by John L. Monk
Greg sighed. This was Lisa’s doing, letting slip that they’d never been to public school. Since then, Olivia—lovely maiden of the green hair—had treated him differently. She used to smile sometimes and say, hey, what’s up? Now all she said was, hey. No smiles, no question mark at the end.
“Okay, fine,” Greg said, and took up the mic. “But if I suck at it, you’re taking over.”
“Deal,” Steve said and tuned to channel 19.
Nothing but static.
“Testing one, two, three,” Greg said and released the switch. More static. He squeezed it again. “One, two, three were the first numbers I ever learned. My grandpa—rest his wrinkly soul—told me they used to teach numbers like that when he was a kid, but now the numbers are all equal. That way, they don’t get their feelings hurt. Before the Sickness, they were basically down to one number per school, and that was it. If you wanted a number two, you had to shut the door and turn on the fan.”
He cut the mic and laughed out loud at his own joke.
Steve looked at him like he’d grown tentacles out of his head. “What the hell was that?”
Greg shrugged. “Gotta say something, right? If you can do better, give it a try.”
Steve raised his hands in defeat and backed off.
It was still too early for primetime, so Greg left the radio on, curled up in his sleeping bag, and tried to get some sleep. Not so easy, because it was freezing, and they couldn’t start a fire for fear of giving away their position. Also, there was a dead body somewhere in the house. Not fresh—old and sour, and a little musty. Nasty things to look at, dead bodies, so they didn’t go exploring.
Maybe two hours later, Greg woke suddenly with a start. He’d heard talking.
“Beats me,” someone said on the radio. “Did everyone get one?”
“I got one,” another voice said.
“Me too,” said yet another. “Hello? Someone out there? Hello?”
The radio went silent. Greg looked over at Steve, who stared back in terror.
Stage fright, Greg thought smugly.
“All right,” he said, “time to whip out the ol’ guitar.” He picked up a guitar they’d scavenged at some point, and which he fully intended to master one day. Olivia seemed like the type of girl who liked a guitar-playing man. “You hold the mic open while I let ’er rip. Okay?”
“Sure,” Steve said, grabbing a chair.
Greg placed the strap over his neck and nodded for Steve to click the trigger.
“Hello, Front Royal!” he said, strumming the guitar theatrically, smiling at how awful it sounded. “As you can see, I can’t really play this here gee-tar. But I’m gonna try anyway, because that’s what the ladies like—a gee-tar-playin’ man. Ah, the ladies … Speaking of ladies, you know who used to be a lady but isn’t anymore? Carter’s mom!”
He strummed the guitar loudly for effect, like a rimshot off a snare drum.
“If there’s one good thing about the Sickness,” he said, “it rid the world of that horrible, ugly woman. Oh come now, you say. Don’t speak ill of the dead! Normally, I’d never do that. But seriously, folks, is Carter’s mom really dead, or is she just a few degrees cooler and a little bit prettier? I suppose you’d have to ask her ugly husband, Mr. Ugly. He married her, or so the court records say. On the way in, I had a look at those court records. Turns out Front Royal was the first town in the nation to legalize necrophilia!” He strummed the guitar again. “Now the bastard’s parents can actually get married. Carter won’t be a bastard anymore!”
Steve released the button, his face white as a sheet, and said, “What the hell are you doing? Carter’s gonna kill us!”
From out of the little speaker, a voice said, “Um … whoever you are, you shouldn’t be saying stuff like that. He gets real mad if anyone, uh … says stuff like that. Just saying.”
Another voice broke in, deliberately high-pitched to disguise his voice: “I think it’s funny as shit! Let her rip, kid!”
Greg smiled, pointed at the mic, and nodded. He strummed the guitar again.
“Before I tell you all of the various animals, minerals, and vegetables Carter’s mom used to have sex with on a daily basis,” he said in a deadly serious tone, “here’s a few words from our sponsor, Jack Ferris, brilliant and fearless leader of the Rippers!”
He strummed the guitar for ten seconds, really getting into it.
“Jack Ferris is a great man, even though he’s a teenager. He feeds his people the best food—even the little kids, who he bravely saved from murderers and wild animals. He taught us gun safety, and brought us books to read so we wouldn’t grow up stupid like Carter’s parents. Incidentally, Carter’s parents are so stupid, when the Sickness came, they shot themselves in the head and lived. No brains. Get it?”
Greg strummed the guitar again.
“But back to Jack. Jack wanted me to tell you all about an amazing opportunity. You can join us at the farm after we kill Carter. Just stay out of the upcoming fight and you’ll be fine. We plan to start school again for those who want to learn. All the adults are dead, and the world is messed up now, but Jack figures we can bring it back if we don’t sit around being stupid like Carter’s mom and dad. Jack wants us to raise cattle, not shoot them and eat their legs and leave the rest to rot. That’s just wasteful. He wants to raise crops so we don’t have to eat corn grain all winter. He wants to bring back electricity, clean water, and yes, even the Internet! All these things and more. If our parents could do it, why can’t we? We’re human, and humans are smart. Especially Jack.”
Greg strummed his guitar a final time and nodded at Steve, who released the mic.
Carter’s voice carried through the little speaker: “… kill you, you son of a bitch! We’re gonna find you and then you’re dead! Everyone get off this channel now! Anyone who listens to it is out of the gang!”
There was about half a minute of dead air. Then the concealed, high-pitched voice from before said, “Hey kid—tell us again how dumb Carter’s mom is!”
Steve held the microphone like it was a bomb, his eyes very round.
Greg laughed. “Don’t worry. He’s running off less amperage than us. That’s what the two batteries are for. We can drown him out easily. Go on, hit the button again. Let’s do this.”
For the rest of the day, Greg described the various members of Carter’s colorful family. The Dragsters of Front Royal learned a great deal about Carter’s dog-slash-half-sister Barky, the barking girl. They also learned about his half-brother, Poop Boy—half poop, half boy, and all charm. It turned out that Carter had about thirty different half-sisters and half-brothers, each of them with their own unique stories.
Sometime in the afternoon, Greg’s voice started to get tired, and he signaled to cut the mic.
Steve shook his head in wonder. “Man, you got some lungs. You said you get stage fright!”
“I thought I did too,” Greg said wonderingly. “I think it helps that nobody can see me but you. Cool, huh?”
“Yeah,” he said. “But hey, I’m kind of hungry.”
“Me too, and my voice is getting scratchy. Go on and hit it one more time.”
Steve nodded.
“Okay, Front Royal,” Greg said. “Time for me to shut this puppy down and eat some of that tasty Ripper food I told you about. Unless Jack shows up to kill Carter tonight, we’ll be back tomorrow at nine for more fun!”
He strummed the guitar again loud and long, and that was the end of their first day spreading propaganda in that small, dead town.
The next day, the Dragsters of Front Royal learned that Carter didn’t just have a bunch of half-brothers and half-sisters. He also had half-uncles.
Sammy Sewage (half-uncle, half steaming pile of sewage) was captured by a group of well-meaning government scientists who’d heard how ugly Carter’s mom was. They’d wanted to see if they could weaponize the family’s ugly-DNA for use against good-looking terrorists.
Two hours and about twenty hal
f-cousins, half-uncles, and half-grandmothers later, Greg was still going with no sign of letting up. He only stopped when Steve made distressed motions and closed the mic.
“I’m all cramped up,” Steve said, flexing his fingers and rubbing his hand. “I keep switching back and forth, but I need a break.”
Greg thought quickly. “I have an idea: tape the button down.”
“Yeah,” Steve said, nodding. “That’s a good idea.”
Then he remembered the tape was in the car.
“Be right back.”
Steve slipped through the back door and around to the front. He peeked past the gate and saw nobody driving and no one on foot. Both very good signs. Quickly, he ran to the car, opened it, and searched frantically for the tape they’d used to post notices the day before.
He still couldn’t believe that guy, Greg. He’d always seemed so nice. Chipper, upbeat, but overall, normal. Not brilliant and tough like his sister, and not cool and decisive like Jack. According to Molly, Olivia thought Greg was an annoying weirdo who wouldn’t stop saying hi to her at every opportunity. Steve sort of wished the green-haired girl could listen to the show—that’d change her opinion. The dude was a genius.
If anyone told him Greg could rip insults out of thin air for hours and hours, he wouldn’t have believed them. Back before the Sickness, people made millions of dollars on the Internet doing stuff like that.
He shook his head sadly. A miracle and a curse all mixed together, plain and simple.
Steve found the tape wedged under the passenger’s seat. When he got out of the car, a little boy was standing at the end of the driveway looking at him. About seven years old, and not terribly skinny. Steve recognized him. The kid’s older brother was in the gang.
“Go on, you little shit,” Steve said. “Scram!”
The little boy ran off, and Steve went back inside.
“Okay, folks, where were we?” Greg said after taping the trigger down. “Oh yeah, I remember: Carter’s mom, and whether or not she’s an alien from the planet Puke-Theta-Z. Word has it she was the one that caused the Sickness when her face mutated the common cold virus in its tracks, causing it to run fleeing across the planet to get away … But before we go there—and we will go there, I promise you—allow me to tell you a little more about our fearless leader Jack Ferris. Golden haired, wise of brow, tall of stature, and possessed of the Wisdom of Solomon. And unlike Carter, he’s never had sex with his own mom. You remember Carter’s mom, right? She’s the alien from Puke-Theta-Z, who, as I just mentioned, caused the Sickness with her incredibly ugly face.”
And so it went for the next few hours. Then the door burst open and Carter rushed in with a bunch of his friends, all of them armed and surprisingly angry.
As bad as that was, Greg was even more surprised at who was with them: Miguel and his brother, Paul.
33
They dragged Lisa through the living room, into the kitchen, and dropped her in a heap in front of the pantry. Someone had nailed boards over the door, which they quickly removed with a claw hammer. The door opened and she caught a glimpse of Greg with his shirt off and Steve, lying on the sacks of grain he’d brought the day he and Molly joined.
“Greg!” she shouted, and was thrust inside. The door slammed, followed by the sound of the boards being hammered back in place.
“Sis?” Greg said.
“Miguel said you got shot. Is it true?”
“Yeah. In the leg. It hurts. All because of that traitor. You know what? I never liked that guy. Now I know why. He used the special beep to sneak Carter and his friends in.”
“Worry about that later,” she said. “Tell me about your leg. Is it bleeding?”
Greg grunted and took a panting breath as he shifted around. “Not too much. I guess I’m lucky. I wrapped it in my shirt. The bullet’s stuck deep, though. Hurts like a million bee stings. I need some of those pills Jack took after … Hey, wait a minute, I heard gunshots outside. Was that you?”
“Yeah,” she said bleakly.
“You okay, sis?”
“I’m pretty pissed off right now.”
Greg snorted. “Who said you were pretty?”
She was glad it was dark so he couldn’t see her smile. The fear in her heart when Miguel said he’d been shot was the worst she’d ever felt in her life. But here sat Greg, alive enough to make jokes.
Lisa reached up and felt her head. Her fingers came away sticky from a cut over her eye.
“Steve?” she said tentatively. She hadn’t seen his face, but recognized his jacket.
“I don’t think he’s awake,” Greg said. “He got beat up, but at least nobody shot him. Not yet.”
“Well, that’s some good news,” she said. “Where are the children?”
“Carter stuck them in Jack’s cabin.” He swore. “He doesn’t like little kids. He kicked one in front of me and laughed about it. Then Brad started yelling at him and he backed down.”
That didn’t make any sense. “Why does he care what Brad thinks? We’re the enemy. Right?”
“Not totally. He wants to recruit them. That’s why I’m still alive—to get to you. He wants you to join the Dragsters. Or did before you, um … whatever it was you did outside.”
That was nuts. She’s never join up with him. Not in a million years. She didn’t think anyone else would, either. And when Carter realized that …
“If the children are in Jack’s cabin,” she said, “where are Brad and the others?”
“No idea—I’ve been in here the whole time, except when the bastard murdered Trisha and beat up Steve. God, my leg hurts.”
“What?” she said.
Greg didn’t reply immediately. “Carter made us all watch it. He put Steve in a circle, called him a traitor, and took turns punching him. Trisha …” There was a pause. “The son of a bitch called her a slut and shot her in the head. Right there. Said it was for running off with Jack.”
She didn’t know what to say. She wanted to cry, but if she did she worried she might not stop.
Poor Trisha.
They’d saved her from Carter, thinking they were doing the right thing, and now she was dead. Lisa hadn’t gotten to know the girl, but she’d looked forward to long, snowy evenings around the fire after all the supplies were in and everyone was home and safe.
“Steve?” she said. “You okay?” She waited a few seconds. “How bad is he?”
Deeper in the gloom, about five feet away, Steve issued a low moan.
A second later, she realized something and felt a stab of fear. “Greg, what about Molly?”
“She’s fine,” he said. “Brad said if Carter killed her, may as well kill him, too. Everyone else said the same thing. Even some of the Dragsters. Carter wouldn’t dare. Honestly, sis, I don’t know anything else. If it’s okay, I think I’m just gonna pass out for a while.”
Lisa left him alone and settled back against the wall, struggling to find a position that didn’t hurt too much. At first she tried to sleep, hoping it would take the pain with it, but occasional snatches of conversation outside dragged her back. Anything she learned could be of use. She could rest later.
An hour or so later, thumping sounds carried from the door as the nails were pried loose. The door creaked opened and the light turned on, blinding in its intensity after so long in the dark.
“Hah, you’re not dead,” Carter said. He looked directly at Lisa’s cut and battered face for several seconds, as if taking her measure. “Count yourself lucky I don’t shoot you too, after what you did to my men.”
Steve groaned.
“And you can just shut up right now, Steve,” he said hotly. “Only reason you’re alive is because I’m killing you tomorrow—outside, when it’s light. Maybe you too, funny guy. Kind of depends on your sister here. The spic says she’s Jack’s girlfriend. That right?”
“Let me help my brother. I need medical supplies.”
“Shut up until I say you can talk.” He looked from her to
Greg. “Well, funny guy? Is she Jack’s or what?”
Lisa’s eyes had just about adjusted to the light. Greg’s leg was wrapped in his shirt like he’d said, and there was dried blood around his nose and mouth. Steve had shifted at some point. His face was a mess of bruises, and both eyes had closed up.
“She’s not anybody’s,” Greg said with some heat. “People don’t belong to other people, you—”
“Yes!” Lisa said, drowning him out. “Jack’s my boyfriend. Now what?”
Carter snorted. “I knew it. Consider yourself mine now. Do what I say and your brother lives. Come on, get up.”
Lisa lay there uncomprehending. His? His what?
“I said get up!”
Carter reached down, grabbed her by the hair, and jerked her painfully to her feet. Greg struggled forward and got kicked in his bad leg, bringing forth a howl of pain.
“See this?” Carter said, brandishing a pistol and pressing it to Lisa’s head. “Try it again, funny guy, and I’ll shoot her.”
Greg didn’t do anything after that.
Carter pulled her roughly into the kitchen. A boy of about twelve or thirteen stood leaning against the countertop holding the hammer.
“Close it back up,” Carter said.
“I’m starving,” he said. “When can I eat?”
“When you close it back up. Now do it!”
The boy shook his head and grabbed a plank off the floor with nails sticking out of it.
Carter shoved Lisa into the living room with all the mattresses. The lights were on in there, too. Miguel must have shown him the generator out back. About ten teenagers, mostly boys, were lounging around on the mattresses, staring at her.
No, not just staring—glaring. All except one.
“Hi, Lisa,” Miguel said in a high, light voice. He sprang off the closest mattress and approached with an anxious expression. “If you think about it, I had no choice. Jack’s crazy—you know that. He can’t lead us. All those little kids?” He shook his head. “And look what happened to Pete. You need a big group, like the Dragsters. These guys are cool, you’ll see.”