Plaguesville, USA

by Jim LaVigne

  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 do
n’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.”