by Jim LaVigne
“Now, Teresa,” said Justin calmly. “Let’s not be too hasty about this. Maybe young Mr. Bowler here could be of some help.”
“Hey, yeah!” said Bowler avidly. “I can help out all you want, man! I mean, I ain’t a doctor or nothin’, but I’ll do anything you say! For instance, I seen you carryin’ that old man all over—I could do that! Or I can trap rabbits! I’m good at that. Or anything else! Just say the word!”
“Now, see there?” Justin said to Teresa. “You have to admit, another person to do the lifting would help out.”
Teresa only scowled and, her gun still leveled at Bowler’s chest, mumbled something under her breath. From behind them now came the sounds of Cass and Swails, aroused by the commotion and coming to investigate. They came rushing up, questions on their faces, but Justin waved them to silence and turned back to Teresa.
“What do you say?” he asked. “Personally, I would let him come along, but this is your show, so to speak. So what do you think?”
Sheathing her shotgun with a quick, savage motion, she glared at Justin for a long moment before finally throwing up her hands in the universal sign for exasperation.
“Hey, why the fuck not?” she said acidly. “First I got some old frack and two whitecoat bitches trailin’ me aroun’. Now I got this doopy greep, too? Well why not, heh? Let’s start a whole gang while we at it! A whole gang o’ old greeps an’ whitecoats an’ whoever else wants to go. Maybe some cripples or little kids or somethin’. Why not? But listen to this, Doc. An’ hear good, yeh? These others gonna hafta find they own food, got me? I ain’t gonna go H and G for them, no way, no how. Track me? They on they own.”
“H and G?” said Justin, ignoring the outraged muttering from Cass and Swails. “What’s that?”
“Huntin’ and gatherin’,” said Teresa. “Food run. Whatever you wanna call it, I ain’t gonna do for no four extra peoples. Gonna be hard enough for jus’ us two.”
“I understand,” said Justin. “But I’m sure we’ll manage somehow. After all, we certainly have a lot of candy canes; we can take a good supply of those and, if worst comes to worst, we’ll just have to survive on them.”
Teresa made a face. “Ain’t so sure I like them things no more. Jus’ thinkin’ about ‘em make me feel kinda blurpy.”
“Yes, well,” said Justin, smiling slightly, “I did warn you about eating too many. But is that your final word? Bowler can come along?”
“Like I said,” she growled. “Why not, hey? Same as for all these peeps. Long as they can keep up an’ get they own food an’ water. Anyhow, things gonna change, once we get to Zero’s.”
“Yes, well,” said Justin, “let’s just focus on getting there, shall we?”
Teresa just shrugged and walked away. Bowler, watching her go, came up to Justin and offered his right hand.
“Thanks, Doc,” he said. “I thought for a second she was gonna blast me!”
Justin shook hands and nodded. “Yes,” he said wryly. “She is a very volatile young woman, but she does seem to know her way around.”
“Yeah,” Bowler agreed, nodding, “but, uh, how’s about those candy canes?”
Justin smiled and waved. “Right this way.”
It was that same day, towards afternoon, when Justin came across a conversation between Teresa and the Old Man. They’d spent the day sleeping—in shifts, for safety’s sake—eating candy canes, and generally recovering their strength. All in all, a quiet and welcome period of rest. Justin was dozing, thinking of not much of anything, when he heard the sounds of quiet conversation and, curious, went to see who was doing the talking. As before, he found Lampert sitting in an old office chair with Teresa at his feet. She was holding up a ragged old poster for Lampert to read. Moving slowly and silently, Justin took up an inconspicuous position from which to eavesdrop.
“What this say?” asked Teresa, pointing at the poster, which was angled so that Justin couldn’t see it.
Lampert looked at the poster and then shrugged. “That’s Santa Claus,” he said. “And the words under that say “he sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake.” That’s part of an old song, what they used to call a Christmas Carol.”
Teresa lowered her head, seeming to think, before looking back up.
“Then he God, hey?” she said. “Fat dude inna red suit with white fur. That God. Ain’t that right?”
“Who, Santa Claus?” said Lampert jovially. “Oh no, you’ve got that mixed up. Not that it’s any great leap from one to the other, I suppose, but no. See they used to have something called Christmas, the 25th of December, that was this big holiday. And this guy, Santa, was sorta the spokesman for it.”
“Tell me ‘bout Krismis,” said Teresa. “And what a holiday?”
“Whew, you sure ask a lotta questions,” the Old Man grumbled. “Aw, but that’s OK, kid, I got nothin’ but time, anyway. Well, let’s see. Where to start? Well, a holiday was a day of the year, one specific day, see, when they celebrated something. Or remembered something. Like there was the 4th of July, where they marked the founding of America, and there was Valentine’s Day, 14th of February, to celebrate like, love and romance and such. But there were all kinds of days like that and what they generally meant to the average person was a day off from work. Maybe a present or some flowers. Now Christmas, that one was kinda different. Originally it was a day to mark the longest night of the year, what they called the solstice, and that went back to, oh Jeez, prob’ly the ancient Romans.”
“Who that? Romans?”
“Eh, that’s another story,” said Lampert. “Let’s just say they were a lot of people who lived a long, long time ago.”
“Like re-publicans?” said Teresa. “I hearda them once.”
“Who? Republicans?” laughed the Old Man wheezily. “Well, yeah, I guess they’re kinda the same. Just as extinct. But the Romans are much older. Like a couple thousand years ago. Real old.”
Teresa only shook her head in bewilderment.
“Like I said, it ain’t important right now,” said Lampert. “The thing is, Christmas was a real old holiday, but then, once Christians got control over everybody, it got turned into the birthday of Jesus. Now, have you heard of Jesus?”
“Sure,” shrugged Teresa. “Hippie dude, right? Got nailed up ona cross?”
“That’s the guy,” said Lampert, nodding. “Course, they didn’t really know for sure what day Jesus was born, since it happened so long ago, but the day itself, the guy’s birthday, now that was a big deal, naturally, and so they kinda just moved in on the date and took it over. But the thing was, this other guy, this Santa Claus guy, like on your poster there, he was a sort of holdover from the earlier traditions, from the old holiday. Understand?”
Teresa nodded. “Kinda like when ya use another crew’s colors once ya wiped ‘em out.”
Lampert’s brow arched. “Yeah? Well, I’ll take yer word for it. Anyhow, Christmas involved presents, see? People gave each other gifts, things they wanted, right? And this here Santa Claus, he was supposed to keep track of who was good and who was bad, all year long, and he’d like, determine who got presents based on who did what. Get it? OK, so the story was, he’d show up on Christmas Eve—that’s the night before Christmas—and leave presents for the good little boys and girls.”
“What about the bad ones?” asked Teresa feelingly. “What they get?”
“Well, nothin’,” shrugged Lampert. “Or, in some places, I guess they said you’d get a lump of coal. But it was all really just a way for parents to keep their kids in line. You know—be good or you don’t get no presents from Santa. Like that.”
Teresa lowered her head and absently scratched at a spot on her leather-clad leg. For quite a while, there was silence in the old factory. Then Teresa shook her head and looked back to the Old Man.
“I don’ get it,” she said. “How come this fat red-suit dude any different from God? He sound just the same, watchin’ to make sure ya do good, like, how the pre
acher johnnies say: don’t sin or ya go ta hell, hey? And if you don’t sin and do good, you get to go up ta heaven, where it all juicy, right? Kinda like gettin’ them presents, hey?”
Lampert laughed, but gently and without malice. “Oh, you got that right, kid!” he wheezed. “The only difference is, really, that people stopped thinkin’ of Santa as real and started thinkin’ that God was real. And the kicker is, neither one was real! Unless o’ course, you believe in God. Not that you shouldn’t, I guess. At this point, it sure can’t hurt.”
“I ain’t so sure no more,” said Teresa, shaking her head. “All this ploop ‘bout old times an’ Before the Fall an’ all, it kinda makes my head hurt, hey?”
Lampert patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, kid,” he said softly. “That’s perfectly normal, just means you’re learning. Hell, wait’ll I tellya about Halloween! Now that’s a good one! But, for right now, could you be a pet and get me a little glass of water? And maybe a candy cane or two?”
Justin withdrew from sight just as Teresa, nodding and frowning and eager to please all at the same time, hopped to it, for all the world like an obsequious waiter. Justin shrugged, intrigued—and, he had to admit, a trifle jealous—at the Old Man’s growing influence, and then cleared his throat noisily to announce himself and went to give Lampert his afternoon exam.
Chapter Seventeen
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Completely free of any meat!
Oh Krillo Kakes are full of fun,
Buy some now—and don’t walk, run!
Krillo!
—ad jingle for Titan Agrofoods product, circa 2053
It was another two days of hiking before they came to the outskirts of what was once the town of Vinita, Oklahoma and stopped in front of the sign. For Justin, this meant long hours of simply putting one foot before the other and trying to keep up the crushing pace set by their guide. The only good thing about the trek was that, by the third morning away from St. Alferd’s, he no longer woke up each morning feeling as if he’d been beaten. Muscles long unused—or never used—were becoming tight and strong, and the rest of his system, though deprived of real sustenance and subjected to undue strain, was beginning to adjust to this much more robust lifestyle. Oh, he was stinky, scratched-up, emaciated, and foot-sore, hungry, thirsty, and badly in need of a shave, but at least all of the exercise was paying off.
His companions, when they weren’t taking turns carrying Mr. Lampert, all seemed in as good spirits and health as could be expected, and Lampert himself, given the best food and never having to walk more than a few dozen steps, was likewise as healthy and cheerful (if it could be called that) as ever. And as for their guide/captor, Teresa never seemed, through all of it, to so much as notice the exertion; Justin never even saw her break a sweat.
Bowler, true to his word, made himself useful, both by carrying Lampert and, using a clever snare device of his own design, by providing an occasional jackrabbit. Spitted and roasted over a fire, these proved to be stringy and gamey-tasting, but, to their protein-starved systems anyway, seemed like the finest pheasant under glass.
The sign, which they encountered near a pair of burned-down strip malls on the edge of town, was quite remarkable. Surrounded by a double layer of barbed and razor wire, strung to about seven feet high, it had once been a billboard, advertising who knew what, of the typical sort seen throughout America. Now, however, the original message had been painted over and it was festooned with a whole array of antennae, cameras, and other, less identifiable, electronic devices, plus an assortment of lights. On the broad face of it were the following words, hand-painted in neat block characters at least six feet tall: Now Entering the Domain of Baron Zero.
“So, smart-pants,” said Teresa, staring at Justin, “what it say, anyhow?”
Justin told her, just as the sign was written, and she nodded wisely in response.
“See?” she said. “Told ya.”
“Yes,” nodded Justin, eyeing the sign. “But this seems somewhat foreboding. This Baron Zero person isn’t dangerous is he? That is, he’s not like the Brothers of St. Alferd?”
“Naw,” said Teresa. “Not like them C-heads. But dangerous? Well, yeah, I gotta say, he plenny dangerous, but only if ya fuck with ‘im. If ya follows his rules, you be OK. Anyways, it a lot easier to just showya. Now c’mon. I gotta talk to the sign.”
“What?” blinked Justin. “Talk to it? What do you mean?”
“I showya,” she said, beckoning him to follow. “They’s this box thing ya talk into an’ it talk back.”
“Ah, an intercom, then. But who’s on the other end? Who talks back to you?”
“Dunno. Somebody inside, I s’pose. Somebody who gleepin’ us through them cameras, right now.”
“I see,” said Justin, watching one of the lens-eyed gizmos track them as they approached. “Well, I suppose you know best. I take it you’ve been here before?”
“Once,” she said. “Long time ago. Now clam down, right? I gotta talk.”
Slowly and deliberately, hands raised to shoulder level, she walked up to the base of the sign, where an old metal-grilled speaker and microphone setup hung on a post just inside the wire. Cupping her hands, she shouted at the box:
“Hey! Anybody there?!”
At first nothing happened, but then there was a metallic crackle from the box and a voice, impossible to identify as male, female, young, or old, issued from the speaker:
“Who are you?” it asked imperiously, at quite a loud volume. “And what do you want?”
“Name’s Teresa,” she said evenly. “I been here before. Ask Eight-finger Bob.”
There was a pause, then the speaker said: “Eight-finger Bob is dead, my young friend. And you have a whole gang there with you. Who are they?”
Teresa swore under her breath. “They ain’t a gang,” she said. “I mean, jus’ look at ‘em! Ain’t none of ‘em even got guns!”
Again a short pause before the speaker crackled and said: “Who is the man with you? The tall one with dark hair?”
Teresa looked from the box to Justin and back again. “Oh, him? He a whitecoat! He how come I here, swear-tell the truth. Wanna see if Zero want him. Maybe make a trade, hey? Far as these others? Well, they on they own, kinda. So what the deal? Ya gonna let us come on, or should we turn back, or what?”
“Sure, come on,” said the speaker. “Keep going straight ahead for about a mile. Can’t miss it.”
And the speaker went silent. The cameras and other gear, though, kept right on tracking them, rotating on servos to watch them walk past. Giving Justin an inscrutable glance, Teresa led the way through the remains of the town.
“You know,” said Mr. Lampert, as Cass carried him through streets lined with burned-out buildings, “I do believe Miss Swails here was really on to somethin’. This really is like The Wizard of Oz, ain’t it? That intercom deal was just like the Wizard’s chamberlain. You know, the guy in the green suit who says how nobody gets in to see the wizard, not no way, not no how.”
“Hey, you’re right,” Swails mused. “I forgot about that part.”
“I fail to see,” said Justin irritably, “what possible significance the similarity could have to our present predicament.”
“Aw, lighten up, Just in Case,” said Lampert. “I was just makin’ small talk, OK? But this is just like The Wizard of Oz. Although, this don’t look much like the Emerald City, does it?”
“You can say that again,” said Cass. “But, if that’s the case, Mr. Lampert, and we’re in a similar situation, which one of us is Dorothy?”
“Heh,” grunted the Old Man. “That’s a good one, Cass.”
They all went quiet when the House—and, to Justin, it more than deserved the capital H—loomed into view. Surrounded by junk and piles of debris of all sorts, it sat in a huge clearing like an Old West fort or a medieval castle, rising to at least 100 feet above the rubble-strewn ground. Justin stopped as it came fully into his line of sight an
d, staring at the impressive mass, gave a low whistle.
Once an office building of maybe ten stories, the structure had been added to and altered so that the once-sleek glass and steel box was now bulging with roofs, cupolas, dormers, balconies, and other protuberances to the point that the original lines were all but lost. Beyond that, the building was remarkable for the profusion of antennae and satellite dishes and other do-dads that sprouted like plants, here, there, and everywhere on the edges and roofs. Looking closer, Justin saw that not all of the electronics were so benign; some looked like rockets, some like guns, and others, unfamiliar to him, were simply menacing. Slowly, he sidled over to Teresa.
“Teresa?” he said softly.
“Yeh?”
“What are all those things? I recognize the antennas and dishes, some of the sensors and whatnot, cameras and lights… but what are all those others? That big red thing that looks like a rocket, for example.”
“That?” she said, smiling wickedly at him. “That is a rocket. You right the first time! And the rest? Hoolie smoke, he got all kinda crazy weapons on there. Wavers, machine guns, lase-a-rays, screechers, slug-throwers. I heard he gotta plasma gun. Like I tol’ ya, ya don’ wanna fuck with ‘im.”
“I guess not,” said Justin, suddenly feeling the accumulated electronic eyes and eager muzzles focused on them.
“Now c’mon,” said Teresa. “We ain’t gonna stand aroun’ here all day.”
They’d closed to within fifty yards of the House when a big garage-style metal door suddenly ground open in one wall and a group of four armed and angry-looking people issued forth. Instantly, Justin raised his hands in surrender (as did the others, save Lampert), but Teresa whipped out her shotgun in one slick movement and, falling into a combat crouch, waved it back and forth at the strangers.
The apparent leader of the group, a tall, thin black man dressed in drab coveralls and loosely toting an impressive-looking rifle, was the first to speak: