It’s this dude’s birthday? So what?”

“So,” explained Santiago, “they’re all busy with the party. See, Johnson did this last year, too, and the year before, it just took us a while to figure it out. But then we noticed that, for like a week or so, the muties laid off and there was no fighting. So when we finally learned about this Emperor character and how they celebrated his birthday, we put it together.”

“Some kinda mutant holiday,” said Lumler. “Right?”

“Exactly,” said Santiago. “It’s like they all get the week off. Almost like a cease fire.”

“Huh,” Lumler said. “OK, that’s nice to know, I guess, but what’s this got to do with the Chief?”

“OK, well,” said Stiletto, taking over, “as long as there’s fighting going on, as long as the bullets are really flyin’, the Chief sticks pretty damn close to home. Like, you know, safe in one of the IC’s or holed up in the Governor’s mansion. Ain’t that right?”

Lumler nodded right away. “Yeah,” he said. “He’s a real chicken-shit when it comes to that, alright. And I think I see where you’re goin’ with this. When there’s no fighting, like now, for example, the Chief is out and about. On the street, where you can get to him. Right?”

Stiletto grinned wickedly. “You got it. You said yourself that a lot of his bodyguards have been drafted, right? So security will be light. Lighter, anyway.”

Getting a headache, Lumler made a face. “Hey, it all sounds great. And, tell the truth, I think you’d stand a pretty fair chance of killing the guy. But I still don’t have a fuckin’ clue what this all has to do with the War! So you whack the Chief. The Governor’s still just gonna replace him. Get somebody else to do the searching and interrogating and shit. What’s that got to do with the deformos? I mean, when they’re done with this fucked-up party of theirs, won’t they just go right back to tryin’ to kill everybody? Or am I just too fucking stupid to see the connection? Huh?”

“Ah, well,” said Santiago soothingly, “that’s sort of another story. See, we want to deal with the Chief now, while we can. And then? Well, then, when we don’t have to worry about being raided and arrested and tortured to death, at least for a while, we have some little surprises for our deformo friends. Some very nasty little surprises.”

Most of the Council chuckled ominously at this and nodded knowingly.

“Like what?” said Lumler. This sounded promising.

“Oh, you’ll see,” said Stiletto coyly. “But first, we need to take care of Hanson Knox. Now, what can you tell us about his routines?”

Lumler smiled, a thin line slightly upturned at the edges. Maybe these folks weren’t so crazy after all. Maybe they knew what they were doing. Nodding, he sat forward at the table and started to tell the others all about where and when they could most easily kill his former superior officer. The strange thing was, compared to all of the other little nuggets of information he’d been asked to digest today, this seemed almost mundane.

Chapter Fifty-Two

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In the rear of the little group of explorers, with the Kid never more than two feet away (but somehow never underfoot), Teresa was beginning to wonder if maybe she should just abandon her things and get the hell out of here. Could be that even her beloved boomstick wasn’t worth having to see this kind of crazy ploop.

As it turned out, the monsters were human-eaters after all. The big room full of bones, most of which had teeth marks on them, had told them all they needed to know about the matter, and the other room, with the chopped-up arms and legs, also with bite marks, had just confirmed it. Retching and holding their noses, they’d quickly fled these chambers.

There were other rooms, other caves and little cells and big open spaces, a whole great big hive of these horrible smelly things, and most of them held similarly nasty things. Generally, they’d just made sure that there wasn’t anything they could use and then moved quickly on, but in one of them Teresa paused and looked more closely at something that had caught her eye.

Bending down and holding her nose, she peered at a particular corpse, one of several, until it hit her that she was looking at what was left of Bowler. Plaid shirt, long dark hair, one cowboy boot. Yes, even though the face was all but obliterated and the chest and abdomen had been opened and cleaned of guts, she was certain it was him. Frowning, feeling a confusing mixture of disgust, pity, and latent anger, she’d stood up and shook her head at the poor dead thing.

“So long, Bowler,” she’d whispered. “Ya doopy fuckin’ greep. Rest in pieces.”

CJ, watching this, had been naturally curious.

“What’s up?” he’d asked. “Not somebody you know, I hope?”

Teresa had simply shrugged and moved on. “Nope,” she’d said. “Not no more.”

Now, padding down another, longer tunnel, she was starting to get a very healthy case of the creeps. The bodies, the stink, the darkness and the dripping water, it was all really getting on her nerves. What she wouldn’t give just to see the sun and breath some fresh air! Suddenly a very urgent sense that she wanted out of this place, at any cost, immediately, came over her and something like panic percolated in her chest. Run! it shrieked. Just run like hell till you’re out of this hell pit!

Grimly, she inhaled and exhaled carefully, letting the fear out with each breath. Get a grip, she told herself. It’s just like Clanky always said: Don’t let the scare get you. And besides, none of these poor dead greeps can hurt you, now can they? They’re dead! Finally, the panic waned a little and she went on. Still, it was damned creepy. She’d seen dead bodies, plenty of them, and in all kinds of states of decomposition, but this was way beyond anything she’d ever experienced. These things were just plain sick and wrong.

She was almost at the end of her rope, keeping the fear at bay-wise, when they finally hit pay dirt. Hardly believing her eyes, she stepped into a medium-sized chamber and shone her light around at the walls, where a very impressive array of weapons hung like displays in an old paper magazine. Rifles, shotguns, pistols, knives, axes, and all kinds of nasty-looking tools and implements lined the walls and cluttered the corners, and another wall was given over to box after box of unwrapped ammunition, for just about every gun she could think of.

With a happy little sigh not unlike any other woman her age in a high-tone shoe store, Teresa moved closer and, along with Seymour and CJ, surveyed the collection more closely. As hoped, there were plenty of brand new, still-in-the-packaging guns and knives and everything, but there were also used weapons in every state of usability, from slightly beat-up to rusted beyond repair. Apparently the monsters knew what weapons were, just not how to care for them. With a happy cry, she spotted her boomstick and, quick as could be, snatched it up, examined it for any wear or damage, gave it a little kiss, and then slid it into the holster at her back. Immediately, she felt a little better.

Next, like a discerning shopper, she went along and, after careful comparison and consideration, selected as many weapons as she could carry. Starting with the big guns, she grabbed an assault rifle equipped with a grenade launcher. Then a long rifle, what they called a sniper gun, complete with scope and tripod. Then a couple of pistols, one an enormous revolver and other a 12-shot auto, and finally, three hunting knives, a machete, and something CJ called a sword, a long, thin blade with a fancy grip.

Lastly, she went to the ammo pile and, after rooting around and finding an old cloth sack, stuffed as many boxes of various calibers into it as she could, thinking all the while that she was glad that good old Clanky had shown her how to pick the right bullets for the right gun. She also spotted her satchel lying in a pile of junk, grabbed it, and found that all of her things were still there. Very good. Then, staggering a little under the weight, she turned to CJ and the others and, seeing them all (except the small, dark lady, who skulked in the tunnel outside with the Kid) similarly gunned-up and ready, announced that she was ready to go.

CJ looked longingly at all of the weapons and gear and shook his head. “We should take all this shit,” he said. “I mean, this is some valuable commodities, you know? Hell, the ammo alone is worth a damn fortune!”

Seymour nodded. “We need a way to move it,” he said. “Cart or something.”

“Ain’t seen nothin’ like that around,” said CJ. “An’ it’d take a week to move it by hand.”

Teresa, the thrill of the unexpected bounty of weapons wearing off and the creeps returning, chafed at the delay and fidgeted. “We should jus’ go,” she said. “Alway come back, hey? Get the stuff later.”

“Yeah, guess yer right,” said CJ sadly. “Jus’ hope it’s all still here when we do.”

They were about to leave when she noticed that the Kid was gone. He’d been hanging around out in the tunnel with the unnamed small lady last she saw, but now there was no sign of him. She turned to the strange woman.

“Where that kid go?” she asked. “Huh?”

The woman glared back, a crazy, angry sort of look in her eyes, but said nothing. Teresa went right up to her and asked again.

“Where the kid?” she demanded. “Din’t ya see ‘im? Where he go, huh?”

The woman still said nothing, but finally shook her head. Exasperated, Teresa turned away from the woman (who was obviously not quite all there or deaf or something), and peered down the nearby tunnels.

“Now where that little greep get to?” she wondered aloud. She cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted. “Hey, Kid!” she called, setting off all kinds of weird echoes. “Where you at, Kid?! Hey!”

But there were just the echoes and no sign of the Kid.

“Looks like he run off,” said CJ. “Is he, you know, is he your son?”

“What, me?” said Teresa. “Oh, Dog no! No way, no how. Naw, see, he just some doopy little rugger we come across. Been draggin’ along with us, hey?”

“Uh huh,” said CJ. “Well, looks like he took off, huh? I mean, you don’ wanna go lookin’ for him, do ya? Chances are, he jus’ went back the way we came, you know?”

Teresa frowned and peered down the stinking, dismal tunnels. She certainly hated to leave the little greep, and it pained her to think of him injured or captured by the muties, especially after how he’d saved everyone’s asses and all, but then, CJ made a good point; the Kid seemed to take care of himself just fine. Finally she nodded grimly and moved away and they started their long way back to the Birthday Chamber.

She was still wondering about the Kid, warily padding along in the rear of the group, when they were ambushed. One second they were walking along, no problems, and the next they were suddenly surrounded by at least a dozen freakish monsters. Later they would see that the things had been hiding in a couple of camouflaged niches in the tunnel walls. At the time, though, there was no time to wonder as the sodden air was abruptly filled with muzzle flashes, cordite smoke, and the weird screaming howls of the monsters.

Teresa, at the first sign of danger, had dropped all of her new toys but the assault rifle and now raised the weapon, snapped off the safety, and opened up on a great big tentacle-man bearing down on her. The gun had a nice kick, good and solid, and she let off a stream of six shots that tore into the big mutant like he was made of cheese, producing small, perfectly circular entry wounds and then punching out great gobs of meat and gore on exit. Within two seconds, the big thing was flat on its face and dying, joining two others who’d been similarly dispatched by CJ and Seymour. The remaining monsters, all flailing limbs and goggling eyes, sort of melted into the shadows, down the tunnels and cracks, and disappeared.

In the aftermath of this brief, violent event, Teresa caught her breath, checked her weapon and put it back on safety, then noticed that the little woman with no name was lying curled in a tight ball on the floor, her hands over her ears, shaking like a Sick victim. Obviously the poor thing just wasn’t very strong, mentally or otherwise. Teresa had seen this kind of thing all her life. Some people could deal with the violence and killing, the whole banger mentality, while others couldn’t and freaked out and went zane crazy over it, or spent all their time totally drunkled. Just the way things were. Feeling a little bad for the woman anyway, she went over to her and knelt nearby.

“Hey,” she said softly. “They gone now. We chased ‘em off, hey? All gone.”

The woman unclenched some and peeked at Teresa through her matted hair. The she looked around apprehensively and unclenched some more. Before long, she was getting up.

“Huh,” said CJ, eyeing one of the dead monsters. “Now we know where your little amigo went, don’t we?”

Teresa nodded, joining him. She’d had the same thought. “Yeah,” she said. “Must be able to smell these freakos. Like real good, hey?”

“Yeah,” CJ said. “An’ he’s smart enough to make himself scarce when he does. Shifty little ratón, ain’t he?”

Teresa smiled. “Good thing, too!” she said. “Else, we all be chopped up by that zaned rasta greep in them funny clothes!”

“Don’t remind me!” said CJ, turning from the corpses and starting away. “An’ don’ forget, I was next! No, hermana, believe me, I love that little fucker!”

They resumed their walk back to the Birthday Room and, aside from getting lost a few times, had no trouble along the way. Even so, Teresa couldn’t shake the urge to bolt and run and never look back. This was the worst place she’d ever been and only the prospect of reuniting with Case and the Old Man and the others and getting out of here kept her going. That, and maybe trying out her new toys.

Chapter Fifty-Three

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When the adrenaline and shock finally started to wear off, Justin had some time to think and put things in perspective, but they seemed no better in retrospect. In fact, the more he thought about it, the worse he felt and the deeper he sank into a kind of numb, morose torpor, oblivious to both his surroundings and his companions.

For one thing, he deeply regretted that he would probably never have a chance to study these strange, misshapen beings. That they were human, at least originally, he had no doubt, and this meant a whole new vista, a field of scientific study so unprecedented as to be fantastic. It might very well be the kind of discovery that set any number of sciences on their ear. Anthropology, archaeology, natural science, medicine, genetics, even basic biology, all would be potentially changed forever. And he, Dr. Justin Kaes, should be the one at the forefront of the research. In the world Before, he would have been famous and distinguished in ways beyond belief. It was a professional jackpot.

Or would have been. But now, in the world of After, who would care? Even the few remaining scientists and professionals would be more concerned with the Plague than with some new race of humans, however fantastic and unprecedented, and the rest of humanity would care even less than that. Most likely, all most survivors would be interested in would be how to most effectively kill them. There was no more time for curiosity, let alone scientific method. The greatest find in human history would, when the Plague finally won, go unnoticed, lost even to the memory of the survivors. What a waste.

Another dark and deeply troubling issue also came swimming up in his consciousness and no matter how he tried to dismiss it as absolutely frivolous, given their situation, it kept nagging at his thoughts. Because the fact was that Teresa’s behavior through the whole ugly event had shown him a side of her that he wasn’t at all sure he liked, an essential callousness toward the sanctity of human life that, while not unexpected in a hardened survivor, appalled him to no end.

Back to the way she’d gunned down the man at St. Alferd’s and then glibly written off poor Greg the orderly, right up to when the poor captive woman had been slaughtered by Johnson, she seemed to regard brutal murder as a casual thing. At Baron Zero’s farm, she’d actually enjoyed it! When she’d been busily beating the stuffing out of a mutant, she’d had a grin on her face like a kid on a swingset.

And when it had been all over, each time, she’d shown no more concern for the wounded and dead than she would towards simple inanimate objects. They were broken, of no more use. In short, her brutal unconcern for things that would drive many people into shock or insanity had put a few dents in the smooth veneer of his admiration. Maybe she wasn’t so wonderful and perfect after all, like an appealing piece of fruit with a nasty green worm just under the skin.

Of course, she’d been raised in a world where this callousness would be not only necessary but an actual boon, a world he couldn’t begin to fully understand, where death was common, even casual, and kindness seen as weakness, but still, this part of her personality was nothing less than disgusting. Could he really love someone who could sit and watch someone be brutally murdered and not bat an eyelash? He would have expected it of someone like the Small Man, or even himself, after what he’d seen and experienced, but her? It was disappointing.

Well, maybe he’d just been kidding himself; maybe he was attracted to her for simple, obvious, even biological reasons, and had been ignoring her obvious faults and defects out of sheer need and infatuation. Not to mention the sex. He was like the Kid, tagging along at her heels like a puppy. And then there was the age difference.

He was deep in this pit of murky thoughts, sinking lower by the moment, when he heard the gunshots. Echoing down the tunnels with a strange clarity, there was a series of bangs and cracks, some quite close together, before silence quickly descended. The noise brought Justin to his feet, as well as Barb Cass, while Erin and the Old Man stopped talking and looked about.

Cass, eyes wide and poorly focused, wheeled on Justin. “Oh God!” she said, terrified all over again. “They have guns! Those things have guns! We have to get out of here, Doctor! We have to get out of here right now, or those things will come in here and they’ll shoot us and then they’ll—”

“Barb, stop!” said Justin harshly, cutting her off. “OK? Just take it easy and get a grip, because all you’re doing now is making yourself hysterical. We’re all still in shock, alright? Just try to get a hold of yourself. And besides, we don’t know that these creatures use guns. I mean, have you seen one with a gun? Even one?”

Cass frowned and shook her head tensely. “No, I guess not,” she said, sobering a little. “But can’t we just leave? Please?”

“Not until Teresa comes back,” Justin said. “We just have to wait.” Cass whimpered a little but took a seat and went quiet.

The Old Man patted Erin gently on the hand and then, leaving her for the moment, came over to Justin and whispered, “So, uh, if that ain’t the monsters, who’s doin’ the shooting?”

Justin scowled at Lampert. “I don’t know,” he said stonily. “Presumably, Teresa or one of the others. At least I hope so.”

“Yeah,” said the Old Man. “That’s what I was thinkin’, too. Thing is, though, Teresa didn’t have a gun. Not the Mexican guy or the others, neither. And unless I miss my guess, those weren’t shotgun blasts, anyway. Those were some kinda rifle, maybe a machine gun.”

Justin had heard enough. He turned to the Old Man and shook his head. “Mr. Lampert, please,” he said. “I’m worried enough as it is, alright?”

The Old Man nodded contritely and went back to Erin. Justin, his guts churning anew, paced back and forth and chewed a cuticle, but there were no new noises and no sign of Teresa. He was getting very nervous, envisioning legions of armed freaks, when, startling him no end, the Small Man suddenly stirred, groaned, and sat up from his place on one of the long party tables. Hurriedly, Justin went over to him and was about to ease the man back onto the table by the shoulders when he saw the sharp, steely look in the man’s eyes and stopped short.

“You uh, you should stay still,” he said, more than a little wary despite the man’s abused condition; after all, he had murdered Cornell, kidnapped the Old Man, and stolen all their things. “You’re suffering from a number of injuries. Please, just lie back and try to rest.”

The man stared stonily at Justin for a moment and then fell onto his back and gave a shuddering sigh. “What happened?” he croaked weakly. “What about the monsters?”

“Gone,” said Justin. “For the moment, at least.”

The man nodded gratefully. “Good,” he said. “But what I mean, why are we still here? With them things gone?”

“We’re waiting,” Justin said. “We, uh, didn’t know how to find our way out, so CJ and Teresa and a couple of others went to have a look around.”

The man nodded again and grunted. Slowly, he turned his head and regarded Justin sharply for a moment. “Why you doin’ this, Doc?” he asked. “Why you helpin’ me? After what I done, I mean.”

Justin sighed and shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. Some sort of anachronistic sense of duty, I suppose. By all rights, I should leave you to these creatures.”

“What I’d do,” said the man.

“Yes, well,” said Justin, “I guess I’m just not that callous. Not yet, anyway.”

The man smiled thinly and closed his eyes. “Lucky for me,” he said, his voice going faint. “Just lucky…”

In another minute, he’d fallen unconscious again. Justin checked his vital signs, found them all normal, and covered him with a few garish tablecloths. He was about to return to Lampert and the others when suddenly, from one of the wider tunnel mouths, a whole gang of people (not Teresa and the others, as he’d first thought and hoped) came running and dodging into the Birthday Chamber. Dazed, barely able to apprehend any new strangeness or even mild unexpectedness, thinking NOW what?, Justin blinked and cast about as they rushed in and took up strategic positions.

Strangers, dressed darkly but not in uniforms, they were of both sexes and apparently all ages and varied in size. All dozen or so of them were armed, but only some of them brandished conventional weapons. The others carried what looked like big flashlights, attached by cords and straps to hefty packs on their backs. With fast, nervous, coordinated movements, this heterogonous bunch swarmed into the chamber, one or two of them barking orders, and a majority surrounded Justin and the others. Grim faces of men and women glared at them through plexi-steel helmets and over the gunsights of a half-dozen rifles and shotguns.

Justin instinctively threw up his hands and saw the others make similar gestures of surrender. Stunned, he looked from one of the newcomers to the next in a bewildered fashion and then heard himself talking.

“We give up!” he pleaded. “Don’t hurt anyone, please, whoever you are. We surrender.”

None of the invaders said anything for a long, tense moment. Justin, facing down an enormous, glowering man with a double-barreled shotgun, saw the man’s finger, clad in a black glove, tighten on the trigger. Desperately, he tried again, his voice cracked and dry.

“Please, we give up,” he said, addressing the big man directly. “Don’t hurt anyone.”

“Who are you?” asked the big man, his unaccented American voice like a truckload of gravel. “An’ what’re you doin’ down here?”

“We, uh, we,” Justin stammered, his mental wheels spinning all over again, “that is…” What was he supposed to say? Suddenly he hadn’t a clue. The truth was so strange as to be unbelievable, and any lie he might concoct would surely sound as false. And who were these people, anyway? What were they doing down here? For what seemed like an eternity, he stood there and blinked and tried to make his brain think of something, but it was as if his mind had suddenly put up a “back in fifteen minutes” sign and gone to lunch. Then good old Mr. Lampert came to the rescue.

“We’re prisoners, asshole,” he said, hands laced over his bald head. “Get it? Whatcha might call unwilling party guests, you know? Now, are you gonna lower them guns or just shoot us where we stand?”

There was another few seconds of tension, both sides eyeing each other, before one of the invaders called out in an authoritative voice:

“Relax, everyone,” the man shouted. “At ease. These are just normal people.”

“Yes,” said Justin, nodding inanely at the large man before him. “That’s it exactly! Normal! Very, very normal.”

And with that, the attackers shifted to paying Justin and his companions no more attention than the tables and chairs. The big man who’d had a shotgun leveled at Justin’s face simply shrugged and walked away, and soon most of the newcomers were loudly debating with each other, guarding the main tunnels, checking their gear, marveling at the crazy decorations and evidence of violence, and generally ignoring Justin and the others.

Standing there with his hands still up, nonplussed in the extreme, Justin heard a voice and turned to find a smallish man, about his own age, dark and thin, with one of the strange flashlights in hand, smiling at him through his helmet visor.

“Hi there!” said the stranger, offering a gloved hand. “Sorry about all of that, but we can’t be too careful. My name’s Santiago.”

“Kaes,” said Justin mechanically. “Justin Kaes.” Numbly, he lowered his hands and then shook with the man. “Who are you people? What are doing here?”

The other man laughed, showing strong white teeth. “Oh, that’s one hell of a long story, mister,” he said jovially. “And right now, me and the others here are kinda busy. But don’t you worry. Soon as we’re done, we’ll get all you people out of here. OK? Now, can you tell me, is there anybody else left alive down here? Any more survivors like you?”

“Yes, there are. Teresa, and the others. Maybe more, I don’t know.”

“Who is Teresa?” asked Santiago. “And where is she?”

As he explained, dazedly babbling in short, barely-connected sentences that he could only hope were making sense, some obtuse, bitter part of Justin couldn’t help, despite everything, but wonder that very thing: Who was Teresa?

Chapter Fifty-Four

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The Hunter had sat in exactly seven courtrooms in the days Before, once charged with murder, twice with assault, and four times as a witness for the other side, and for some reason he felt the very same way now. Maybe it was the way they all looked at him, kind of suspicious and leery, or maybe it was the sheer number of them, something like a couple dozen, or even the setting, in an abandoned movie theater, but for whatever reason, he felt like this was some kind of a trial, or at the least, a hearing.

He’d woken up in a bed, of all things, starting up and almost hitting his head on an overhead bunk. Some kind of barracks, it had seemed like; foot lockers, bunk beds, empty weapon racks. Taking inventory, he’d found that he was still beat-up, achy and tired, not to mention very hungry and thirsty, but otherwise no worse off than could be expected.

He’d lain there for about an hour when someone—some thin Hispanic guy named Santiago—finally came to check on him and he was clued in to where he was, back in New America. In an underground bunker beneath an old warehouse on the city’s south side, to be exact, but the salient fact was New America. As to who they were, these kindly strangers, Santiago wouldn’t say, telling the Hunter as he examined his various wounds that he’d have to wait and see.

Content for the moment, dry and warm, he’d shrugged and lay back on the bunk. After some minor rearranging of bandages, Santiago had left him, and a short while later an older fellow with big teeth brought him a jug of water and a bowl of fried tofu. Feeling a bit better after the meal and a short nap, he’d been led through some dimly-lit hallways and through some doors and into the relatively cavernous space of an old-fashioned movie theater, complete with rocker seats, asbestos curtain, raised dais and all. For the occasion, the house lights were on and, considering that it had been a long time since he’d seen so many people all in one place, the room seemed absolutely crammed. A podium of sorts, an old jukebox covered with a thick drape, sat center stage, and other than the low hum of individual conversations, the big room was quiet.

Feeling ridiculously conspicuous in his filthy gunny-sack tunic, the Hunter was led to the front row of seats and bidden to sit, right next to a tough-looking broad they called Still, who grinned at him wolfishly and made a point of showing him the row of gleaming throwing knives around her waist. Watch it, you, they glittered at him; one wrong move and we’ll be more than happy to embed ourselves all over your skinny ass. He got the message and tried to sit back and relax and give them no reason to leave their sheaths. There was a pause as they all quieted down, and the Hunter used the opportunity to swivel in his seat and take a long look at each of them.

The CDC group, what was left of it, looked physically better, as they’d been given new clothes and allowed the use of bathing facilities, but as far as their relative wellness went, the Hunter had to say they were a mixed bag. The Old Man seemed well enough for his age, or at least about the same, while the com whiz, Swails, had a wild, jumpy sort of look in her eyes, the kind where you could see the whole of the iris, that told him that she was far from recovered from their time among the mutants. The nurse, Cass, seemed her old self, stolid and sort of bland, and the banger girl, Teresa, hadn’t changed, aside from a black eye and a somewhat more subdued attitude. The Kid, on the other hand (bless his feral little heart), seemed quite ill at ease, fidgeting and staring apprehensively at Teresa; likely he was just not used to this amount of human interaction.

The last of the group, Dr. Kaes, was much harder to read. His face was lined and creased, but there was a bright twinkle in his eyes and a slight smile on his lips. He was thin, almost emaciated, but this only emphasized a sense of sharpness and acuity, like a knife honed to perfection. A stark streak of white had sprouted in his dark hair, but it only made him seem more dashing and dangerous. Did he look better or worse than when the Hunter had first seen him, way back in St Louis? It was hard to say. One thing was sure though, the man was changed. This was certainly not the bumbling, flabby egghead he’d first encountered.

On the other side of the aisle (literally, as they were roughly so divided in seating) were the New Americans. Santiago he knew, of course, and the big guy looked familiar. He’d been introduced to the others, as well, including the woman sitting next to him with the knives, but none of them had made much of an impression. All in all, they seemed like a pretty average cross-section of Old American society.

There were also a few wild cards, so to speak, in the other folks they’d rescued from the mutants. There was CJ, of course, and his new pal Seymour, plus five more former Army members who’d been rotting in the mines. These people, physical attributes aside, all seemed alike; beat-up, skinny, hard-eyed, and grimly focused. They had seen too much and the world the rest of us called reality had become something like a cruel joke. He’d seen the same look in the eyes of an old friend of his who’d done three tours in the Indonesian War. In other words, they were soldiers.

Then, once things had settled down, they all started to talk. And talk and talk and talk. For his part, the Hunter simply sat and listened. The first one up was the amateur doctor, the leader-type guy, Santiago, who walked to the podium and called for attention.

“OK, so,” he said self-consciously, clearing his throat, “for those of you who don’t know, my name is Santiago. And these folks,” he gestured to a group down to his left, “are the Reformist Council of New America. I guess I should say welcome, or something, but then not all of you are technically here by choice, so let’s just say that I hope you’re all comfortable and on the mend and everything. Now, I believe that we have a lot to discuss. In fact, from the little I’ve learned from Dr. Kaes here, I think there may be a whole hell of a lot. So…”

And so the CDC group went through the whole thing, from start to finish. Mostly Dr. Kaes did the narration, but the Old Man injected himself often enough, as ever, and the nurse and the com specialist also threw in from time to time. The Hunter knew most of the tale, but he still listened with amazement as they described the trek from New Atlanta, all the way north to Minneapolis, then south again, through fire and flood, cannibals, nuclear accidents and homicidal gangs, surrounded and beset by death and madness. It made for quite a story, he had to admit.

And to be honest, it made him feel somewhat ashamed. To have derailed these poor saps, just when they’d been so close? And for what? But this wasn’t really the time to think about it, he decided, and kept his features flat as he listened.

Finally, Kaes sort of sputtered out, relating their recent misfortunes with the deformos, and then asked if anyone had any questions. Undoubtedly stunned and a bit overloaded by the doctor’s story, everyone sat silent for a little while before one of the Council members, an older man in a tweed suit, finally spoke up.

“Um, if I may?” he said, standing up. Kaes turned to him. “Er, hello. I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Hollis Landrip, but everyone here calls me the Professor. I, uh, used to be a biology teacher Before. Anyway, I was wondering about the mutative nature of the virus, this idea of its genetic adaptability…”

What followed then was a long boring technical discussion, most of which the Hunter couldn’t begin to understand, but the gist of which was fairly clear: If they didn’t get the living, breathing Old Man to California, where they still had the wherewithal to make a cure, the human race itself would be dead and gone in somewhere between 20 and 100 years. And the Old Man was getting closer to death with every second. All in all, a pretty dire and depressing gist, even to someone like the Hunter.

When they’d hashed out all of the little details about how the Sick worked and how it could be cured, they again sort of wound down and sat in silence for a moment. Then the Council leader, Santiago, cleared his throat, thanked Doctor Kaes, who returned to his seat, and went back up to the podium.

“Well…” he said, obviously at a loss for words. “That was all very enlightening. And, for a lot of us, it’s what they call news. Real bad news! I mean, we all thought that the Sick had run its course. Shot its wad, so to speak, and now we’d just, you know, pick up and move on. Start all over again. But now, you tell us how it’ll come back?! Hell, I won’t lie to you, it scares the living shit outta me! You know?”

There was a general murmur of miserable agreement.

“Yeah,” said Santiago, with a sigh. “But it looks like we—and by we I mean all of us, the whole damn species—still have an ace up our sleeves, Mr. Lampert here. The trouble is, he’s here and the facilities are in Frisco. So the big question is how do we get him there, right? Right. And it ain’t gonna be easy.”

“But before we start discussing that, I think we ought to take a minute to fill you CDC folks in on what we’ve had going on here in good old New America. Because, if you ask me, the only way we’re going to get Lampert to Frisco is to use certain resources that only the Governor can provide. And he’s not gonna provide ‘em willingly, if you know what I mean.”

And so next the Hunter sat through a history of New America, from its inception and founding by Jackson Armstrong to its growth and organization, right up to the present state of repression and constant war with the mutants. Again, the Hunter knew almost all of this and paid only partial attention to the whole thing, although it did clear up where he’d seen the big dude before. And imagine, the former Deputy Chief of Police! Things must have gotten pretty bad in NA for him to have gone over! It made the Hunter all the more chagrined that he’d been thinking of handing the Old Man to someone that could inspire that kind of disloyalty and polarization. But then, how could he have known? He’d been out on the road, chasing Kaes and the Old Man all over God’s creation, how could he have known the Governor and the PF had gone all Nazi?

Of course, Kaes and his companions had a lot of questions, once Santiago (and a couple of the other Council members) finished their end of the story, and the Hunter again waited as they were told all about the War, the Reformist movement, and all of the vagaries of life in New America. They ended up with their latest victories, first over the PF, in that they had recently assassinated Chief Hanson Knox, and then over the deformos, against whom they had deployed their newest, best weapon, a very high-powered, hand-held, ultraviolet sort of flashlight gizmo that apparently worked on the muties’ atrophied eyeballs like a blowtorch on butter.

Through all of this, of course, thanks to his involvement one way or another in some of these events, many a hard look was directed at the Hunter. And when they’d finished talking about how they’d all gotten there and all about the Sick and everything, they turned to him. Santiago did the talking.

“Which still leaves this gentleman,” he said, waving at the Hunter like he was a lamp or a dog or something.

“What about me?” asked the Hunter evenly.

“Well,” said Santiago, scratching his head, “it’s just that you sort of force us to make a decision. About you, I mean. We can’t really hold you here or anything; we have no legal authority. But then again, laws and all of that are kind of touch and go these days, so then again, who’s to say we don’t? I guess we could just let you go, send you on your way, but somehow that doesn’t seem right, either. What does everyone think? What should we do with him?”

At first no one spoke and the Hunter waited, feeling their stares, until finally one of the Council members, a little black man with a loud voice, spoke up.

“This dude gotta name?” he asked. “I mean, we can’t jus’ call him “him” alla time, can we? Hell, for that matter, we don’t know squat about this dude, one way or another!”

All eyes swiveled back to him and the Hunter scowled slightly. “My name’s Shipman,” he said, staring back. “Jack Shipman.”

“Well there ya go,” said the black guy. “That’s a start, right? So what else? Obviously you’re some kinda mercenary or somethin’. What were ya Before, Mr. Shipman?”

Uncomfortable, the Hunter shifted in his seat. “I was a bounty hunter,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “Still am, for that matter.”

“Ah ha,” said Santiago, nodding. “And you were hired by the Governor, right? But to do what, exactly?”

“Grab the Old Man,” said the Hunter laconically, “an’ bring him to New America.”

“Of course,” said Santiago, nodding. “And then the Governor would… what? We don’t have the facilities here to create a vaccine, so what was he going to do with Mr. Lampert?”

“Sell him,” said the Hunter, with a slight shrug. “Vend him off to the highest bidder. Most likely these folks out in Frisco, I guess.”

Apparently this was a little too much for the CDC com specialist, Swails, who now stood up and, eyes bulging, loudly interrupted.

“I can’t believe,” she said hotly, “that you’re seriously listening to this guy! He’s nothing less than a murderer! A kidnapper and a thief and a murderer! I say we lock him up and throw the key into the ocean!”

“OK, OK,” said Santiago, patting the air. “Just take it easy, alright? We all heard about what he did.”

Swails scowled and was obviously ready with more, but nurse Cass and Doctor Kaes calmed her down and got her to take her seat, where she muttered and continued to glare daggers. Santiago turned back to the group.

“The issue here,” he said expansively, “as far as I’m concerned, is not what he’s done. After all, most of us here have killed someone since the Fall. Or we’ve been involved in helping someone else to kill someone. Either way, if this was Before, we’d all be up on murder charges. I mean, it’s nothing any of us is proud of, but this isn’t Before, is it? This is now, and that means survival, plain and simple. We don’t have the luxury of thinking in terms of Pre-Fall law and order, mainly because law and order are gone! Caught the Sick and died, so to speak. So the idea that we can judge this man, whatever his actions, isn’t really something we probably wanna get into. We don’t have time to argue philosophy.”

There was some general hubbub about this, mainly scowls and angry whispers from Swails and the other CDC folks, plus a few of the Council. Then Doctor Kaes, newly shaved and dressed in a plain white coverall jumpsuit, stood up and raised his voice.

“I beg to differ,” he said stiffly, blushing a little. “That is, much as I admire your pragmatism, I cannot condone the taking of human life. Ever. Under any conditions whatsoever. It isn’t a matter of philosophy, it’s a matter of right and wrong. And murder is always wrong. Even now, after the Fall. And what’s more, let me assure you, neither I nor any of my colleagues has ever killed anyone. I can’t speak for Teresa, of course, but even with all we’ve been through, none of the rest of us has been forced to that.”

“Then yer awful fuckin’ lucky, pal,” came a deep voice like gravel on asphalt. It was the big man, Lumler, the former PF man, who now shook his head disgustedly, without rising. “That, or yer just plain chickenshit. Hell, why are we even listening to this pacifist crap?”

This, of course, brought a whole big noise of protest from Kaes, his group, and more than a few others, and pretty soon the whole theater was echoing with angry words of accusations and counter-accusations. The Hunter sat back and waited. For a second he thought of standing up and saying something, but no one would have heard him anyway, so he just sat and let them argue. Finally, after maybe a good ten minutes of bickering, the nasal, wheezy voice of none other than Howard Lampert rang out, cutting through the clamor like a rusty bugle.

“Shut up, allaya!” he called harshly. “Just shut the fuck up for one minute, alright?!”

Sort of confusedly, the assembly quieted down, looking at each other and shrugging. Lampert nodded and, painfully rising from his seat, headed up to the podium. The Hunter saw that the dried-up old coot was freshly dressed, shaved and clean, and apparently no worse the wear for his imprisonment in the mines. There was a long pause as Lampert, rejecting assistance, tottered on up to the front of the room. Then he looked down critically at the New Americans before him and gave a snort.

“Look at all of you,” he said sneeringly. “So self-righteous, so sanctimonious. Call yourself the Reform Council all you want, but really all you are is a gang. Thugs, murderers, thieves and terrorists. Just a gang like any other. Yeah, yer a real sweet bunch alright, real prime specimens of the species.

“But I’m here to tellya,” he said after a pause, glaring pointedly at Santiago, “that these CDC people, Dr. Kaes and his crew, are not like you. Understand? Shit, didn’t you hear what they’ve been through? All the shit they’ve put up with? And through all of that, from the moment I met ‘em to right now, they have never, ever stooped to your level. Never harmed a hair on head one, no matter how insane or violent the survie they came across. You can call ‘em pacifists, or chickenshit or whatever damn thing you wanna call ‘em, but here’s the plain facts—they are still human, or at least humane. Get me? They’re good people, and not in some daffy, goodie-two-shoes bullshit way, neither. They do good things. In other words, they still care about their fellow man.”

He paused and caught his breath as an uneasy silence came over the NA group. Finally Lampert went on.

“And with all they’ve been through,” he waved, “what the fuck thanks are they gonna get? Who’s gonna thank ‘em for saving the whole damn species, even if they manage to do it? Not you screwheads, that’s for sure! You’re too busy fighting over what’s left of fucking Lawrence, Kansas! I mean, what is the goddamn point?!”

“Sir, I—” Santiago tried to say, when the Old Man paused for breath, but Lampert cut him off.

“Quiet, you!” he snapped, staring Santiago back down into his seat. “I ain’t done yet. Now, I don’t know what kinda plans you got for me and Doctor Kaes and his mission, but I do know that if you don’t do everything in your power to help him, do whatever he says, you’re all nothing more than a bunch of fucking morons, too goddamn stupid to save your own species. And that’s all I wanna say about that.

“As far as this Shipman fella goes, well, I hate to tell ya, Erin and Doc Kaes and you guys, but this man is valuable, like it or not. Deadly and homicidal, but valuable. And he could really help in your mission. I dunno, mebbe you could think of him as I weapon, you know? Point him at something you want to die. Not that I’m sayin’ you should trust him, either, but you gotta admit, he’s shown that he’s pretty damned good in a fight. But hell, did you ever think of maybe asking him what he wants to do? I mean shit, we been here for hours now and he ain’t put more than three words together yet!”

Oh, thanks a whole bunch, thought the Hunter; thanks a million, you shriveled old bastard. But he nodded and stood up when every last person in the room went dead quiet and turned to stare. After a moment, he gave a shrug.

“If yer asking,” he said, “I’d like to help Dr. Kaes get to California. Obviously things in New America sorta took a turn for the worse. And now that I know that, and all about how the Sick’s for sure gonna come back an’ kill everybody? Well, I want to help. I ain’t gonna argue about what I did or why, but you can let me help, or you can do whatever else. Guess it’s yer choice.”

With that, feeling like he’d just delivered an hour-long oration before the UN, he sat back down and waited as Lampert wobbled back to his seat and the theater again hummed with conversation. Glancing up, the Hunter saw Dr. Kaes looking at him in an odd kind of way from across the room but something in his eyes made the Hunter quickly look away. After maybe fifteen minutes of quiet discussion among the NA group, most of it about him, some sort of consensus seemed to have been reached. They all went quiet as Santiago again went up to the podium.

“Well, OK,” he said abashedly, “we obviously have a diversity of opinions. And, far as that goes, it’s good we’re having this little discussion. Get everyone’s thoughts out into the open, you know? And I guess we New Americans sorta needed a reminder that well, not everyone is as cynical and ruthless as we’ve had to become. But here’s the thing, folks, differences aside, we’re all on the same page. We have to get Mr. Lampert to Frisco, and as quickly as possible. Am I right?”

Everyone, even the Old Man himself, nodded at this and Santiago went on.

“So, anyway,” he said, smiling a little, “I guess Shipman is in, yes? Part of the group? OK then, moving on, here’s the basic, like, germ of my idea for getting Mr. Lampert to California. See, the Governor has his own plane. A functioning, maintained-by-a-mechanic, ready-to-use twin-engine prop job from Before, very reliable, very easy to fly. You see where I’m goin’ with this? Of course, the problem is that we can’t just walk into the Governor’s mansion and ask him if we can use it. So, I think we need to figure out just how exactly we’re going to, you know, get in and get out. And,” he nodded solicitously at Kaes, “with as little violence as possible.”

They all seemed pretty happy with this, nodding and knitting their brows, and were about to launch into another undoubtedly long and involved discussion. Before they could really get revved up, the Hunter raised his hand until Santiago noticed and asked what he wanted.

“Just one little thing,” said the Hunter wryly. “If you guys don’t mind, now that I’m like, part of the group, I guess, can I please, for the love of God, get somethin’ else to wear?”

They all had a good laugh at that, sort of breaking the tension, the Hunter supposed, but he was not joking; if he had to spend ten more minutes in the stinking, itchy piece of garbage he had on his body, he might very well just end up running around naked. And nobody wanted that.

To his surprise and gratification, though, he got a lot more than some measly clothes. In fact, he couldn’t hide a big grin when the New American assigned to help him, a younger woman named Olive who’d taken him back to near where he’d awoken, produced from the community lockers nothing less than his beloved nano-suit.

“Hey!” he said gleefully, taking the fine mesh into his hands. “My suit! Excellent! But where did you get this?”

“Down in the mutie mines,” said Olive, nodding admiringly. “With a buncha other crap they didn’t have the brains to use, I guess. We tried it out ourselves, of course. Hope you don’t mind too much. But then we discovered how it’s all like, specially geared just for one person and all and, well, I guess you know all about it.”

“Yeah,” said the Hunter absently, fingering the suit. “I do at that.”

Chapter Fifty-Five

Thus sayeth the Lord God: As I live, surely they that are in the wastes shall fall by the sword, and him that is in the open field will I give to the beasts to be devoured, and they that be in the forts and in the caves shall die of the pestilence.

—Ezekiel 27

As the others loaded their weapons and checked their gear for the umpteenth time, Justin sat apart, his things all packed and ready, and waited. The past few days had been busy ones, planning and preparing, but, thanks to the safety and provisions of the Council, there had been plenty of time for other things as well.

Following the big confab with the New Americans, they had first decided on just who exactly was going to undertake the mission at hand, that is, the invasion of the Governor’s Mansion and the theft of the man’s airplane. Of course, he and the Old Man were automatically in. As soon as they had the plane, they were (hopefully) off to California. To this end, Stiletto, the only real pilot in the group, was also in. Santiago would be leading the group, and the big man named Lumler would be his second.

The Small Man, Shipman, was also an obvious choice, but after that, things had gotten a bit more contentious, as there were more volunteers than needed. Teresa, for one (and by extension, her two-foot shadow, the Kid) had been adamant about going along, as had Barb Cass and several of the Council, but in the end the former Army man, CJ, had been tapped as the final member; he knew the area very well, he was good with a gun, and he had the sort of high-stress experience they would need. Naturally, Teresa had been upset.

“But you gotta lemme come!” she’d argued, making her case to Justin later. “You gonna need me!”

Justin had frowned and shaken his head. “I’m sorry, but it’s not my decision to make. And even if it was, I would still rather you stayed behind.”

“But why?” she’d asked ingenuously. “I can take care o’ myself, Case! You know that! Take care o’ you an’ the Old Man, too!”

“Yes, I know that,” he’d said. “You’re more than capable. But this is going to be dangerous. Maybe very dangerous.”

“So what?” she’d waved. “The whole big world dangerous now! An’ ain’t we always been in danger? What about them cannibos or them muties? Ya sayin’ that weren’t danger?”

“That’s not what I mean,” he’d countered. “As I said, I know you’re more than able to defend yourself. But this is not some rival gang they’re going up against. It’s not a cannibal cult or even a race of deformed underground humanoids, this is a large, organized, force, apparently well-armed and heavily defended. And what’s more, I frankly could not bear it if anything were to happen. So please, for once, stay out of the fight.”

She’d looked at him oddly, and for good reason, It had been a stilted and awkward statement, because a faint trace of the disgust he’d felt earlier at her callousness still wafted through his thoughts. It was blunted now, submerged in his almost physical need for her and everything she represented (love, kindness, family, future), but it was still there, mixed in with his own regret at what amounted to robbing the cradle. At the time, Teresa had, after a long look into his eyes, shrugged and frowned.

“Don’t know what you thinkin’,” she’d said, “but you been all grunchy and sad for days. So what up, Case? Somethin’ wrong? Somethin’ I did?”

No, he’d thought sadly, it’s something you are, not what you did. Something I am, something you are, and something the world has become. To her face, though, he had smiled and stroked her cheek fondly.

“No, Teresa,” he’d said. “It’s nothing like that. I just want you here, safe and sound. And, besides, it would be one less thing to worry about.”

Again, she’d given him a long, searching look, but he’d been careful to keep his features kindly and bland and his voice even and she’d finally shrugged again, knowing something was wrong but with no idea just what, and had gone off to sulk. Justin felt bad for her and wished that he could just blurt it out and tell her all about his fears and misgivings, especially about her specifically, but this was neither the time nor the place for such things. Not when they were so close. And so he’d had to let her sulk.

Once they had determined who was going, they’d spent another whole day planning how they wanted to proceed. Through most of this discussion Justin had paid little attention but had, as the voice of cooler heads, spoken up whenever there was talk of killing or violence. Finally several of the group had thrown up their hands at his incessant, meddling objections.

“Jesus Christ, doc!” Lumler had said, exasperated. “Whattaya want us to do, walk up and tickle ‘em? Maybe engage ‘em in a nice pillow fight? These are heavily armed men, trained to kill! And they will not hesitate to blast you right the fuck in half, doctor or not. Understand? You, the Old Man, me, anybody! Like in the old western movies, shoot first an’ ask questions later.”

“Yes, I understand that,” Justin had nodded. “But surely we can try to keep casualties to a minimum, can’t we? After all, you’ve said yourself that we can’t take on the whole armed forces of New America. Perhaps we can rely more on stealth than force?”

“I agree,” Shipman had said, surprising Justin. “We’ll all get wasted if we go in guns blazin’. We gotta make this a sneak attack.” He’d turned to Lumler and Santiago. “Don’t you guys got any non-lethal arms? No tasers or beanbag guns or nothin’?”

Lumler had shrugged and nodded reluctantly. “Yeah,” he’d allowed, “we got that kinda shit. Gas, rubber bullets, net guns, zappers. But I for one ain’t goin’ in there with nothin’ but some gas grenades an’ a measly net gun!”

“Course not,” Shipman had said. “That’d just be stupid. But we can try to use the non-lethals as much as possible. You gotta admit, they sure as hell keep the noise down!”

Lumler had grumbled and fretted the issue, but in the end had ceded the argument. Justin got the feeling that the man was only giving lip service to the whole idea, but had had to content himself with at least getting him and the others to consider it. Maybe some lives could be spared.

After that, they’d gone into a whole lot of little details; which guards would be on duty, where and when they would patrol; how they would be armed and what exactly were the layouts of the buildings they had to infiltrate. Justin’s attention had again waned and he’d been almost dozing when the high scratchy voice of the Old Man, sitting at his side, had broken in.

“Think this is gonna work, doc?” he’d asked quietly, out of one side of his mouth. “Think we can really swipe this guy’s plane? Fly to Frisco?”

Justin had looked over at him and made a wry face. “I certainly hope so, sir,” he’d said quietly. “But then, these people seem well-acquainted with this sort of thing, so maybe we stand a chance. And, if we do succeed, well, in theory we would be in San Francisco in a matter of hours.”

The Old Man had been about to go on, but Justin, not wanting to disturb the others, had waved him gently to silence. Quietly, he’d gotten up and slowly wheeled Lampert’s new chair (courtesy of the Council) out of the room and into an empty cafeteria room next door. The Old Man, nicely recovered from his bout with the common cold, had looked up at him, his eyes their usual crystal blue but somehow softer and less piercing, and shaken his head.

“Stealin’ a plane?” he’d said. “And flyin’ to Frisco? I dunno, doc… but then again, I guess it’s no crazier than tryin’ to drive to California in some big-ass RV, is it?”

Justin had made a face. “Touché, sir. And believe me, I tried to get them to think of some other way. I asked if there maybe wasn’t another plane somewhere we could use, I asked if maybe we couldn’t just use another car or some other, safer transportation, something that wouldn’t involve storming an armed compound, but no. Problematic as this plan is, I have to concede that it seems the most likely to succeed.”

“Huhn, I guess,” the Old Man had wheezed. He’d paused for a moment before shaking his head ruefully. “Damn, you have been through some shit, ain’tcha doc? Gangs, chemical spills, nuke plants, wild animals, more gangs, fucking Christian cannibals and freaky mutant mole people and that horrible Johnson creep, not to mention the source of all this misery, the goddamn Plague itself, surviving that and not goin’ crazy. I mean, Jesus Christ on a scooter, doc, you been to hell an’ back!”

Justin had just sighed and nodded; nobody needed to tell him about what he’d been through. “Yes. It has been a long trip. And we’ve lost a lot of good people along the way.”

“That’s the hell of it, ain’t it? I mean, here there are only what, like twenty, thirty thousand people left in the whole goddamn country? And what do they do? They go around killin’ each other over a couple tanks o’ gas or a package o’ them crappy Krillo-bars! Shit. So what is that, Doc? Irony? Or tragedy, or what?”

“I have no idea,” Justin had owned. “Maybe it’s a bit of both. All I know for certain is that we’re closer than we’ve ever been to getting you to California.”

“Mmm hmm,” Lampert had said. “And then what?”

“What do you mean?” Justin had asked. “When we finally accomplish our mission and have you safely in San Francisco, we’ll make a vaccine, of course.”

“No, I mean after that,” the Old Man had persisted. “Say you do accomplish your mission and you get me there and make a vaccine and save the world. Then what?”

Justin had blinked and frowned, realizing that he’d never given this a single thought. The very idea that they might beat the odds and somehow succeed had been enough to ask for and the idea of a future beyond had been too much. At the time, he’d had to shrug and admit his loss.

“To be honest, sir,” he’d said, “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Aw, come on, doc,” Lampert had smiled. “What about you an’ Teresa? Don’tcha wanna settle down with her, get yourself a nice place to live, maybe raise some brainy, tough-as-whipcord little kids?”

“Maybe,” Justin had said desultorily. “But then again, who can say? It just could be that she and I aren’t exactly right for each other.”

“What?!” the Old Man had almost yelped. “What the hell kinda talk is that? Not right for each other? Shit, doc, she’s smart, she’s tough, she’s funny and pretty and she’s got a body that any man who don’t like other men would kill to get their hands on! Plus, she’s crazy about you! Any fool can see that, just the way she looks at ya. So what’s your problem? You gone gay or somethin’? Or are ya just stupid?”

“I don’t know,” Justin had frowned. “Maybe I am stupid. Maybe that’s the trouble, I don’t know. I think that it’s just that she’s so inured. So used to this terrible world and all of its violence and brutality. I’m just not sure that I can get used to that side of her personality.”

Lampert had laughed wheezily. “So yer upset ‘cause she’s normal? Because she’s strong enough to survive? Shit, doc, you can hardly fault her for that! Besides, where would we be right now if she wasn’t as tough as she is? Killed, chopped into patties, and eaten by fat men in cop suits, that’s where!”

“Well when you put it that way…,” Justin had said. “But still, there’s also the age difference. After all, I am old enough to be her father.”

“So fuckin’ what?” Lampert had rejoined. “So you’re older than her. Big deal. If you ask me, that’s as relative a thing as any other. I mean, to me, at a hundred and fucking two, you both seem like children, know what I mean? Twenty, thirty, fifty, to me, that is the goddamn bloom of youth! And anyway, who’s gonna care about it, anyhow? Who’s left to care? Naw, doc, that’s a weak argument, at best. Yer gonna have to do better than that.”

Justin had frowned. “I’m not sure that I can, or that I want to. I don’t know, maybe I was just thinking that our relationship was more of an infatuation. That, once we were through with the mission, I would finally realize that she was, well, more of a fling, a sort of marriage of convenience. I guess I’m just torn. On the one hand, I admire her strength, but on the other, I’m appalled at her more violent tendencies.”

Lampert had laughed again, shaking his head. “Same old Just In Case,” he’d cackled. “Still thinking too much. Hell, doc, this ain’t somethin’ you can pin down, it’s nothin’ you can see under your microscope. An’ you shouldn’t bother to try! Love is a messy, stupid thing, Doc. No tellin’ where it’ll go, but you sure as hell gotta take the ride!”

Justin had smiled. Despite the Old Man’s left-handed delivery, the conversation had made him feel better, in a desperate, fatalistic way. After all, who knew whether he and the Old Man (and, by extension, the rest of humanity) would even survive this latest insane caper? If they made it, well, then there would be time for such things. Time for life and love and even mistakes. At the time, smiling warmly at the Old Man, he’d nodded.

“I believe you’re right,” he’d said. “And if I am still the same old Justin Kaes, over-thinking? Then you are still the same Howard Lampert, born philosopher. Perhaps we should find some comfort in that.”

“Yeah,” Lampert had said, settling back. “Not a lot o’ things left these days that stay the same, are there? Not like you an’ me.”

There was an amicable pause. From the next room came the constant buzz of animated conversation. He should be getting back in there. Who knew what mayhem they were contemplating? Then he shrugged and left it alone. He’d made his position more than adequately clear. After a while, his mind wandering pleasantly, for once, he’d asked about something.

“I was wondering…” he’d said, by way of preamble.

“Yeah?”

“Well,” Justin had continued, “I was just thinking about earlier, and your comparison of our mission to The Wizard of Oz.”

“And?”

“And how are we doing? That is, do you still think that it’s an apt analogy? Are we still in Oz?”

“Heh,” the Old Man had chuckled dryly. “Yeah, I been thinkin’ about that, too. Especially ‘cause we ended up in Kansas, like in reverse, you know? Like Toto, I don’t think we’re in Oz anymore. Weird. But all in all? I dunno, maybe this New America is the Emerald City. Maybe this Governor character is the Wizard and these Council people are the Tinman and Lion and Scarecrow. You know? One thing always bugged me about that, though.”

“What’s that?”

“The name Oz itself,” Lampert had waved. “I mean, they probably screwed it up, going from the book to the movie, but the title is The Wizard of Oz, right? As in, the Merry Old Land of Oz. But then, when they actually meet the guy, he calls himself Oz, the Great and Powerful. So what’s the deal? Is the world named Oz or is the wizard named Oz? Or both, or what?”

Justin had smiled. “That’s a good question,” he’d admitted. “And I’ve also been wondering something else about that story.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“The ending. As I recall from the film, Dorothy finally prevails and gets her wish. She returns, home to Kansas. Is that right?”

“Yup. Clicks her heels together and doodly-doodly doop! One crappy special effect later, she’s home. So?”

“Well, what happens after that? After all, she returns to a somewhat less than appealing future, doesn’t she? Living in dustbowl Oklahoma on some sort of hardscrabble, tornado-ridden farm with her aged aunt and uncle? And don’t forget, Miss Gulch, the mean lady down the way who was going to do away with poor Toto? Well, she hasn’t gone anywhere, has she? She wasn’t the witch; she didn’t melt. Maybe Toto escaped from her once, but what will prevent her from simply returning and snatching the poor dog all over again? Indeed, if you think about it, none of the things that made Dorothy run away in the first place have changed in the least!”

“Heh, ya know?” Lampert had nodded sagely. “That’s right! But at the end, she’s all happy and shit anyway! She’s gonna quit lookin’ for anything, because whatever it is, it’s right in her own back yard. No place like home. All that crap. Makes you think she’d been a helluva lot better off just staying where she was! In Oz, hell, she’d have been best buds with the Wizard, she’d have had her pals, the Tinman and all. Probably could’ve even taken over the witch’s place, all her minions and flyin’ monkeys, that big-ass castle? Just do some painting, redecorating… damn, she coulda been a freakin’ queen!”

Justin had nodded and smiled. “That’s what I was thinking,” he’d said. “And I think that maybe Dorothy was just plain mistaken. Perhaps there is someplace other than home, so to speak.”

Lampert had wheezed another laugh, stubbing out his smoke. “Oh man, doc! That’s like, deep, you know? But hell, all that really was, that ending—and I still would bet they screwed with it for the movie—all that was was a plain message to the kiddies and the more ambitious folks to forget about anything better. Just do your job, whatever back-breaking, thankless slavery it is, and don’t look beyond your own back yard for anything better, because Oz is just a dream. It ain’t real, so don’t bother even lookin’ for it. Sorta like religion, you know? Opiate of the masses?”

“I suppose so,” Justin had allowed. “But that’s not really my point.”

“So what is?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Justin had said honestly, tiring of the whole topic. “I suppose I’m just seeing connections, analogies, what have you, that aren’t really there. After all, we’re talking about an old children’s book here, aren’t we? And this is no kind of world for children.”

Lampert had grunted, whether in agreement or dissent, it was impossible to tell, and sat back in his wheelchair. Justin had sat for a moment, feeling somehow both better and worse for the conversation, and now, waiting nervously as the people around him strapped on arms and armor and got ready to go, he had the same feeling, a bittersweet sense that he’d done just about all he could for the Mission and that now it was in the hands of others.

He was deep in thought, recalling all of this, and hardly noticed when Teresa appeared in his field of vision. Then he shook himself and looked up at her. As beautiful as ever, her features were nonetheless set in a sad, angry sort of expression and her mouth turned down at the edges. Nodding to him once, she cocked her head and shrugged.

“Guess you gonna go soon, hey?” she said sullenly.

“Yes, I think so,” Justin said, eyeing a nearby window. “It’s almost dark.”

He smiled at her as best he could, then led her gently by the hand, back to the same cafeteria where he’d chatted with Lampert. There, he smiled and took her in his arms. Stiff at first, she quickly yielded in his grasp and hugged him back.

“Teresa, I don’t know what to say,” he whispered miserably. “We may never… that is, if anything happens to me…” he choked and then swallowed a lump and shook his head. “Oh hell, why am I screwing around? What I want to say is, that if anything goes wrong, I just want you to know that I love you. With all my heart, and until my last breath, I love you.”

Teresa pulled back a few inches and Justin saw that she was crying. He’d never seen her cry before. Wiping a tear from her chin, he tilted her head up a fraction and stared into her dark, glistening eyes. After a long moment, she blinked hard and wiped her nose with the back of her hand before emitting a bitter little laugh.

“Guess that’s good,” she said heavily. “Cause I gotta say somethin’ too. See, I’ma have a baby. Your baby.”

Justin reeled, buffeted by conflicting emotions. It was entirely possible— they’d never used any kind of birth control. But how had she arrived at this conclusion? And had she been with anyone else, at Baron Zero’s, perhaps? Much as he didn’t want to know, he had to ask.

“Are you… sure?” he asked softly. “That is, how do you know for certain? And do you know for certain that it was me? It couldn’t have been anyone else?”

She shook her head. “Naw, only you,” she said. “And trus’ me, I gotta baby. I snicked one’a them prego-tests from that wreckered SA? Turnt blue an’ ever’thing.”

“Teresa, I, I don’t know what to say! Again! This is wonderful news, of course! I can’t even quite believe it. Me! A father! But…” he trailed off lamely.

“Yeah, I know whatcha mean,” she said. “Sure as ploop ain’t the best time for it, hey? With the world, way it is, the Sick and the Fall and Saving the Humanity Race an’ all that. An’ now you goin’ off, prob’ly get yerself clacked, an’ even if ya don’t, you be all the way out in Cali, savin’ the world,” she gasped and began to sob in earnest, shaking in his arms.

For a second he thought about reassuring her, telling her that it wasn’t that bad and that she shouldn’t worry, but the words died in his throat. She was far too smart and experienced to fall for something like that, and besides, he didn’t like to lie. Finally he just hugged her closer and told her the truth.

“Teresa, listen to me,” he said, feeling her hot tears through his shirt. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. This plan might work out and it might not. If it doesn’t, well, that will be the end. For you, for me, for our child, and for everyone else. Maybe not right away, but eventually, the Plague will claim us all. And if the plan does work, and we can get Mr. Lampert to the labs in San Francisco and make a vaccine? Well, then we’ll have won and you and I and everyone else will be able to start living again. See what I’m saying?”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Like flippin’ a coin, hey? One or the other. Guess that makes it kinda easier, like, to think about.”

For a long moment they just stood and held each other. Then Teresa, her voice muffled in his chest, sniffed and looked up at him.

“What it be like?” she asked softly. “When we win, I mean. When we stop the Sick and start livin’, like you said. What that gonna be like?”

Justin sighed and smiled. “To be honest, I haven’t thought about it that much. But I do know that it will be better. And with any luck, much more peaceful.”

“Yeah, but,” she persisted. “Like, we gonna have our own place? Like a house?”

“Well, certainly!” Justin smiled. “And why not? It’s not like there’s a housing shortage anymore. Who knows? Maybe we can find a place in San Francisco. I’ve heard it’s very nice! Or, for that matter, we could live anywhere we want, as long as it’s safe.”

“Safe, yeah. Like with no bangers, hey? No muties or cannibos or road freakers or anything like that, right?”

Justin nodded. “Yes. It’s what we used to call civilization.”

She smiled faintly and nodded. “Yeah, like Before,” she said wistfully. She stared into his eyes again for a long moment. Then she looked down and sniffled. “Still wish I could go with. Gonna be hard, stayin’ here, waitin’ an’ thinkin’ about it.”

“I know, but I need to know that you’re safe. Now more than ever! And I promise I’ll send word as soon as I can.”

Then came a yell from the adjoining room, calling his name, and he pulled back to arm’s length and dredged up a smile for her. Gamely, she smiled back.

“I guess it’s time,” he said.

“Uh huh,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears again but this time she blinked them back and smiled. “I love you, Justin,” she said simply. It was the first time she’d ever used just his first name.

“I love you, too, Teresa,” he managed, his heart lurching. Then, with a supreme effort, he straightened up, tugged his uncomfortable armored bodysuit into shape, and set his jaw. Improbably, Teresa apparently found this amusing and let out a sniffling laugh.

“Ya know, Case?” she grinned through tears. “You kinda look like somebody who gonna save the Humanity Race! Like, if anybody could do it, you could, hey?”

“Really? You think so?”

“Yup. Now go on. Go finish this thing.”

A final kiss, and then, in one of the most difficult acts of his life, he turned and walked away.

Chapter Fifty-Six

This week on Historical Crime Busters, Amadeus Mozart goes head to head with a biker gang while Orville and Wilbur Wright mean double trouble for a swindler! Don’t miss the excitement!

—promo ad for TV show, UZS network, circa 2052

After all of the planning and talk and preparation, it felt good to Lumler to finally be doing something. Not that he didn’t appreciate the value of planning, but he was not really much of an idea man. To him, guns blazing was a strategy. But this was not some raid on a den of traitors; the future of mankind was on the line. If they screwed it up and didn’t get Lampert, Dr. Kaes, and Stiletto to the Governor’s plane, they were all dead. As in everyone on Earth.

This concept, that humanity itself was on the brink of extinction, had a strong influence on him, but his nature and thought processes were not such that he dwelt on it. Instead, he felt a very strong but very nebulous sense of free-floating anxiety, one that dwarfed even the horrors of the Fall, like a big storm was coming, building just over the horizon, that would soon come roaring down on them all like an avalanche. Like the End was near.

Doggedly, he shook off this baleful line of thought and kept his eyes and ears open. They were rolling along in the city’s main storm sewer, riding a sort of train of five old electric golf carts the Council had rigged up to move quickly and quietly through the underground. Splashing through about an inch of brackish water at maybe ten miles an hour, they’d already gone about half a mile, and the right-hand turn toward the Governor’s mansion should be just ahead.

He thought back to the other night, when they’d ambushed and killed that psycho Hanson Knox, the late Chief of Police, but it had been such an open and shut, by-the-book operation that he didn’t dwell on it for long; the man had deserved to die and he had died, quickly and efficiently. End of story.

Sitting in the final occupied car, with only the storage cars behind, he kept glancing backward, just in case, but their trail was clear and mostly he just had to wait. After another long stretch of sewer tunnel they came to an intersection and slowed down to make the turn. Slowly as Santiago went, though, it became obvious that the golf cart train wouldn’t make the angle and they’d have to dismount and shift the cars by hand.

Quickly, they all piled out and took up positions on the carts’ sides and then heaved the relatively light vehicles around the 90-degree bend in the tunnel. As they dropped the last cart, a heavier one filled with ammo and weapons and covered in a tarp, Lumler was jolted by the small but quite audible and definitely human grunt that issued from its interior. What the hell? With a quick jerk, he ripped the tarp from the cart and jumped back.

Sheepishly, but still somehow defiantly, the hot banger girl, Teresa, glared up at him. She’d obviously removed a few of the boxes of ammo and hidden under the tarp. She’d stowed away. And she wasn’t alone. The weird little kid was there, too, hiding around her ankles like a pet cat. With a scowl, Lumler glared back.

“Whatta we got here?” he said, calling the others attention. “Looks like a stowaway or two. Maybe one and a half.”

Clustering around, the raiding party reacted variously, but the Plague-doctor, Kaes, about flipped his lid. Slapping himself on the forehead, he sounded like he was going to cry.

“Teresa, what the hell are you doing?” he pleaded. “I thought we agreed, you’d stay behind! Well, it’s no good, anyway. You’ll just have to go back. You and the kid, you can take one of the carts and just head right back to the Council HQ.”

“Nuh uhn,” said Teresa, rising from her hiding place. “I ain’t gonna go back. An’ you can’t make me, neither.”

“Teresa, please!” said Kaes. “We’ve been over this! Now please don’t argue with me!”

Lumler scowled angrily. This was sure as shit no time for these two lovebirds to be playing house! Unable to hold his tongue any more, he shook his big head and cut the doctor off.

“Hey, enough!” he grated. “We ain’t got time for this shit. Either she comes or she goes, but let’s decide and get movin’.”

“Yeah,” said Santiago, standing nearby. “No offense you two, but we are on a timetable here.”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” said Kaes sternly. “She’s going.”

“Am not!” said Teresa.

Lumler saw that she’d managed to find a combat suit that fit her and that she was toting more ordnance than a gun shop. The weird thing was, on her, it didn’t look the least bit out of place. After a lot of wrangling and bad noise, it came down to Kaes against the rest of them. Only he wanted Teresa and the Kid to leave. The rest of them saw her as Lumler did, as an asset to the group, a skilled fighter who knew her way around a firearm. Kaes, though, stuck to his guns, the stubborn bastard.

“It’s not just…” argued Kaes. He turned to Teresa. “We have to tell them,” he said. “About, you know!”

The girl shrugged at Kaes. “That don’ matter,” she said firmly. “Ya said yerself, if you don’ get to Cali, we all gonna die. Right? Even our kid.”

“Your what?” said Santiago, shaking his head. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but we can’t stand here all day arguing! We’ve got to move!”

Kaes finally gave up. Maybe it was the weight of general opinion, like peer pressure, or time pressing on him, or maybe he just realized that the girl was right, but for whatever reason he finally, reluctantly slumped and nodded.

“I suppose you’re right,” he told Teresa. “If we don’t make it, you wouldn’t be safe for long anyway.”

“Don’ worry, Case,” she told him, grinning like a maniac. “You got me here, now. You an’ Misser Lampert gonna be on yer way to Cali in no time!”

“OK, great,” said Lumler. “We got that sorted out. Now can we go?”

“Yes, of course,” said Kaes, all frowns and furrowed brow. “Let’s go.”

They all climbed back aboard the cart train. Kaes sat with Teresa and the Kid. To Lumler, they made a nice group, like a family. In better times, and if they weren’t armed and dressed in combat gear, he could easily have pictured them on a ride at Disneyland or enjoying a day in the park. It made him feel strange somehow, sort of sad and happy at the same time, but his blunt nature simply dismissed it as nostalgia and moved on.

Once back underway, they made good time and, before long, had come to the narrow spot where they would have to leave the cart train and go on foot. Here they all loaded up on weapons and gear, switched on a couple of flashlights, and then splashed quietly down the next tunnel. After maybe five or six city blocks, they came to a manhole, the same as dozens of others they’d passed, reaching up to the surface, where Santiago stopped and looked up.

“This is the one,” he said. “Opens up right down the street from the mansion.” He looked back to the group. “Well?” he said, grinning wickedly. “Are we all ready to go?”

They all nodded. Dr. Kaes started to say something but then clapped his mouth shut.

“OK then,” said Santiago. “We’ve been through this a million times. Just stick to the plan and keep calm and everything’ll go just fine.” He sighed and gave each of them a hard look. “OK,” he finally nodded, “let’s do this.” And they started climbing up the rusted iron rungs.

Lumler, bringing up the rear, waited patiently for his turn and checked and re-checked his weapons. Finally he was alone in the sewer tunnel. For a second, he thought of just not climbing up after the others, simply slinking off down the tunnels and away from this crazy bunch of do-gooding maniacs, but then he shrugged to himself and started climbing.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Q. Knock, knock

A. Who’s there?

Q. Survivor

A. Survivor who? Now get the hell away from here before I blow your damned head off.

—popular joke, circa 2077

In spite of all that was on the line, Teresa couldn’t help but be excited. This kind of stuff, sneaking around, ambushing people, shooting guns and all, well it just made her feel alive, like good sex or the best kinds of stupidwater. Oh, she knew that Justin didn’t approve of this kind of thing; he was a real C-head about hurting people—any people, no matter how bad—and got all scaredy when there were bullets flying, and it vaguely bothered her that this all bothered him, but she just couldn’t help it. This was fun!

At the moment, she was lying flat on her belly in a thick patch of weeds in an alley behind a great big brick building all surrounded by a tall brick fence with lights and barbed wire and guards, this imposing thing they called the Governor’s Mansion. She wasn’t sure what a “mansion” was, but if this was a good example, she decided that, on the whole, it would be lots better to be inside of one than out. At any rate, from up close it was pretty nasty-looking.

This place they called New America didn’t seem too appealing, either. All of the buildings were dark and quiet, but with the sense that there were people, hidden in the bricks and metal somewhere, maybe watching and listening. It made her edgy and claustrophobic and she wished there was more open space and clearer lines of sight.

At her side was the big lady named Still, the one with all the knives. Since she was the only one who could fly a plane, a vital part of the plan, it had been decided that she, like Case and the Old Man, would wait for the others to clear the way. Teresa didn’t know anything about her, but Still carried herself well and didn’t make too much noise, plus she had all of those nice sharp throwing blades. As far as Teresa was concerned, and until she proved otherwise, Still was OK.

Behind them, in even deeper cover, were Case and the Old Man, huddled under a camouflaged tarp. The rest of the group was off, supposedly dealing with the guards, and she and Still had been given the job of guarding these two. It was fine with Teresa; storming guarded compounds wasn’t exactly her kind of thing.

The Kid was here, too, somewhere. She’d tried to get him to stay back at the Council HQ, but it been like talking to an animal, like a dog or a cat that was going to follow you wherever you went no matter what you said or did, and so she’d finally relented and let him follow along. At the moment, she had no idea where he was. As soon as they’d crawled up out of the sewer, he’d vanished into the darkness like smoke. She wasn’t worried about him, though. He’d proven already that he could more than take care of himself. Likely he was lurking in the bushes somewhere nearby.

They’d been waiting for maybe five minutes when, from around the corner of the building, came a couple of grunting noises. Then it was quiet again, just the crickets and the yapping of a faraway dog. Teresa looked over at Still.

“Whattaya think?” she whispered.

“Not yet,” Still whispered back. “Wait for the signal.”

Teresa nodded and settled back. From behind them came a sneeze. It wasn’t all that loud, and she knew that the Old Man couldn’t help it, having just gotten over a cold, but it was still jarring in the extreme, given the surrounding silence, and she whipped around to glare at the place where he and Case were hiding. Still did likewise, but no further noise came from the darkness and she and Teresa looked at each other, shrugged, and went back to watching and waiting.

It seemed like a long time went by and Teresa, antsy and hyper-vigilant, was about to ask Still what they should do, when suddenly the quiet urban night was pierced by the high, bird-like shriek of a metal whistle. Tweeee! Twee, twee, twee!

“That’s it,” said Still, starting to rise. “Let’s move.”

Then, out of nowhere, came a gruff man’s voice that froze Teresa in place like a bath of liquid nitrogen.

“Don’t move a fuckin’ inch,” it said, harsh and loud in the stillness.

Teresa and Still both did as told, tense as drum heads, as a man, dressed in some kind of fancy suit, what they called a uniform, all black with shiny buttons topped by a black cap, slowly stepped out of the shadows and into view. Average-looking otherwise, he had a shotgun and the business end pointed at a point midway between the two women.

“Drop them guns,” the man said stonily. “And get up, real nice and slow.”

They did as the man said. Getting to her feet, Teresa felt her limbs beginning to shake and her breath come in short gulps. Having a gun pointed at her always made her angry like that. Instinctively, she started judging the distance to the man and how quickly she could get her hands on him.

The man was about to say something else, but the very instant he opened his mouth, something heavy came smashing down on his head and, cap and shotgun flying, he gave a strangled groan and fell onto his face, more or less at their feet. And standing there with a metal bar in hand, shaking his head sadly, was Justin Case. He’d knocked the black-suit greep into the middle of next week!

Teresa grinned at him. “Nice work, hey!” she said. “Dropped him like a sack o’ ploop!”

“Yeah, doc,” nodded Still. “Way to go! Now come on. We gotta get movin’, so get the Old Man and let’s—”

“The Old Man’s right here,” came Lampert’s voice, and he came tottering up, the camo-blanket around his shoulders like a robe. He stopped and looked down at the unconscious black-suited man and then over at Case. “You had to do, it, Doc,” he said. “Don’t feel bad.”

“I hope that he’s not too badly hurt, but I’m afraid we don’t have time to see to him. The signal…”

“Yeah,” said Still. “Let’s move.”

Teresa gave Case a fleeting grin, nodded and then took the lead towards the main gate. Before they’d gone ten steps, the rattling, banging sound of gunfire came from inside.

When they got into the mansion itself, past a big courtyard and some smaller buildings, where the inert forms of about a dozen of those black-suited men lay scattered around like discarded, life-sized toys, Teresa was a little disappointed to find that she’d missed all of the action. There was still a hint of gun smoke in the air, bullet holes here and there, and brass casings and shreds of burnt wadding all over the floor, but nothing stirred. But as she soon discovered, the aftermath turned out to be eventful enough.

The main building was huge, at least by her standards, and so neat and clean and lavishly decorated that she had a hard time at first not gawking at the splendor and alien orderliness of it all. There were so many rooms and stairways and hallways and all kinds of rooms she didn’t have names for, plus all this furniture, chairs and tables and lamps and cabinet-things, all super-fancy and shiny, and pictures hanging on the walls and rugs on the gleaming floors, all of it brightly lit with real old electric bulbs. It was like something out of an old vid or a picture from an old book from Before. Amazed, she actually stopped and lowered her boomstick to gape.

“Hey, come on!” said Still, nudging her and breaking the spell. “Up here!”

Following the woman’s lead, she made for a big central stairway, an enormous, carpeted, incredibly wide set of stairs with big thick wooden railings. From somewhere at their head, they could hear muffled voices, intent but not angry. The rest of the place was quiet. Teresa stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked back at Case and Mr. Lampert.

“Wanna lift, Misser Lampert?” she asked, jerking her head at the imposing stairs. “Ain’t no thing.”

The Old Man looked at the stairs, made a face, and then looked around.

“Naw,” he finally said. “I don’t wanna get carried around anymore. And there’s an elevator, right over there.”

Teresa glanced up the steps and saw that Still was almost at the top. She looked urgently back to Case and Lampert.

“Go ahead,” said Case, nodding, sort of sad-like. “We’ll be right up.”

Teresa nodded eagerly and bolted up the stairs, three at a time. When she got to the top, the sound of the voices drew her down a wide hallway, to a huge double door, thrown wide open, that led into another gigantic, well-lit, impossibly perfect room. Here she paused to take in the scene.

Standing on either end of a big table-like desk were two of their friends: the big man, Lumler, and Shipman, the mean little greep with the fancy camo-suit. Lying all around, in various positions like rag dolls, some in pools of blood, some alive but groaning and hurt, were about ten of the black suits. Some of the furniture in here had been thrown around, upended or knocked over, and there were lots of bullet holes in the walls and floor.

With a sharp pang, she noticed another body on the floor, this one covered with a camo blanket, and then another just like it, two of their comrades obviously dead, just two pairs of boots sticking out from under a blanket. Grim process of elimination told her that it had to be the hispano Army guy, CJ, and Santiago, the animal doctor.

The two remaining men, the big one and the little one, looked highly pissed-off and had their weapons trained on the center of attention, another man she’d never seen before who was sitting in a big padded chair behind the desk. Some do-dads, papers and pens and lamps and things, sat in front of the man, and if he knew that he had two angry men pointing guns at him, he sure as hell didn’t show it. Fact was, he looked more like he was bored.

Not much to speak of looks-wise, the man—the Governor, she now realized—was average sized, though it was hard to tell since he was sitting, and dressed in an old-style suit, like in the old vids of President Ortega, a black suit with a red necktie and collared white shirt and everything. His face was hard for her to read. His skin was pink and smooth, but his eyes were deep-set and small, like an angry pig, and his mouth turned down at the edges like he never smiled.

Walking slowly, like she was in a dream, she stepped past Still, who’d taken up a guard position in the hallway, and into the room. As she did, the Governor looked up at her and smiled. The other men moved not an inch, their weapons never swayed, and the angry looks on their faces only got angrier.

“Ah, now who is this?” said the Governor. His voice was strong, but a little high-pitched and femmy for her tastes. Kind of like how Justin sounded, all fancy and proper and all, only somehow sneaky and nasty. “Another of your little… gang?” the man asked, although who he was asking wasn’t clear. “And such a pretty gang member. What’s your name, my dear?”

Teresa walked slowly up to the desk and stopped, her shotgun leveled at the man’s shiny pink face, and looked him in the eyes.

“Teresa,” she said. “An’ you about this close to dead.”

The little guy, Shipman, said nothing, but a kind of growling noise came out of Lumler, like a big dog that’s looking at some raw meat. The Governor just smiled again, although it seemed sort of like his face didn’t want to, and nodded.

“Yes, I suppose so,” he said, sad-like, and shook his head. Up close, she saw that his hair was perfect, brushed and combed and shiny, with sharp lines where it had been recently cut, and that his skin was flawless, like the stuff they made toilets out of. But it was pale like that stuff, too, and there was an ugly greasiness to it that made her stomach twist. Nodding again, he waved an arm.

“These men,” he said, “will undoubtedly see to that. Or is that why you’re here?”

“Not me,” said Teresa. “But, like you say, one o’ these two.”

For a long moment they all just kind of waited, the three of them with their guns pointed at the man’s face and him just sitting there like he’d just sat down to dinner. It was weird, and she was about to say something when suddenly a strange ding! noise broke the tension-laden silence and then a metal grating noise. Looking over, she saw that a wall had opened up, slid to one side (the elevator, she decided), and now two forms, one bent and slow, the other tall and lanky and confident, walked into the room. Case, and the Old Man.

Case had a strange, pained expression on his face and looked around at all of the bodies and wreckage. He started to go over to the two covered bodies—CJ and Santiago—but then, obviously seeing the way they were covered, just boots, he stopped and just stood there looking angry and sad.

The Old Man, though, after a look around, walked right over and stood next to Teresa. He smelled nice, she thought in passing, a familiar smell of soap and cigarette smoke and old man that made her feel good somehow.

“So this is the guy?” said Lampert. “This is the almighty Governor of New America? Some dork in a suit behind a big fancy desk? Shit, shoulda figured.”

“And you are?” asked the Governor smoothly.

“Heh!” snorted the Old Man. “You wanna know who I am, asshole? You wanna know? Well, I’ll tell ya. I am the goddamn last hope of humanity, that’s all. The last one with the antibodies to stop the Plague. Get it?”

“Ah, Mr. Lampert!” said the Governor. “That’s right, isn’t it? Of course, I should have known. You are the, shall we say, cause of all this trouble, yes? The Old Man we’ve all been so interested in.”

“That’s me, pal,” said Lampert. “One hundred and two years old and too damn mean to die. I’d say it’s a pleasure to meetcha, but really, it ain’t that much of a pleasure at all.”

“Mr. Lampert,” interrupted Case, coming over to the desk. “I think we should just get what we came for and go. This man is no longer a threat.”

“And you,” said the Governor, looking up at Justin, “must be the eminent Doctor Kaes. I’ve heard all about you, as well.”

Justin, his face going red, turned on the Governor. “Then you also know,” he said, angry, “what we are trying to do. The gravity of our mission. Its importance, for the very survival of the human race!”

The Governor just nodded. “Of course,” he said, all silky. “That’s what made you and Mr. Lampert here so very valuable. You have to understand, it was nothing of a personal nature. I know nothing at all about you or your associates or Mr. Lampert. To me, you were a valuable commodity, to be taken and sold like any other. And the proceeds of the sale, the ransom, if we must be crude, would have benefited thousands. The citizens of New America would have reaped the benefit, and then you would have been able to go on to California and proceed with your plans. Gentlemen, this is no longer the United States that we once knew, where constraints of law and etiquette are still observed. We must do what we must to survive, here in New America.”

Lampert laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. The big greep, Lumler, now spoke, and it was still like an angry pit dog, only a little more pissed-off, like a pit dog who’s just had his nose laid open in a fight.

“New America,” he growled. “You talk about it like you give a shit about these people, the ones you call citizens, but you don’t. I been from one end of New America to the other. I seen old ladies sittin’ in the dark, eatin’ fried rat, after a twelve-hour day in your goddamn algae plants. I seen good people arrested and tortured by that psycho you put in charge of the police. I seen little kids who never been in a school but know how to wire a Claymore mine. And you call ‘em citizens.”

“Ah, Sergeant Lumler,” said the Governor, looking over at the big man. “The obvious man inside, shall we say? After all, turncoat is a rather harsh term.”

“Fuck you,” said Lumler. “You ain’t in charge of shit no more. Some good men died here, and one of ‘em was my friend. Now, that makes me mad, Governor. Like, real mad, you know? Don’t know what I might do.”

Teresa’s eyes widened as she stared at the thick finger on the trigger of the man’s assault rifle. Ever so slightly, it squeezed.

“Mr. Lumler, stop,” said Justin, intervening. “That won’t solve anything. And besides, we don’t yet have what we need.”

“Yeah, Lumler,” said the Old Man, nodding his chicken neck. “Ya can’t just blow the guy away! I mean, that ain’t cool! And besides, there’s a few things I wanna say to this stuffed shirt bastard, anyhow.”

“Mr. Lampert…” Justin began, but the Old Man waved him away.

“This won’t take long,” said Lampert, eyeballing the Governor. “No, I just wanna ask this dude, just ask him one simple thing: Where the fuck do you get off? Huh? Who made you king hell shit of this junkyard? And who sold you the franchise rights to America? Huh? New America. Ha! From what I heard, this wasn’t nothin’ but a two-bit Nazi con game! Prey on people’s fears, get ‘em to give up their lives for the measly little bit of safety you’d give ‘em. Naw, this ain’t New America, Mister Governor. This is just another gang.”

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong,” said the Governor, still cool but sweating pretty good. Teresa felt Justin fidgeting at her side, anxious to go, but he let the Governor keep talking.

“You see,” the man was saying, “I brought these people things that no one else could, that no one else had the strength to bring them. I gave them electricity and running water. Safety, yes, but also amusements and entertainment. I gave them purpose and direction in a world where, you must admit, these things are sorely lacking. In short, I gave them order. Society.”

“A fucked-up society,” snarled Lumler. “Juice and water, sure, an’ food at the outlets, but they had to work their asses off for it, too, and sometimes they got sick or didn’t make it to the food lines on time. And entertainment? All there ever was to do around here was to get drunk, gamble, or pay a visit to one o’ the whorehouses. No movies or music or art or anything like that, just sleazy shit like booze and hookers and dope. And order? You wanna talk about order? To me? The guy that had to work with that fucking psycho Hanson? Don’t think so.”

“Looks to me,” said the Old Man, smiling in a mean way, “like not all o’ yer citizens were all that contented, pal. Ya see, that’s the whole problem with bein’ a dictator, isn’t it? Sooner or later, everybody hates ya! And ya know what? I’ve seen assholes like you my whole life. Shit, history is full of ‘em. Prob’ly what’s caused most of humanity’s troubles, matter of fact. But even beyond that, even in the business world, in everyday life, there were always assholes like you.”

“Like me?” echoed the Governor. “And what am I like, exactly?’

“You want power,” said the Old Man. “Like any other asshole. Whether it’s through money or sex or political clout or fame or whatever, you wanna control other people. Power, plain and simple, power over others. And for its own sake, far as I can tell! I mean, what is it? Does it make ya feel good, to boss people around? Or is it a feeling that power makes you better or bigger somehow? Apart from the crowd, some kinda VIP? Honestly, I’m curious!”

The Governor smiled again. “Someone has to lead,” he said. “Someone has to take responsibility for the hard decisions. Perhaps, for men like me, it is simply destiny.”

“You actually think that, don’tcha?” said Lampert, shaking his head. “You actually buy your own line of shit. But if there’s one thing we’ve learned, as a race, it’s that anybody who wants power shouldn’t be allowed to have it. It’s like a what-cha-call-it, axiom, you know? A basic truth. And now, what with the Fall, maybe there’s a chance that we can get rid o’ assholes like you. Or at least make sure they don’t get power. Just start from the ground up and keep an eye on people like you like a hawk and get the smartest and wisest people to do the leading, to make the hard decisions.”

He paused for breath and to shake his head. “Aw, hell, I dunno. Maybe assholes like you are like cockroaches and Keith Richards. Maybe it’s just the human condition to get lazy and let assholes take over. All I know is, this New America of yours is done for. I don’t know what these folks are gonna do with ya, but I’d say they got every right to do whatever they want. Hell, remember what happened to Mussolini? That’d be a start.”

Justin now stepped in. “I think that we have wasted enough time with this.” He looked down at the Governor. “You have something we need,” he said, his voice stronger and harder than Teresa had ever heard. “The security chip for the plane, the one in the hanger outside. Please hand it over, at once.”

The Governor seemed to think this over for a minute, but something, probably the look on Justin’s face and his tone of voice, made him finally shrug and nod. He reached for something at waist level in the desk in front of him but Shipman leapt forward and, quick as anything, had his assault rifle up under the Governor’s chin.

“Uh uh,” he said, his voice quiet but sharp and hard. “No tricks there, dude. Now. You jus’ move nice an’ slow, and reach into that drawer and get the chip.”

Moving slowly, the Governor did just that, his hands shaking only a little, and laid a bright green plastic thing, a little computer dingus with some wires running through it, on the desk in front of him.

“Take it,” he said, like he didn’t care. “Take it and go.”

Justin snagged the chip from the desk and, looking like he felt a little more confident, turned away from the Governor and made to leave. They all moved to do the same, even Lumler lowering his gun, when suddenly several things happened, all running together, and Teresa felt like time had slowed down, like in the old vids, all slow-motion and sharp, as she watched.

First there was a click, just a small noise, and they all whirled back to see what it was. The Governor, still seated at his desk, grinned in a very nasty way, like a dead man. Then, before anyone could move, Justin dove forward, putting himself between the desk and Mr. Lampert.

Something puffed out from the front of the desk, some weapon hidden in the big wooden beams and panels. It didn’t make a bang or anything, just a pfft! kind of noise, but whatever it was that came shooting out hit Justin square in the chest and he went down to the thick rug with a grunt.

Then, with everything still in slow motion, about to leap to Justin’s side, she saw the Governor suddenly jolt upright in his chair, like he was very surprised, and his mouth and eyes went wide open and then he flopped, face-down, onto the desk. Suddenly starting up from behind his victim, eyes like glowing coals, was the Kid. He’d stabbed the Governor in the back with a great big knife, right through the back of the fancy chair. Even now, the man was coughing blood and rasping for air.

But Teresa gave him not a single thought. As time snapped back to its normal rate, she gave a cry, threw aside her gun, and dove to Justin. Rolling him over, she saw that there was a dart or something, a nasty big dart with a scary-looking green bulb on one end, stuck deeply in his chest. With a snarl, she ripped it out and threw it aside.

“S’okay, Case,” she said, scared beyond belief, frantic and angry. “You gonna be alright, you gonna be OK!”

But he looked up at her and smiled and something in his eyes said otherwise. Already, he didn’t look so good. Pale and sweaty and he was breathing hard.

“No,” he said, his eyes sad and calm. “Not this time. I’m afraid this time I’ve run out of luck. Whatever that dart was…” he shuddered from head to foot, grimacing in pain. Then it passed some and he looked at her again and smiled. “Goodbye, Teresa,” he said. “Get Mr. Lampert to San Francisco. And always remember that I love you.”

Then he shuddered again, much worse this time, and some white foamy stuff came from his mouth and nose and she screamed and hugged him, crushing him in her arms, but it was no good. With one more shudder, he groaned, took one last breath and then blew it out, and died, right in her arms.

Something inside of her broke, like a taut wire snipped, and she let out a keening wail from deep in her gut that felt like molten metal erupting from her belly. Around her, she could vaguely sense the others, moving around her and saying things, but she clamped her eyes shut and wailed again. Nothing in her life, nothing even of the Fall or her years with the Bloodclaws, had caused pain like this. This was a pain that killed.

For a while, she just sat there and hugged his body and wailed. Nothing else seemed worth doing. Then, like he was far away, she heard the voice of the Old Man. Her wails dwindling to wracking sobs, she tried to listen.

“Teresa?” came the cracked, high voice. “Teresa, I’m sorry… he’s gone.”

Throwing back her head, she let out an animal scream of anger and pain that echoed around the big room like a scared bird. It took every last breath, and she slumped afterward and released her grip on his body some, sobbing and shaking her head.

“No, no, no!” she spat bitterly, the words like bullets. “Not him! Not Case. No.”

“Teresa, dear,” said the Old Man, and his voice kind of reached into her, like a shot of hard stupidwater. “You have to listen to me. For your sake, for his sake, you have to listen, alright?”

Staring at Justin’s rapidly-paling face, she nodded slightly and the Old Man went on.

“These people tell me that there are lots more of these guards, the men in the black uniforms, and they’re on their way. Hear me? If we stay, we’re gonna get caught all over again, or killed, and that won’t do much for his mission, now will it? He’s gone, dear. I’m sorry, but he’s gone. And so is the asshole that did it. But we’re not, OK? We’re still here and we still got his mission. We still have things to do, if we’re gonna do what he wanted. What he most wanted, out of everything. What he gave up everything for.”

Again, she felt the teeniest bit better, like his words were big swigs of numbing stupidwater, but it was in a daze that she slowly released the body and stood up. It must be a dream, she thought. One of those really scary, life-like nightmares. Maybe that was it. In deep shock, not really believing in what she was experiencing anymore, she sniffed and wiped her eyes and looked at the Old Man.

“That’s my girl,” he said, smiling sadly. He looked up at Still and Lumler, who were standing at hand, looking angry and sad and nervous all at once, and gave them his sharpest stare. “You will,” he said, “give this man a decent funeral. At least a proper grave.”

Lumler nodded his big head. “I give you my word,” he said. “We’ll see to him. Him and CJ and Santiago. I promise.”

She was about to let them lead her away, deep inside her daze of pain and rage, but then spun back, stooped down, and kissed him once more. After that, when they led her out, the short trip in the dark to the airplane, then climbing into the thing and lots of noise and rough, strange jostling all passed in a fog. All she knew, all she could feel or know or think of, was that Justin was dead.

Epilogue:

San Francisco, Republic of California, One Year Later

The Hunter stopped at a bakery on the way to Teresa’s house and picked up some of the sweet cakes she liked so much, the yellow ones with cream inside, before heading up the wide, shaggy expanse of Van Ness Avenue. The city of San Francisco spread out before him. Partially burned, partially overrun by vegetation, a shadow of its former self, it was nonetheless a living city. All around him, stirring in the morning fog, were its residents, gearing up for another day, and down on the docks and mammoth, abandoned piers, small ships sounded their horns on the way out to sea. It would still take time and a lot of work, but there was life here, and more of it all the time, as the steady stream of former New Americans swelled its population.

Passing a bicycle shop, already open and bustling, and a coffee shop where at least a dozen people waited in line, chatting and listening to music on the shop’s radio, he kept walking.

He thought about Teresa and hoped that she would like the cakes. Lately she’d been better, not so desperately sad and listless, but there was still a wound, deep in her heart, that would never really heal. Her son helped, the baby boy she’d given birth to six months ago (and named, of course, Justin), and there was also the Kid (now called, in honor, Santiago), who she’d more or less adopted as her own, but sometimes the look he saw in her eyes almost made him, the flintiest bastard around, want to break down and weep like a schoolgirl. Like all the pain in the world was in those beautiful, perfect eyes.

Like the man who made sure he’d gotten there, who’d given everything for the sake of the human race, the Old Man was dead. After he’d donated as much blood as the doctors would let him, after they’d gotten everything they needed to make their vaccine, he’d lived quietly and modestly with Teresa for about three more months, telling stories from old vids, drinking beer, and smoking those nasty old pre-Fall cigarettes, until passing away quietly one night in his sleep. No goodbyes, no big scenes at his deathbed, just quietly slipped away and nothing left but a bag of bones. The spark that had driven the ancient sinews and the razor mind had finally flickered out.

It was, of course, no surprise. After all, Lampert had been 103 by then! But it still was hard on Teresa. Not even moving into her new place, a huge apartment in the North Waterfront district, had really cheered her up that week.

But she had plenty of company and they all tried to make sure that she at least wanted for nothing. There was Barb Cass, the nurse, who baby-sat when Teresa needed a break—when she wasn’t working with the other medical types down in the labs in the Mission. And there was Erin Swails, who had a new job on the radio, managing the only station in town, and who stopped by often with food and toys for the children.

Doug Lumler was also a frequent visitor. Having emigrated to the West Coast after the end of New America, he was now a fisherman, working on the steam-powered trawlers that plied the bay for tuna and salmon for the big markets on the Wharf, rarely speaking of his life in New America. The fate of the settlement itself was obvious. Most of the citizens of NA had quickly abandoned Lawrence, Kansas and, within weeks, had started showing up in Frisco. Men, women, kids, old and young, they all seemed, if a bit wary and skittish at first, to be fitting in alright. A few had not been so easily assimilated; there had been thefts and beatings, but nothing serious. Likely these bad apples would either see the light or hit the road.

Thinking of Lumler, passing a man pushing a cart of water jugs, who greeted him cheerily and moved on, the Hunter grinned a little at the vision of the big man, hovering over the baby and mother, wringing his cap, terrified of knocking things over, and smiling and laughing like a great big old teddy bear. It just made him smile.

Besides these visitors, Teresa and the kids had the Hunter. He didn’t exactly live there, but he might as well. Every day, whether she needed him or not, he made sure she was alright, with plenty of food and good water and the best place to live that he could find. It wasn’t a romantic thing, at least not yet, and it went beyond simple pity, although she certainly deserved pity, but he somehow just liked being around her and the kids. It made him feel like he was part of something, anything, for once in his life, and not just roaming around looking for dirt-bags and claim jumpers. And if maybe, some day in the misty future, Teresa saw fit to think of him in that way, at all? Well, that was almost too much to hope for. And if she never did? That was perfectly fine, too. He was more than willing to devote himself to her happiness either way. He owed her that much.

Turning onto Bay Street, he walked another few blocks as the sun started to burn off the morning fog and the sea began to glitter, out past the sagging remains of the Golden Gate. Like a perfect symbol of the Fall, the once-mighty span now lay half-collapsed in the bay. Huge rusted cables trailed in the water and only nesting birds had any use for it. It had fallen.

But it sounded, from the first reports anyway, like the human race would not suffer the same fate. The doctors and scientists were already testing a new vaccine for the Sick that they said would stop it once and for all. Maybe not plague itself, and not everything else that people died of, either, not disease or old age or violence, but at least now the main threat, the shape-shifting, evil strain they’d all come to call the Sick, would be tamed and humanity would at least have a fighting chance. Oh, humanity might still flicker out, but if it did, now it would be its own fault.

And all thanks to Dr. Justin Kaes. To be fair though, the Hunter reminded himself, there had been plenty of others without whom they would never have succeeded. Teresa, the Reform Council of New America, Santiago and CJ and Stiletto and that whole group. Justin’s colleagues, Dr. Poole and the others who’d died so terribly and needlessly along the way. The Kid, little Santiago Junior, who’d saved them all, not to mention crusty old Mr. Lampert himself. Even Bowler, the poor dumb bastard, had played a part. So many, and so few survivors.

As for his own role, he tried to think that, once he’d come around (regrettably late, of course, but still in time), he’d done all he could to help. He still felt bad about his past, the terrible things he’d done, especially Cornell, but he was working hard to make up for it, in any way he could find, and had no intention of going back. Maybe, with a little luck, he would rack up enough good karma to even the scales, a least a little.

Walking up the path to Teresa’s building, he heard laughter and then a kid’s shriek of pure joy. Probably little Justin. Already, the little boy was a handful; bright, inquisitive, expressive, he was into everything and afraid of nothing. Much like his parents.

Teresa was sitting at the dining room table when the Hunter walked in. Strikingly beautiful as always, she had let her hair grow out and now wore it in a thick pony tail. She’d stopped wearing her banger leathers of late and today was dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a pale gray sweater that offset her dark eyes.

In the distance, down a hallway, he could hear Barb Cass happily chasing the kids, but Teresa was absorbed with something on the table. As he walked up, he saw that it was a lined pad of paper and some pencils and that she was slowly, carefully writing something. She looked up at him and smiled, a pretty decent grin for once, and put down the pencil.

“Jack!” she said. He was still getting used to being called that, but it was getting easier. Teresa looked at the bag in his hands. “That what I think it is?” she asked, arching one brow.

“You know it,” he nodded, handing it over.

Eagerly, she took the bag, opened it, and took a good sniff. Then she sat back down and started wolfing them like there was no tomorrow. Reading and writing and the niceties of etiquette and proper civilization, all things she’d been trying very hard with, all that was fine, but these were her favorite! Happily, he waited and then nodded at the pad and pencil.

“What ya got there?” he asked. “More school work?”

“Nope,” she said between healthy bites, smiling brightly. “I’m gonna write a book! All about the adventures of Dr. Kaes an’ Mr. Lampert an’ how they saved the world. You know, the whole story, like, so everybody’ll remember. So they don’ forget why they still here. So whattaya think? Sound like a good story?”

Jack Shipman smiled and nodded. “I think it sounds like a great story,” he said. “But then, who knows? Maybe it’s not over yet.”

“What you mean?” she asked, cocking her head adorably, a hint of whipped cream on her lower lip. “What ain’t over?”

“Us,” said Shipman. “You, me, Barb and Erin and Doug and the kids, the whole city. Did you know that there’s a story goin’ around of a link-up with Baron Zero? Some plan to get the old phone lines workin’? Guess that’s kinda what I meant. We ain’t done yet, you know? Humanity.”

Teresa nodded, her attention straying back to her writing, and finished off the cakes. Shipman smiled indulgently, glad at her disinterest. Maybe tomorrow or the next day, he’d tell her about the plans for the Dr. Justin Kaes Memorial or how they wanted to rename Haight Street Howard Lampert Boulevard. But there would be time enough for that. For now, he went to look for the Kid; he’d promised to take him to the movies, and Santiago Junior never, ever forgot a promise. And besides, the movie, The Wizard of Oz, was a sort of sentimental favorite.

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Plaguesville, USA

Jim LaVigne

Published by Permuted Press at Smashwords.

Copyright 2011, 2012 Jim LaVigne

www.PermutedPress.com

Content

Jim LaVigne
PLAGUESVILLE, USA

Acknowledgements

Prologue: From Baron Zero’s New History of America

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Epilogue: San Francisco, Republic of California, One Year Later

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