Plaguesville, USA

by Jim LaVigne

  Justin grimaced, controlling his temper with some effort, and then turned to the Old Man with what he hoped was a stern expression.

  “One never knows,” he said. “And it would seem to be worth the effort. Unless you would prefer simply waiting around to be eaten, that is.”

  “All the same to me,” said Lampert. Folding his arms across his lap, he sat back into himself and lapsed into a sullen silence.

  With a sigh, Justin went back to the table, sat down, and tried to think. Eyeing his compatriots slumped listlessly on their cots, he contemplated giving some kind of a pep talk, about how they weren’t done yet and how there was always hope, but the inanity of it was so bitter and obvious that the sentiment died before it was even really conceived. No, this was no time for mock optimism. He was still sitting there when the door to their cell suddenly clanged and then swung open.

  “Dr. Kaes,” said a voice from outside, “come with me, please.”

  Blinking in the bright sunlight streaming into the room, Justin hesitated, glancing at his cohorts, young Bowler, and Mr. Lampert for a moment, and then swallowed a hard lump in his throat, rose from the table, and went to the door.

  Outside there stood a man, dressed like all of the others in drab brown and just as unremarkable, holding a pistol, a thick, complicated-looking weapon, the likes of which Justin had never seen, which he waved around by way of emphasis.

  “C’mon, you,” said the man lifelessly. “Let’s go.”

  “May I ask to where?” said Justin meekly.

  “You wanted to talk to Brother David, right?” said the man. “Well, it looks like ya got yer chance. Now c’mon before I get sicka yer worthless ass an’ empty a clip into it.”

  “Uh, yes, OK,” said Justin falteringly. “I’m coming.”

  As before, he was led into the church-like building and the Spartan office and told to wait. He sat down and did so, eyeing the banner on the wall with new-found interest (and not a little revulsion), until, after a few minutes, Brother David came in and took his place at the desk.

  “You wanted to shee me?” asked the terribly warped face atop the brown-clad, rotund body. The man really was grotesque. Justin might have even felt some sympathy for him if he hadn’t been a crazed cannibal.

  “Uh, yes, I did,” said Justin, crossing his legs. “I have something very important to discuss.”

  “Shuch as?”

  “Well, it’s a bit complicated,” began Justin, “but the fact of the matter is that I represent the US Center for Disease Control and Prevention in New Atlanta. And we—my colleagues and I and the old man, Mr. Lampert, that is—are on a sort of mission, a very important one, which is currently, shall we say, a bit derailed, as you can see.”

  If David could still manage facial expressions, he didn’t bother with one now. Instead he sat and listened to Justin’s little speech like a chunk of wood and, when Justin had lamely sputtered out, continued to do so. A long, uncomfortable moment passed before the man finally spoke up.

  “There ish only one misshion,” he said juicily. “And that ish the Lord’sh. There ish only one important thing, and that ish almighty God. Do you undershtand, brother?”

  “Well, frankly, no,” said Justin honestly. “You see, our mission is not of a religious nature. It’s more of a medical emergency. What we hope to do is to use—”

  David cut him off with a violent shake of the head.

  “You musht forget all of that,” he said, sternly yet mushily. “You are with ush now. There ish no other world for you. In a few daysh, after you have contemplated, you will be given the opportunity to join the Church. If you choosh to join, you will live here the resht of your daysh, in peash and harmony. And if you choosh not to join, well, then alsho you will abide here the resht of your daysh. Sho, ash you can shee, there ish no more for ush to shpeak of.”

  “But I beg to differ, sir,” said Justin, trying to sound authoritative and docterly. “If you would simply hear me out, I’m sure—”

  “No more talk,” said David, rising from his chair. “You musht go now. Contemplate what I have shaid. Shoon, your time will come.”

  And with that, leaving Justin to stammer and blink, he walked out. In a moment, the guard, undoubtedly Brother Someone, came and prodded him from the office, across the compound, and back into the darkness of the cell. He’d been gone all of ten minutes. Wanly, he looked over at his cellmates, who all looked questioningly back at him. Disgustedly, he walked over and sat down again at the table.

  “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Bowler, Brother David is not a sane man.”

  “Toldya,” said the young man. “There’s just, like, no reasoning with these dudes.”

  The rest of that day was a long, dull and yet incredibly worrisome time for Justin, as he sat and brooded, wondering if he and the others would be alive at this time tomorrow. Finally, bored and restless, despite all his worries, he decided that even chatting with Mr. Lampert was better than just sitting there fretting and went over to where the Old Man had laid himself out on one of the cots. Lampert’s eyes were shut as he approached, but now slid open and the familiar piercing blue orbs stared up.

  “Whassup, Doc?” said Lampert. “Somethin’ goin’ on?”

  “No, nothing important,” Justin said. “I was just kind of… worried out, I guess you might say. Or, to put it another way, I’m just plain bored.”

  “Yeah,” said he Old Man, bracing his bony arms behind his head, “this hotel’s not too big on the amenities, is it? Shit, no pool, no cable TV, nothin’.”

  Justin smiled. “Yes, it is somewhat primitive,” he said. “And the staff leave a lot to be desired.”

  “Ha!” Lampert barked. “Is that a joke, Doc? For real? Not too bad for a first try, I guess! Well, don’t quit yer day job just yet.”

  “I won’t,” said Justin. “But, in our present situation, I’m afraid that it doesn’t matter very much whether I’m a doctor, a lawyer, or a stand-up comedian. All would be equally useless.”

  “Yeah,” said Lampert. “And that is kinda weird, now you mention it.”

  “What is?”

  “Oh, just that these brown guys aren’t interested in the fact that you’re doctors and nurses. Seems to me, you’d be in demand! After all, how many survies runnin’ around out there are MDs? Can’t be too fuckin’ many.”

  “Well, that’s undoubtedly true,” Justin said. “But, for whatever reason, this Brother David seems unimpressed, to say the least. Maybe they have their own medical staff, or maybe they simply don’t believe in medicine. There were several pre-Fall religious groups who forbid all medical treatment as sinful and a desecration of the human body.”

  “Uh huh,” said the Old Man. “They had Christian Science, they had the whole Dianetics, L. Ron Hubbard gig. I’m pretty sure Rastafarians, too. But from the look of these weirdos, I’d say they’re probably just into some kinda wild-ass Evangelical thing. Latter-Day Saints, some kinda twisted Mormons, maybe. Sure as shit ain’t Rastas! The point is, they obviously don’t need doctors.”

  “No,” said Justin, “and, to tell the truth, that comes as something of a relief.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Lampert, opening one eye to peer at Justin. “Why’s that, Doc?”

  Justin shuddered. “Because,” he said, “the mere idea of working with these people makes my skin crawl. Ugh.”

  “Yeah,” said the Old Man. “They are a repugnant bunch, aren’t they?”

  “Indeed,” said Justin. “Repugnant is just the word.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.

  Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

  All the king’s horses and all the king’s men

  Couldn’t put Humpty together again!

  —nursery rhyme, traditional

  Thanks to an amazing survival instinct, the Kid woke up just moments before the Rippers came at him. Another minute and he’d have been torn to bloody shreds. He’d been curled up in his cave, a bright moon hi
gh in the starry sky and the cool air of the night caressing his face, when some part of his mind, never really asleep, jolted him to consciousness and he scrambled to knees, looking around for the source of danger. Quickly enough, he picked out three stealthy shapes moving silently toward him along the stream bank, heads low on the scent and eyes aglow in the wan moonlight. They were Rippers alright; he could see their shaggy tails and their sharp white teeth. They were on his trail, too, from the looks of them. Any second now, they’d pick up his smell and then…

  Reflexively, he grabbed his best weapon, an old tire iron, and scrambled free of his home. Better to be out in the open, even if it meant that they could get at him, than to be trapped in the cave. He crouched low and, as silently as the Rippers themselves, crept off into the undergrowth, where he knew of a good tree that even Rippers couldn’t climb.

  Or such was his plan. But when he got to where he thought the tree was, there was no such thing, just skinny saplings and weeds. A thrill of fear running up his back, the Kid cast about, but the light was dim and the place was unfamiliar. For a long moment he hesitated, unsure of what to do. Normally his instincts were dead on and generally led him directly to safety when things like Rippers came prowling in the night, but somehow this time they’d failed and now he’d have to improvise.

  He was about to backtrack, to regain the relative safety of the cave, but when he turned slowly to move, he saw that it was too late; the Rippers were right there, trotting swiftly toward him, tongues lolling wetly, ears flat, and eyes narrowing into fighting slits. Sharp adrenaline flooded his system as they leapt to the attack and he almost dropped the tire iron and ran, but, knowing that it was now kill or be killed, he stood his ground and met their charge.

  He impaled the first one on the pointed, sharpened end of the tire iron and, howling weakly and coughing blood, it fell limply to the dirt with two feet of metal embedded in its chest. Unfortunately, the tire iron went with it, lodged in bone, and suddenly he was unarmed as the other two Rippers came on. They were less aggressive, of course, having seen their leader so suddenly dispatched, but they didn’t run away, either. At the very least, they wanted the dead one’s corpse.

  His eyes never leaving the two circling Rippers, he reached down and jerked at the tire iron, but it was no use; he’d have to brace it with his feet to get it out. He risked a glance at the ground nearby and, spying a good-sized rock, darted down and picked it up.

  Feeling a little better for the weapon, crude as it was, he snarled at the Rippers and gave a guttural hiss. “Go away!” he thought. “Leave me alone or I’ll smack you with this rock!” But, utterly devoid of even the basics of language, all that came from his mouth was a series of high grunts and snarls.

  The Rippers understood him well enough, though; warily, their haunches up, they backed away to a safer distance, some ten or fifteen feet into the weeds and small trees. Winding up hard, he threw the rock at one of them and then grinned savagely when he was rewarded with a sharp yelp of pain. Quickly, he launched five or six more rocks in the same general direction, but there were no more yelps and he waited for a moment before hearing them slink off into the bushes. Before too long, they’d blended into the darkness and were gone.

  Breathing hard, the Kid sat down on the ground next to the dead Ripper and caught his breath. It hadn’t been that much of a fight—not like taking on a Howler or a Screamer, or even a pack of Biters, but it was still more than a little unnerving to wake up in the middle of the night with three predators coming for you. But then he shrugged; why worry about it? He’d won, the Rippers were gone, he’d suddenly acquired some more food, and that was that. At least for now, for this time.

  After a long look up at the mysterious stars and the friendly horn of the moon, he slung the dead Ripper over one shoulder, staggering a little at first under a weight almost the same as his own, and, staying alert to anything that might have smelled the blood, scuttled back to his cave to butcher his victim.

  Chapter Thirteen

  United Motors announces the new technological breakthrough in driving, Magna-Track! With this amazing new system, you no longer need to worry about Random Strip Failures and Line Breakages! Now your autocar will find the Strip, follow it, and deliver you safe and sound, with none of those annoying stall-outs or all that tiresome manual steering. Magna-Track! Now standard on all models from United, including the new Goliath Sport!

  —TV autocar ad, circa 2050

  Justin came to in almost total darkness with someone’s hand clamped over his mouth. Reacting completely on animal instinct, he flailed crazily, trying to shake whoever it was, but it was no use; his assailant was too wiry and strong to beat and, weakened as he was, he was forced to give up. Then something came to him—a scent, like a mix of flowers and leather—and, confused but suddenly hopeful, he relaxed.

  “Teresa?” he tried to say, but only a muffled grunt escaped his lips. Then the hand was removed and a hiss came from the person on top of him and he realized that, against all odds, it was in fact his erstwhile captor.

  “It is you!” he whispered. “But how did you get in? What are you doing here?”

  “I stealin’ you back!” came the young woman’s urgent whisper. “Now c’mon. We gotta get outta here, right zip.”

  His cellmates had by this time noticed the commotion and now rose up in the dark from their cots like phantoms.

  “What’s going on?” demanded Nurse Cass. “Who is that?”

  “Yaah! They’ve come for us!” squealed Greg, backing off of his cot.

  “Shut the fuck up!” hissed Teresa, waving her shotgun their way. “Ya hear? Just stay real, real quiet, hey? Or dooya want them cannibo dudes to hear ya?”

  “Yes, please,” whispered Justin urgently. “Keep your voices down! This is Teresa, the one I told you about. She’s, well, she’s apparently here to rescue us!”

  The others quieted down some, but were far too excited by this sudden good news to be silent. Teresa, though, wheeled on Justin.

  “Not them,” she said stonily. “Just you, Case. Now get goin’!”

  “What?” Justin stammered. “You… you won’t help these people?”

  “That’s right brain boy,” said Teresa harshly. “They no good to me. Only slow us down. Now quit yappin’ an’ go. Out that window.”

  He considered for a moment, but it was never really something upon which he had to decide. Squaring his shoulders, he tried to look Teresa in the eye (not an easy thing in nearly complete darkness) and, keenly aware of the ramifications, said:

  “No. I won’t leave without the others. You’ll just have to shoot me.”

  There was a sort of shocked pause as no one said anything for a moment, and then Teresa erupted in a torrent of curses and ranting.

  “Aw, god shit damn it all to hell!” she hissed. “I shoulda knowed you’d do some doopy-ass shit like this! I go to all this here trouble, bustin’ ya out, and you don’ even wanna go! Is you zaned or somethin’? I mean, damn! These fuckers are gonna eatcha! Dontcha know that? They gonna skin ya like a hopper and cook ya for dinner!”

  “I know that,” nodded Justin, swallowing hard. “But I will not leave without Mr. Lampert and the others. It’s as simple as that.”

  Seeming to think this over, Teresa turned and took a few angry paces, muttering to herself. Then, out of nowhere, a whole world of noise and light and sudden violence erupted and time seemed to slow to a crawl.

  First, the overhead lights, a couple of old but very bright fluorescents, snapped on, nearly blinding him. Then their cell door whipped open, revealing a stocky, brown-clad figure wielding a shotgun.

  “What the fuck’s goin’ on in—” roared the man, but before he could finish his sentence, there was a tremendously loud boom from just behind him and the air filled with acrid smoke as Teresa fired a blast that, in less than a blink of an eye, tore open a great bloody chunk of the man’s chest. Ka-Boom! Like a rag doll, spraying bodily fluids, the man lifelessly slumped forwar
d to the floor.

  Next, there was a lot of noise, people screaming and whatnot, and some hoarse yelling from outside the building. To Justin, it all sounded like he was wearing earmuffs and he vainly shook his head to try to clear the ringing in his ears from the gunshot and the stinging smell of cordite from his nose.

  Then he was moving, shoved along by Teresa, to the other side of the cell, where he saw that one of the small windows was breached; the stout bars had been bent to the sides like they were licorice whips. To his surprise, he saw that he was the next to last to leave; only he, Greg, and Teresa remained.

  “Where are the others?” he asked, bewildered.

  “A’ready gone!” barked Teresa. “Now go! Out the damn window!”

  He went, clambering up and through the aperture. Outside, clustered fearfully around Mr. Lampert, were Erin Swails and Cass. Of Bowler there was no sign. Frantically, Justin turned back to the window, as from within, out of view, there came the loud reports of more shotgun blasts, overlapping and combining into a sort of booming roar. A wisp of smoke came from the window. And then Teresa, bounding like a champion gymnast, came flying out, rolled once on her back, and landed on her feet.

  “Move!” she commanded, pointing toward the perimeter fence. “Go now!”

  “What about Greg?” Justin demanded.

  “Gone!” she spat back. “Dead as shit! An’ if ya don’ wanna be dead too, we got to go!”

  From within the compound, Justin could hear all sorts of commotion—men yelling, a siren, a couple of gunshots. Naturally, he was torn; he owed it to Greg to see what had become of him, but he also owed it to the greater world to get Mr. Lampert out of this place. Unfortunately, he had no time to think it over. Already, Teresa and the others were moving off into the darkness. With a final, rueful shake of his head, he ran after them.

  What followed was a painful, nightmare flight over rough terrain that seemed to go on and on, for hours at least, if not for days. At least it gave Justin no time to think about what had happened to poor Greg.