by Jim LaVigne
“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, af
ter 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
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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.”