Plaguesville, USA

by Jim LaVigne

  “No,” he said wryly, “I don’t guess you would, at that. But then, who is talkin’? Ain’t any of my men, I know that!”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Santiago, crushing out his smoke. “But it’s more than just talk. There’ve been a couple of, whatever, scenes with the Chief. Kinda ugly scenes. You know what I mean, don’t you? Like that thing down at the Liberty Saloon?”

  Lumler scowled deeply. He’d hoped that incident had blown over. Guess not. Angrily, he swept off his cap and wiped his brow. Suddenly the evening seemed too still and too quiet. Then, somewhere far off, a single gunshot rang out, causing a dog to start barking, and he relaxed a little and put his cap back on.

  “Yeah, that one was bad,” he said. “You remember Fat Phil, the bartender down there? Guy with one eye?”

  “Not really. Don’t go to the Liberty too much.”

  “Smart man,” said Lumler. “Place is a shithole. But anyway, the bartender was named Phil an’ he only he had the one eye. He’s on the PF payroll, and is s’posed to listen in on what people are sayin’ and shit. Who’s like, disgruntled, you know? Basic rat work. But so far, he ain’t told us nothin’. Not a tip, not a fuckin’ thing, an’ he’s had like, three months. So me and the Chief go in there that night. Place is real slow, you know? Just a few old winos. The Chief tells me to watch the door, which I do, while he goes over to the bar to talk to Phil. So those two like, chat for a while and then, before I even knew what he was doin’, the Chief just sorta attacks Phil. ‘Cept he didn’t just attack the guy. He didn’t hit him or kick him or smack him with his baton or anything like that. No, what he does is, he grabs a fuckin’ corkscrew offa the bar and jams it—wham!—right into Phil’s eye. An’ he goes over the bar, screamin’ and clawin’ an’ shit, an’ the blood’s all over the place an’ Phil is screamin’ an’… aw, fuck. It was goddamn crazy, man. Just fuckin’ nuts. Had to haul Phil out inna body bag. And the worst thing? It ain’t even close to what you’d call police work, you know? More like…”

  “Murder?” said Santiago, very softly.

  Lumler shrugged laconically. “Guess so. I mean, I wasn’t a cop Before or anything. I ain’t any expert. But then, I dunno, we ain’t got a court system here, do we? No judges or juries, no lawyers, just what the Governor decides. So is it murder? I mean, yeah it woulda been, Before, but now? I dunno.”

  “Huh, yeah,” said Santiago. “Good point. Order is one thing. Law is another.”

  Lumler, unsure of what his friend meant but unwilling to admit it, just grunted and nodded a little. The light was fading quickly now; in another half hour it would be full dark. Lumler heaved a beefy sigh and shook his head.

  “But whattaya gonna do?” he said resignedly. “Since the Sick, everything’s gone to shit. This here, New America, the whole thing, it’s like, all we got, you know? All there is. And it’s all the Governor’s doing, ain’t it? Before he came along, there was just gangs. Just little bands of survies. No power, no water, no food. And now? We got all that stuff back. And thanks to who?”

  “The Governor,” answered Santiago wearily. “Or should I say, Governor Jackson Smith Armstrong? But yeah, I know. And you’re right, it’s his world; we just live in it.”

  They sat in silence for a little while. Lumler listened to the water gurgle past. A small swarm of fireflies had appeared and were blinking in and out of the bushes.

  “Hey,” said Santiago, after a long pause, “you remember that dude they called the Hunter? Little guy with all the guns?”

  “Sure. What about him?”

  “Well, I sorta ran into him the other night.”

  “No shit. And?”

  “Well, it was kinda weird,” said Santiago, and scratched his head. “I was down by the West Gate, doing some follow-up on some patients, and this guy just sorta pops up out of nowhere and asks for med supplies. Well, demands ‘em would be more like it. He was pretty, I don’t know, intense, I guess you’d say. You know the kind? Where you look in their eyes and something looks back that just says leave me the fuck alone? Yeah. But anyway, he’s got this like, list of stuff he wants. I didn’t have ‘em on me at the time, so we go back to the clinic. All the way there, I try talkin’ to him, you know, but he won’t do more than grunt. So we go to the clinic and I give him the stuff he wants, since he’s got this letter signed by the Governor that says I have to, and then he leaves.”

  “Huhn,” said Lumler. “So what’s so weird about that? This Hunter guy’s headin’ out into the wasteland. Matter o’ fact, he took off, just yesterday. An’ out in the waste? Well, there ain’t too many clinics out there. No more Walgreens or CVS, neither.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Santiago. “But here’s what was weird: Most of the stuff he wanted was like, stuff you’d need for an invalid, you know? Or a real old person. Bedpan, adult undergarments, oxygen. I mean, he wanted a lot of basic First Aid type things, too, but why all the nursing home gear?”

  Lumler shrugged. “How should I know?”

  “Well, you said before that this Hunter guy was bein’ sent out to hijack some doctors, right? So why’s he need stuff for taking care of an invalid?”

  “I got no idea,” said Lumler wanly. “An’ besides, it’s none o’ my business. Yours, neither, far as that goes.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Made me curious though.”

  For a while they sat and watched the fireflies, but, after a few minutes they inexplicably quit blinking and the bushes went dark.

  “You ever think about him?” Santiago eventually asked. “The Great Man?”

  “Who, the Governor? Hell, no. Ain’t healthy.”

  “Well, I do,” said Santiago. “I mean, where did he come from? What was he Before? Most of us who lived through the Sick are more than happy to talk about Before. What we were, who we knew, what we’d done. So why not the Governor? His whole past is one big question mark. But why? What’s he got to hide?”

  “Never really thought about it,” Lumler replied honestly. “But he ain’t the only one who don’t talk about their life Before, you know. Lots of people don’t wanna talk about it, for lots of reasons. Don’t mean he’s got anything to hide. An’, come to that, a lotta people changed their names. You think that guy that runs the Big Time is really named Luscious Lorenzo? Or what about the lady who sells those pies and cakes? Over on Lexington? Think her name’s really Sweet Angela Wheatcakes?”

  Santiago laughed. “Yeah, or that crazy dude who sweeps everything, Broomstick Bob. Kinda doubt he was born with that one. But as far as the Governor’s concerned, it’s different. It’s like the name—the name he picked, most likely—just seems kinda inappropriate. Know what I mean? Like it just doesn’t suit him, you know? I mean, he’s all kinda short and pudgy. “Jackson Armstrong” conjures up some kinda body-builder or a pro athlete or something. Not some short, fat little dude with apple cheeks and curly blond hair, or am I wrong?”

  Lumler laughed quietly. “No, man, you’re right,” he said. “Matter of fact, last time me an’ the Chief had to meet with him, I thought the same damn thing! Dude looks like, oh I dunno, like a school principal or an accountant or somethin’, but then who knows, anyway? Names don’t mean much no more. And anyhow, it could be his real name, for all we know.”

  “Yeah, but I doubt it,” said Santiago. With a little groan, he stood up and dusted off his rear end. “Well, I should get going. No rest for the wicked.”

  “Hunh, yeah,” said Lumler, also standing. “Who said that, anyway?”

  “What, the “no rest” thing? I have no idea.”

  “Well, whatever,” said Lumler. “See you next week? Usual time at the Jolly?”

  “You’re on,” grinned Santiago, his teeth white in the gloom. “See you then.”

  Suddenly, from somewhere across the river, a great fusillade of gunfire erupted. The reports were frantic, overlapping, and punctuated by a dull, booming explosion. Lines of tracer bullets shot up into the sky over the walled city and the faint sou
nds of screams and shouts mixed into the swelling chorus. The Army was busy; another night, another deformo attack. For a long moment the two men listened to the muted din and stared at the light show.

  “Sounds like another bad one,” Santiago sighed. “Well, keep your head down.”

  “Always do, my friend,” said Lumler seriously. “And you just watch yer ass.”

  In another five minutes, the park was empty. The water rolled past, the fireflies came back out, and the night breeze, redolent of cordite smoke and burning diesel fuel, wafted gently through the bushes and over the flat space of sand where there once had been a playground.

  Chapter Twenty

  All around the mulberry bush

  The monkey chased the weasel.

  The monkey thought ‘twas all in fun.

  Pop! goes the weasel.

  —children’s song, traditional

  The Kid had an easy few days after his run-in with the Rippers; the weather was warm and mild and he had plenty of food, not to mention two new pelts. On the first day, after the middle-of-the-night tussle with the Rippers, he started awake later than usual and quickly surveyed his surroundings for trouble, but there was nothing, just the burble of the stream and the calls of birds in the trees. With a deep sigh of something like happiness, he lay back down and allowed himself the ultimate luxury, another hour of sleep.

  Two days later, largely idle, he was lolling on a warm afternoon and thinking of heading out to look for some more Hopper meat when the worst sound in the world came to his ears, the distant but unmistakable noise of a Howler on the prowl. Instantly, he froze and tried to determine what direction to be afraid of, but the noise was too diffuse for that; he’d have to get out of the cave to figure it out. But this was a Howler, not some measly Ripper, and that meant that he had exactly two choices: to hide or to flee. A Howler was not something he could fight.

  He grabbed his weapon and crawled out of the cave. The noise came again, a terrible, high-pitched moaning that made him cringe, and this time it was definitely closer. The Kid debated with himself for a moment, but there wasn’t much choice; he would have to run. Maybe he’d be able to come back, but for right now, he had to get away. For another moment, he considered taking what was left of the Hopper or a part of the Ripper with him, to eat later on, but then demurred; Howlers could smell blood from a long way off.

  And then he was off, dashing through the weeds and trees like a deer, pausing only once in a while to make sure that the Howler was not right behind him. After a long ways, he finally stopped, near the edge of the trees, and waited. This was the limit of his world; beyond the trees was a huge, wide-open space that he’d only gazed at in wonder. He listened for a time, but heard no more howling. Nonetheless, just to be safe, he climbed up the biggest tree he could find and, careful to hide in the thickest leaves, crouched on a limb to wait.

  Three hours later, not too long before sundown, he was thinking of climbing down when he heard a snuffling, snorting noise below and went very still. With deliberate slowness, he turned his head and looked down, just in time to see a very big Howler come shambling into the clearing beneath his tree.

  Shaped somewhat like a human being, with legs and a head, this particular Howler (they were all a little bit different) had great snake-like things where the Kid had arms and a toothy mouth that looked like it was about three times as big as it should be. Slowly, bent to the ground, it shuffled forward as the Kid held his breath. If it smelled him, it was more than capable of climbing up the tree after him, and if it did, he would be trapped.

  But apparently the Howler didn’t smell him; after a long moment of high tension, it gave a long, shuddering cry and then moved away, back the way it had come. The Kid let out a pent-up breath and relaxed a trifle, secure in the knowledge that if the thing knew where he was, it would be all over him.

  Carefully, with great deliberation, he made his way back toward his cave, but then stopped short when, peering through some trees, he saw that the Howler was there. It had thrown all of his pelts out onto the ground, had obviously eaten up all of his remaining food, and now squatted before the cave mouth, swaying back and forth and worrying an old Ripper bone. Even from fifty yards away, he could smell its gamey, rotten hide.

  Slowly, the Kid withdrew into the undergrowth and tried to think this through, but what could he do, other than wait? If the Howler didn’t go away on its own, if it decided to take over his home and possessions and eat his food, what could he do about it? Nothing, that was what, and he frowned and snarled to himself at the injustice.

  He decided to wait; after all, he’d put a lot of time and energy into the cave and he wasn’t about to just abandon it, even if it was infested with a Howler. But the night came and went, the next day dawned cooler and drizzly, the rotten, stinking Howler showed no sign of leaving, and the Kid was getting very hungry. It was time to find somewhere else to live. Hanging his head, he shrugged disconsolately and then silently crept off into the woods.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sick and tired with all these horrible monkeys? Have you or a loved one been menaced or even attacked by these vicious, feces-slinging little brutes? Have monkeys nested in your home or place of work? It’s not as uncommon as you might think; after nearly 250 Indian Langur monkeys were accidentally released in the Tampa Bay area last year, incidents of monkey attacks have risen 200 percent nationwide! And local wildlife control official and exterminators lack the resources to effectively deal with the problem. But don’t worry! Securo-Max now offers Monkey-B-Gone, the safe, effective pest removal service geared specifically to simian infestations! Don’t suffer with the annoyance of constant monkey attacks and dodging monkey dung anymore! Call Securo-Max today and demand Monkey-B-Gone!

  —TV ad for service offered in most southern US States, circa 2055

  Justin had had some misgivings about being confined with his companions, quarantine or not; for one thing, it was a loss of two or three days, time he could spend on the road, or at least talking to Baron Zero to plan their next move. Every day they wasted, every hour, every minute, Lampert moved that much closer to his demise.

  For another thing, quarantine would probably mean boring, close confinement with at least a couple of people (Lampert, Bowler, maybe others) with whom he’d rather not be closely confined. Lastly, he was worried how Teresa, used to coming and going when and where she pleased, would react to what was essentially a prison.

  One positive development was that it was obvious that things here were not entirely what Teresa had expected and that her plans, at least as far as selling him went, would have to undergo some rather drastic changes. Which was to say, it looked as if he’d been emancipated. But then, he’d have to wait and see.

  As things turned out, he needn’t have worried about the forced confinement; the three days in quarantine were neither boring nor wholly unproductive, and they were treated with nothing but civility and generosity by Baron Zero and his people.

  Their accommodations, in a sealed section of the basement, while compact and functional, were clean, cool, dry, and furnished with everything they needed. There was a common room, with beds, tables, chairs, desks, and shelves, another, smaller room for eating, with just a big long table with benches on either side, and, most welcome of all by far, a complete bathroom with real running water and modern plumbing. This last amazed Teresa to no end, clean water just pouring from a pipe anytime one wanted it, and she spent a delighted few minutes flushing the toilet and running the taps before being told—gently—that she was wasting water and should save it for washing and plumbing only.

  “How that work?” she asked, eyes alight. “Hot water from a pipe like that? They gotta fire goin’ down there?”

  “No, just a water heater,” said Justin. “Now if you don’t mind, we all want to take our turn at the shower.”

  As he waited for his turn, childishly excited at the very prospect, one of Zero’s men appeared at the crude airlock that constituted the o
nly way in or out. He was pushing a large rolling laundry bin and came to the entrance and waved for their attention. Justin walked over to the glass-pane door.

  “Yes?” he asked. “Can we help you?”

  “Want clothes?” said the man, a small Latino with a long mustache and yellowish eyes.

  Justin scratched his head. “Close?” he said. “I don’t…”

  “No, clothes,” said the man, shaking his head. To illustrate his point, he reached into the bin and held up an off-white, raw cotton shirt. “You know. Ropas. Shirt, pants, under-wears? Clothes, si?”

  “Oh, clothes!” said Justin. “Why yes, as a matter of fact. We all could use some clean clothes! That’s very generous!”

  “Zero’s orders,” shrugged the man, whose name he would later learn was Ramirez. “Now what you need?”

  Finally Erin Swails finished up in the bathroom and it was his turn. Taking a clean new shirt and pants, plus a new pair of boxer briefs and a pair of socks, he went into the room, turned on the water, and positively luxuriated in the first real shower he’d had in almost two months. There was soap, a clean washcloth, plenty of hot water, and when he got out there was a toothbrush and toothpaste, clean white towels, and an old-fashioned disposable razor with shaving cream to complete the experience. Feeling better than he had in a very long time, he wiped up in the bathroom and went to join the others.

  After the cannibals of St. Alferd’s, the first time food was brought to them, that morning by a lanky young lady named Sarah, they all eyed it with no small degree of suspicion; it just wasn’t safe to trust strangers when it came to these things. But the stuff looked OK, just bread and butter and cheese and fruit, not a morsel of meat, and finally hunger won out in an uneven struggle and, Justin leading the way, they all grabbed plates and set to devouring the food with a will born of weeks of a diet of pet food, soy paste and candy canes. When they were done, there wasn’t a crumb big enough to see.