Plaguesville, USA

by Jim LaVigne

  “Hey, now,” he said to Teresa, “just take it easy, alright? Don’t get excited. Just hand over the gun, OK?”

  Teresa said nothing and only scowled. The black man’s companions, two women and another man, all of early to late middle age and similarly attired and armed, kept their guns trained squarely on her. Their grim expressions spoke of a willingness to use them.

  “Teresa, please,” said Justin desperately. “Do what they say!”

  “I ain’t givin’ up my boomstick,” she hissed from one corner of her mouth. “Took me forever to get it, an’ I ain’t gonna lose it.”

  “You won’t lose it,” said the black man. “We have a secure gun bin, right inside, where you can leave it. And you can pick it up when you go.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” said Justin. “Doesn’t it?”

  Teresa snarled something nasty under her breath but did finally lower the gun. With a resigned shrug of her shoulders, she turned the weapon around and offered the stock end to the black man.

  “Here ya go,” she said crustily. “Jus’ make sure nothin’ happen to it, hey?”

  The man took the gun and tucked it under one arm. “You got it,” he said, grinning slightly. “And don’t worry. Nothing’s gonna happen to it. I promise.”

  “Oh, yeh?” said Teresa insolently. “An’ jus’ who the clack are you?”

  “Name’s Cornell,” said the man amiably. He nodded at his companions, who seemed to have relaxed a fraction. “This here is Buffalo Steve, Karen, and Vivian. We’re sort of like the police here. Make sure everybody works and plays well with each other, eh? And, we screen all of the visitors that the Baron gets. And at the moment? That means you.”

  “Ah, of course,” said Justin, nodding. “That also seems reasonable, doesn’t it, Teresa?”

  She shrugged again. “S’pose so.” She looked to Cornell. “What next, dude? What the plan?”

  “Well, come on inside,” Cornell said. “We just wanna ask a few questions, and then the Baron’ll wanna talk to you. After that? Well, you’ll have to see how it goes. Sound OK?”

  “Sure,” said Teresa grudgingly. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Eighteen

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  They were led by Cornell and the woman called Vivian, an intense, thin lady with short, spiky blonde hair and a thin, sharp-featured visage, first through an extensive garage, complete with hydraulic lifts and full tool kits, where a couple of vehicles were being worked on by a greasy crew of mechanics, and then into a long hallway with many doors lit by infrequent ceiling bulbs. At the end of the dim, sterile-smelling hall was a thick metal door marked Security, which Cornell opened and ushered them through. Within were a desk, some folding metal chairs, and an antique television set mounted to one wall. They all piled into the room (Lampert on his own two feet and Teresa warily, like an animal sniffing a trap), and Cornell closed the door behind them.

  “Well, have a seat, folks,” he said pleasantly. “Though I’m afraid we don’t have chairs for everyone.” Once they’d all settled down, he picked up a clipboard and a pen and said: “OK, well, I just have a few standard questions. First, what are your names? Not necessarily your real names, if you know them, just what you’d like to be called, OK?”

  Justin took the lead and offered his full name and title, and Barbara Cass and Erin Swails did the same. Bowler provided his moniker, not specifying whether it was a first or last name, and Teresa followed suit as Cornell jotted down their responses. That just left the Old Man, who was sitting, arms and legs crossed, on a chair, head down and apparently asleep.

  “And who is this gentleman?” asked Cornell.

  “Lampert,” grunted the Old Man, raising his head. “Howard Patrick Lampert. Blood donor.”

  “How’s that?” said Cornell, cocking his head. “Blood donor?”

  “Oh,” said Justin, interposing, “that’s just Mr. Lampert’s sense of humor. He’s actually a retired salesman.”

  “Is that right, sir?” Cornell asked the Old Man.

  “Yeah, whatever,” said Lampert irascibly. “For all I care, you can call me Daffy Duck and say that I’m a fuckin’ astronaut.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Cornell, making a note. “And where are you all from?”

  “Well,” said Justin, nodding at Cass and Swails, “these two are from New Atlanta, as am I. Mr. Lampert is from Minneapolis.”

  “Me,” said Bowler, “I’m from Ocala. Florida, that is.”

  There was a pause as they all waited for Teresa to speak up, but she didn’t say anything. Justin looked over at her and saw that she was both scowling and blushing.

  “Teresa?” he said gently. “Is anything wrong?”

  Defiantly, she straightened up and shook her head.

  “Naw,” she said. “Just that I don’ know where I was borned, hey? Probl’y Houston, but I ain’t sure. I just a baby then, hey?”

  Cornell smiled at her. “That’s OK,” he said, making another note. “You’re not the only one in that situation, believe me! Besides, it’s not that important. Alright then, let’s see… last question: Is any of you a physician? You say that Ms. Cass here is a nurse and you, Mr. Case, say that you’re a doctor. You’re not an MD, by any chance, are you?”

  “Why, yes,” said Justin hesitantly, “in a manner of speaking. I’m an epidemiologist.”

  “And that is?” said Cornell. “Epi-dee-mee-whatever?”

  “Oh, uh, it’s the study of infectious diseases,” Justin said. “And their cures.”

  “Ah-ha,” said Cornell noncommittally, jotting a long note. “Well, that’s it for me. If you’ll just wait here for a few minutes, Baron Zero should be along shortly. OK?”

  They all nodded, more or less enthusiastically (expect for Lampert, who seemed to have gone back to sleep), and Cornell gave them all a big, somewhat enigmatic smile and departed, locking the door behind him.

  They didn’t wait long, only a couple of minutes, before the old cathode-ray TV on the wall suddenly sprang to life, flickered, and resolved into a grainy, lo-res shot of a man, presumably Baron Zero, sitting behind a big, cluttered desk. Bushy-haired, heavy-browed, bespectacled, and of an age somewhere between forty and seventy, the man smiled, seeming to study each of them for a moment (Justin now spotted the tiny fiber optic camera mounted atop the TV) before flipping some sort of switch on the desk.

  “Hello, there!” he said, still smiling. “And welcome! My name is Baron Zero, as you’ve probably guessed, and this is my place. Now, let’s see, I have Cornell’s notes here.” Adjusting his glasses, spidery archaic relics tinted a deep green color, he scanned the clipboard in his hand for a long moment before suddenly setting it down and peering out from the screen. “Which one of you,” he asked, “is Dr. Kaes?”

  Hesitantly, Justin raised his hand. “Uh, that would be me,” he said.

  “Ah, yes, good,” said Zero sitting forward. “And what is your specialty? I’m afraid Cornell had a hard time writing it down.”

  “Epidemiology,” said Justin. “I—that is we, as in Ms. Cass, Ms. Swails and myself—are from the U.S. Center for Disease Control and Prevention in New Atlanta.”

  “No shit?” said Zero, eyebrows arched. “The CDC? For real? Man, I’d of thought you guys were all done for by now. But here you are! Huh. But I guess that means you’re not a surgeon. Are you?”

  “Well, no,” said Justin, “I’m not. But, if you don’t mind my asking, wh
y do you need a surgeon? Does someone need medical attention?”

  “Yeah,” said Zero, grimacing a little. “It’s not an emergency or anything. Let’s just say it’d be handy. Maybe you and I can have a little chat, later. OK?”

  “By all means,” said Justin. “Anything we can do to help.”

  “Good, good,” said Zero, going back to the clipboard. “Well, let’s see… so this would be Ms. Cass, the nurse, and Ms. Swails, the communications specialist. And then you must be Bowler and you Teresa.”

  Each of these nodded or waved at the screen as their names were mentioned. Bowler waved and said “Howdy, Mr. Zero, sir.”

  Then Zero peered down at the Old Man, who’d again slumped into his chair and seemed to be asleep.

  “So this must be Mr. Lampert,” he said. “Um, is he awake?”

  “Yeah, I’m awake,” said the Old Man caustically, raising his head a fraction and opening his eyes. “What’s it to ya?”

  “Ah, well,” smiled Zero. “It’s not often I have visitors of such a venerable age! I’m honored, sir.”

  “Why, ‘cause I’m old?” said Lampert. “Huh! That ain’t no big fuckin’ achievement, believe me.”

  Baron Zero blinked at this, obviously taken aback. Justin smiled slightly, grateful that, for once, someone else was being subjected to the Old Man’s acid tongue. Finally Zero cleared his throat.

  “Ah-huh, yes,” he said. “Well, you’re most welcome, at any rate. Now, as I said, you’re welcome here, all of you. But I have some rules and such, just to keep things nice and civil and happy. I guess it all depends, though, on how long you want to stay. If it’s just a day or two, well, you can just kinda hang out and then be on your way. If you want to stay longer, well, then we’ll have to talk about it. So there you are. For the present, though, I’m afraid you’re going to have to be quarantined. This will only be for a day or two—three at the most—and then you’ll be free to move around. How does all that sound to you?”

  To Justin it sounded very reasonable and, while he had quite a few questions for their new host, he was willing to abide by any rules there were. Bowler and the others, similarly, shrugged or nodded acquiescence. Teresa, of course, was not so trusting or patient.

  “I got questions,” she said, stepping forward.

  “Yes?” said Zero amicably. “Teresa, right? What’s on your mind?”

  “Number one,” she said, holding up a finger. “You got traders here? Sellers, buyers?”

  “Well, yes,” said Zero. “There are always traders of one sort or another staying here. I don’t allow slavers, but other than that…”

  “Henh,” Teresa grunted, obviously chagrined. “Well, OK, I guess. Bring on the quarrel-teen.”

  Chapter Nineteen

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  Sitting in a former playground on the south bank of the Kansas River, Sergeant Lumler waited for Santiago and watched a Procurement Crew at work. There were four of them, two men and two women, out on the slow river in an old aluminum rowboat. Two of them worked the oars against the current while the other two laboriously threw out and reeled in a big seining net. With each cast, a few fish—catfish and carp, mainly—flopped into the boat. Later, they would be brought to the local Distro Center, cleaned, and doled out to the hungry populace. Having begun work at sunrise, the crew would work till sundown, with next to no rest, and then get up and do it all over again tomorrow. And there were no weekends. All in all, not the easiest job assignment in New America. But then, given the week he’d had, Doug Lumler would have traded places with any one of them in a heartbeat.

  Testily, he looked at his watch; why was Santiago never on time? But then he heard footsteps on the gravel path and the diminutive form of his friend appeared from the early evening shade.

  “Yer late,” griped Lumler half-heartedly.

  “Yeah, sorry,” said the other, walking up and taking a seat. Lumler thought he looked pale and tired. “Too many surgical cases. They had to call up the B-squad.”

  “That right?” said Lumler. “So lots of battle casualties, huh?”

  “Shitloads. Way more than you’d think. It’s getting pretty bad.”

  “Yeah, I figured,” said Lumler stolidly. “The PF’s been losin’ men to the Army like crazy. Not that they expect us to do any less, of course, even short-handed, but you’d have to be deaf an’ blind to not know about it, anyway. Shit, that last big firefight, down by the old grain silos? Pretty fuckin’ hard to miss!”

  “Yeah,” Santiago said, “but that doesn’t stop the Governor from trying, now does it? Have you seen the latest Patriot? All about “our victorious troops” and how we’re winning, hands down, and how we’ve suffered “a few” casualties. And the latest radio addresses? Man! Pure bullshit.”

  “Like always,” said Lumler. “That ain’t nothing’ new. He’s just tryin’ to keep people’s spirits up. You know? I mean, why tell these people the real facts if they don’t wanna know about it anyway? Shit, I wish more people believed in that crap. Sure would make my life easier.”

  “Yeah?” said Santiago, producing and lighting a hand-rolled cigarette. “Why? You having trouble? Cop life got you down?”

  “You got no idea,” groaned Lumler. For a long moment he stared at his friend, but the fading light made the smaller man’s expression unreadable. Finally he frowned and looked out at the river and the work crew. One more cast, a couple more fish.

  “It’s this whole Reformist thing,” he said, voice low, even conspiratorial. “The traitors. You read about that, right? Heard the speeches?”

  “Sure,” said Santiago. “They run ‘em often enough. Know Your Traitor! Don’t Be a Negativist! Blech.”

  “Yeah, well,” said Lumler, “that ain’t the half of it. Hell, the Governor’s gone totally sideways about it! Sees traitors everywhere, you know? An’ of course, that means the Chief is all batshit about it, too. But, thing is, this shit is real! There are traitors. There is such a thing as the Reformist Movement. It ain’t like the Governor says it is—leastways I hope not—but it’s real alright. I’ve seen proof.”

  Santiago nodded and smoked for a moment. Across the way, the leader of the Proc Crew, his voice clear across the quiet water, finally called a halt to the day. The workers all slumped in relief and the boat slowly floated off downstream. Finally Santiago spoke up.

  “There was a bombing,” he said softly. “Wasn’t there? Two days ago, about ten at night?”

  Lumler nodded, waited.

  “And it wasn’t a deformo attack, was it?”

  Lumler shook his head. “Nope.”

  Now Santiago waited. Finally Lumler shrugged.

  “Some old lady blew herself up,” he said, watching the shadows lengthen. His voice was quiet, but heavy and rough. “We were supposed to search her place. Suspicion of possession of seditious material. Pretty standard. But when we go in, she’s like, wired up. To about eight sticks of dynamite. Sweaty, old, unstable dynamite. Just sittin’ there in her rocking chair. Shit you not. So we stopped, you know? Pulled up and sorta just stood there, waitin’ for this nice little old lady to decide whether or not to blow us all to shit, but…”

  “But what?” prompted his friend, smoking.

  “Well, she wanted the Chief,” Lumler said, shifting his weight. “She wasn’t like, worked up or even afraid or anything, she just sits there, calm-like, and tells us she wants to see the Chief. Well, of course he wasn’t about to go in there! Not him. Not Hanson fucking Knox. But anyway, she keeps like, demanding to see the Chief and he keeps orderin’ us to shoot her, like over the radio, and, well, things went south. I dove outta the room, just when she hit the button, but the two othe
r guys, they weren’t so lucky. Blast wiped out the whole goddamn apartment. Nothing left of those two poor bastards but chunks ‘bout the size of yer fist.”

  “Jesus,” breathed Santiago, his cigarette smoldering. “And this was an old lady? Did you get her name?”

  “Sarah something,” said Lumler, waving a meaty hand. “But that ain’t my point, man. Young, old, what’s the difference? No, what I wanna know is, why? You know? Why? Those were good guys she blew up. One of ‘em just had a kid! Why blow him up like that? What did he ever do to her?”

  “Not what he did,” shrugged Santiago. Lumler thought his friend looked kind of pale, but maybe it was just the poor light. “It was what he was.”

  “What the fuck’s that mean?”

  “She wanted to kill Knox, right? And she did kill two Police Force officers, yes? So she wanted to take out PF men. Not any particular PF man, since she couldn’t get her like, chosen target, but PF men nonetheless. Any PF men.”

  “Huh,” said Lumler, and scratched his chin. “I see what you mean. But still, why kill the police?”

  “You’re a symbol,” said Santiago. “You represent New America. Or at least the bad parts, anyway.”

  “Whattaya mean, the bad parts?” rumbled Lumler. “What’re you tryin’ to say?”

  “Hey, don’t get me wrong,” said the other in protest. “You guys in black do a tough job and you do it well. I mean, someone has to do it, right? It’s just…” He hesitated, went on. “Well, truth is, it’s getting around about the Chief. How… unstable he is, you know? People talk.”

  “Yeah?” Lumler said darkly. “And how’d they hear about that, huh? Any ideas?”

  “Not from me, if that’s what you mean,” said Santiago defensively. “I mean, do you really think I’d jeopardize my career—my life—with some two-bit gossip crap like that? Come on.”

  Lumler considered, but it only took a second before he shook his head and gave a short bark of a laugh.