Plaguesville, USA

by Jim LaVigne

“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 voic
e. 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.