by Jim LaVigne
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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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?”