Plaguesville, USA

by Jim LaVigne

  “Yeah, OK,” said Baron Zero, frowning. “I got that. And that’s some pretty bad news, alright. Gonna have to think about that one. But what about the Old Man? What are you gonna do with him? Why’s he so important? That’s the part I don’t get.”

  “Well, it seems that Mr. Lampert once survived an outbreak of the original strain of the plague. Somehow, probably completely by accident, he came in contact with, and then survived, the original, un-mutated version of this particular form of Yersinia pestis. If we can get him to proper lab facilities, we may be able to use this original strain, whose DNA is still borne in his blood, to make a vaccine.”

  “Huh, OK,” nodded Zero thoughtfully. “But, uh, don’t get me wrong, but why not just take a blood sample? It’d, like, save you a lot of trouble, wouldn’t it?”

  “No good,” said Justin. “To produce any sort of quantity of vaccine, we need a much larger supply than just a sample. No, we need Mr. Lampert, alive and as well as we can keep him.”

  “OK, I get it,” said the other. He seemed to ponder for a while. Then: “And you wanna get him all the way to Cali? Dang, that’s not gonna be easy! You’ve got the bangers, the survie cults, just plain whack jobs out there, roaming around, all kinds of obstacles.”

  “Yes,” nodded Justin grimly. “Like the Brothers of St. Alferd.”

  “Oh, you met them, huh?” said Zero. “Well, believe it or not, they’re not the worst of ‘em. There are some other guys, up near the Big Waste, that make the Brothers look like Boy Scouts.”

  “The Big Waste?” echoed Justin. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of that. And I’m not sure I want to.”

  “No?” said Zero. “Gee, I thought everyone knew about that. Anyway, it’s called different things. The official, like Federal, title for it was the Greater Southwest Danger Zone. Some folks call it the Rad Zone. Or the Great Nowhere. But, whatever you call it, it’s a huge chunk of land, thousands of square miles—but wait, I’ve got an old atlas here.”

  Producing this, he spread it open on the cluttered desk, revealing a U.S. road map much altered by the addition of new markings and boundary lines. Fascinated, Justin leaned forward and read the new, hand-lettered legendry: New England Free State, Florida Nation, Lone Star Republic, California Confederacy, Chicago Gang Conference, Greater Washegon Nation. And there, where Zero was pointing, a big section of the U.S. Southwest, including most of Nevada, labeled Great Waste and marked with an ominous radiation symbol.

  “But,” blinked Justin, “what happened?”

  “Nuke accident,” Zero said laconically. “When the grid went down and the Air Force boys all deserted and headed home, there was nobody to mind the store. No one knows for sure what really happened, but personally I think some dumb-ass survie probably got in there and messed around with it and—Blammo! Of course, it might’ve just gone bad on its own. Or maybe it was rigged by the flyboys when they left. All we know for sure is that something really big and really dirty was detonated. I’d guess maybe a big Neutron device or maybe a couple of MIRVs. Not that it matters. At any rate, this whole area here is bad. I went up there with a G-counter last year and turned back at about… here, when the counter went red, big time. Nowadays, nobody with a brain in his head goes anywhere near it. But the really scary things are the muties that come crawling out once in a while.”

  “Muties?” asked Justin, frowning. “Some sort of mutation? Human mutation?”

  “Who knows? It’s just what we call ‘em. But they sure look like mutants, whatever they are. Extra arms, sometimes like tentacles or flippers, generally misshapen to the point of monstrosity, basically feral and savage, like wild animals. Ugh! Thank God there don’t seem to be that many of them!”

  “But that’s appalling!” said Justin. “Those poor people!”

  “Huh,” said Zero, grimacing slightly. “Yeah, you say that now, but you’ve never seen one! Just hope you never do. And as far as their still being people? I’m not so sure about that.”

  “Well, that’s…” Justin blinked, “that’s quite interesting. I wasn’t aware that such a thing had even happened.”

  “Yeah. And the hell of it?” Zero said. “It’s probably just one of who knows how many things like this that have happened. With no real press or mass media, we’re all pretty much in the dark, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Justin, stalling, wondering just how to phrase what he was about to ask. “And that’s all very interesting. But, now that you’ve heard my story, about our mission and all, do you think you can help? That is, I don’t want to sound ungrateful; you’ve already provided us with so much! But you seem to know a great deal about this area, even about what’s left of the United States. You have all these electronics and resources and manpower… isn’t there something you could do to help our mission?”

  Zero arched his brow and sat back in his chair. For a long moment he stared off into space and stroked his scraggly-bearded chin. From somewhere below the room they were in there came a loud clanging, banging noise, but he didn’t seem to notice. Finally he removed the green glasses, polished them on his flannel shirt, put them back on, and sighed.

  “Well, it’s like this, Dr. Kaes,” he said seriously. “First off, I don’t much like your chances of making it to Cali, no matter how much help I give you. Between here and there is a whole world of shit, know what I mean? Survies, ex-military, post-Fall crazies, Rad Zones, Free-Fire Zones, deserts and mountains and who the hell knows what else?! I mean, don’t you think I, myself, wouldn’t have lit out for the coast if I could?”

  “I suppose so,” said Justin evenly. “But I think you fail to understand the gravity of my mission. It’s not something from which I can back down. I cannot give up trying. I absolutely have to get Mr. Lampert to the coast. And I’ll do that with or without you. I was merely suggesting that perhaps you could help. If not? Well, then we’ll be on our way.”

  Baron Zero laughed. “Don’t get bent outta shape, Doc,” he said, waving a hand. “And don’t worry. I’ll help. But I need a little time to think things over. Good people and valuable resources aren’t something I wanna just toss around. Besides, none of your group looks like they’re in any kind of shape to go hiking to California. You could use some rest and some food, right?”

  “Of course,” Justin said, the sudden defiance swiftly replaced by relief. “But every day we wait means another day of Mr. Lampert’s getting a day older. And at his age…”

  “Hmm, yeah,” said Zero. “There is that. Well, I’ll do my best to hurry. But…”

  He never got to finish the thought, though, as suddenly a small speaker on the desk blared out a sort of claxon-like noise, followed immediately by a woman’s stress-filled voice:

  “Alert! Alert! Code Red attack at the Farm. All fighters to defensive positions. Preliminary recon reports eight to ten attackers, most likely Hellriders. Alert! Alert!”

  The voice began to repeat itself, but Zero turned the speaker volume down and then, massaging his temples angrily, rose from his chair.

  “Damn it, damn it,” he said, scowling. “Will those jerks never learn?”

  “Problems?” asked Justin, sensing unseen activity all through the House.

  “Eh,” said Zero crossly. “Probably not, if it’s only eight or ten of ‘em. But you’ll have to excuse me, I’m afraid. It could be worse than it looks.”

  “But what’s going on? Someone’s attacking your farm?”

  “Yeah, Hellriders,” said Zero. “The local biker gang. Dumb as bricks, really, but you gotta admire their persistence. But look, I gotta go. Unless you wanna come with? Are you any good in a fight? Good with a gun?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Justin honestly. “But I’d be glad to help if I could.”

  “Well, better come along then,” said Zero, heading for the door. “Never know what might happen with one of these kinda things.”

  Swallowing a hard lump in his throat, sorry he’d volunteered so impulsively, Justin nodded and foll
owed Baron Zero through more twisty little hallways and doors and stairwells, all the way down to the garage area. Here, among the scurrying mechanics and armed men and women, they were stopped by the diminutive yet imposing figure of Teresa, who stepped into Zero’s path and, her perfect features set in a fierce scowl, asked:

  “Need any help?”

  Zero stopped, looked her up and down, glanced over at Justin (who simply shrugged) and then looked back to Teresa.

  “Well, yeah!” he said. “All the help I can get. But you don’t have a gun…”

  “Sure do!” said Teresa, pointing. “Right over in that cage-dealy. Got my boomstick. Gauge twelve.”

  “Shotgun, huh?” said Zero. “Yeah, that’s good. But can you handle a real gun? An assault weapon?”

  “Can I?!” Teresa grinned wickedly. “Jus’ let me at it!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

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  Having never been in the thick of an actual gun battle, Justin later decided the one he witnessed at the Farm to be something that he’d never want to be anywhere near, ever again. It was extremely loud, for one thing, with shots from rifles and handguns, explosions, and people yelling all seeming to merge into one great, ear-splitting, bone-rattling blare. It was stinky, too; he hadn’t realized that guns produced so much smoke. But it wasn’t the noise or the smell that got to him, it was the mayhem. People screaming in pain, the chaotic, jumpy sort of way the world looked when you were face-down in the dirt with someone trying to take your head off with a spray of large caliber bullets, the brutal waves of adrenaline, the blood, arcing in gentle sprays like a garden sprinkler on a hot summer day, the heat and the dust and the smell of steel and gore and cordite, all mixed together like a scene from an action movie he couldn’t escape. All in all, not something he’d ever want to experience again.

  They’d arrived at the Farm, carried by an old gas-burning flatbed truck, just in time to take positions before the attack. The Farm itself wasn’t much to look at, just a great big, scummy-looking pond and a few barns and outbuildings, but a defensive perimeter of sandbags and wire and old junked cars had been erected all the way around the place and it was to the far eastern side of this that Justin, Zero, Teresa, and five other people from the House were directed by Vivian, the intense woman they’d met earlier. Unarmed, Justin was assigned a safe place behind a thick piece of sheet metal and told to take care of anybody that got shot.

  “But…” he stammered at the woman, “but I’m not an Army medic! I don’t even have any bandages, or blood plasma or tri-Morphs, or—”

  “Here,” Vivian interrupted rudely, tossing him a shoulder bag marked with a red cross. “And don’t lose any of that shit!”

  And then, trotting off and shouting orders, she was gone. For a moment Justin had considered just dropping the shoulder bag and sneaking off back to the House, but then had decided that would be pretty cowardly and instead opened the bag to see with what medical wonders he’d been blessed. Nano-bandages, pressure and otherwise, good, Morphidrine in ready-to-use syringes, a couple of bags of uni-plasma and the gear needed to administer them, also very good. Now, if he was just an EMT or an ER nurse, he’d be in business. Making a wry face, he’d closed the bag and hoped that he’d have no need of it.

  For a long time, it seemed like, once everyone had been placed at the perimeter with their guns and extra bullets, nothing happened. The wind blew warm and dry, stirring up little clouds of dust, and the sun beat down intensely on the yellow-brown earth. Way up in the cloudless sky, a single big bird, probably a vulture, circled this way and that, never once finding need to flap its wings. Down in front of him, on the actual firing line, his compatriots checked their weapons, over and over again, and nervously jittered in place.

  Then there came a hoarse scream, an animalistic bellow like a dozen enraged bears, and suddenly the ground out in front of the line seemed to erupt with heavily armed human beings. Obviously the enemy had been creeping up for some time, using the many arroyos and folds in the ground to hide their approach. Now, at about fifty yards, they all leapt up and attacked, some dropping to one knee to fire at the defenders, others using the cover to rush ahead. Suddenly the air was thick with gunfire and what sounded like bees or something, zipping past his ears. That’s odd, he thought; what could that be? And then he hit the dirt as the answer came: They weren’t bees, for God’s sake, they were bullets! For the next while, maybe a few minutes, he simply cowered behind the sheet metal, covered his ears, and hoped very much that the shield between him and the bullets was good and thick.

  Finally the firing slackened somewhat, from a roar to a din, and he chanced a look past the rusted shield. There was smoke everywhere, people running and yelling and firing their weapons, a sort of general hubbub with guns, and then he noticed the wounded man. Lying immobile on his face behind some sandbags, a pool of blood slowly growing beneath him, one of the defenders, someone he’d never met, had obviously been shot.

  “Damn!” swore Justin, rating his chances of surviving actually going out into the open. It didn’t look terribly promising; in fact, it looked downright suicidal. “Damn, damn, damn!”

  And then he was up and running, before he’d really even decided to do so, sure that he was about to be shot and/or killed, right into the thick of it. Someone yelled at him to get down and, deciding that this was probably a pretty good piece of advice, he fell to his belly and crawled the rest of the way to the wounded man.

  Up close, it became all too apparent to Justin that it didn’t look good for the wounded man; he’d been shot in the head and most of the back of his skull was gone. Gray brain tissue, bright red blood, and jagged ivory bone showed garishly against the yellow soil. Gently, trying to ignore the cacophony all around, he tried the man’s carotid pulse, just to be sure, and confirmed his fears; the man was stone dead. Unsure whether he should try to haul the body to safety, try to cover him with a cloth or something, or just leave the poor fellow, Justin hesitated, wincing at each fresh burst of gunfire and wiping his blood-streaked hands on his pants, until another defender got hit.

  This time it was a man he’d met briefly, a small, friendly, red-haired guy named Ted who’d brought their meals one day in quarantine. Today, he’d been manning the parapet, so to speak, and now he screamed in agony and, dropping his rifle and doubling over, fell to the ground and clutched his stomach, where a bright red stain had begun to spread into his white T-shirt. Swearing again, Justin grabbed the medic bag and crawled towards him as quickly as he could.

  Crawling up to the writhing, moaning man, Justin told him to lay still and let him have a look, but Ted didn’t seem to hear him and instead rolled into a tighter ball. A natural enough reaction, Justin thought; but what to do about it?

  “Relax!” he shouted in Ted’s ear. “I’m a doctor! Hear me?! A doctor!”

  Ted’s panic-stricken eyes peered at him for a second and then he gave a sort of shudder and, unclenching himself somewhat, gingerly lay back. As gently as possible, Justin moved the man’s hands from over the wound and tore open the T-shirt, groping for a pressure bandage at the same time, and then saw that there was a neat hole in Ted’s abdomen, just below the diaphragm, from which blood was pumping at a fairly good clip. Wishing he had some antiseptic gel, he slapped the thick plasti-gauze bandage onto the spot, activated the edge strips, and applied gentle pressure. Ted writhed and groaned and cursed, but not so badly that Justin couldn’t keep the bandage in place, and finally the nanotech edge strips caught, the bandage sealed over the wound neat as can be, and the bleeding was staunched. So far, so good.

  “Hold this,
right here,” shouted Justin, placing Ted’s hands over the bandage. “And try not to move!”

  Returning to the bag, he grabbed a mophidrine syrette, noted that it was a one-grain injection (which seemed appropriate—didn’t it?), frantically stripped it open, and jabbed it into Ted’s thigh. Within a minute, the drug took effect and Ted relaxed a bit. Next Justin broke out the uni-plasma and was about to reluctantly attempt the rather tricky job of inserting it into Ted’s arm when there was a tremendous explosion and he rolled onto his face and lay there while the world jumped and skipped in his senses, his ears went quite deaf from an intense ringing, and clods of dirt and small rocks fell on him from the sky like rain. For a long moment, unable to move or even think properly, his only thought was that he must have been killed.

  He was still lying there wondering about it when someone loomed over him and he focused in enough to see that it was someone he didn’t know, a fifty-something man with a bald head and a thick goatee, an angry scowl on his weathered features. He was shouting about something and gesticulating, but Justin couldn’t discern a single syllable and had to simply point to his ears and shake his head. The man scowled again and then reached down, grabbed Justin by the shirt front, and roughly directed his attention to one side, where another wounded member of Baron Zero’s defenders had been hit and lay groaning in the dirt amidst a growing pool of her own fluids. Swearing to himself, Justin nodded at the man, whoever he was, and, grabbing the medic’s bag, scrambled towards the wounded fighter.

  He was almost there when, seemingly out of thin air, one of the raiders, a wild-eyed young woman with a shaved bald head and an enormous-looking handgun, was right there in front of him. Justin froze, unsure of what to do, but the enemy woman hesitated not one moment; with amazing swiftness, she raised the pistol and pointed it squarely at his face. Instinctively, he threw his hands up, expecting the fatal shot any second, but then, beyond all odds, the woman herself was shot. A neat red hole suddenly appeared in the middle of her forehead, a spray of brains and blood flew from the back of her head, and she went down in an unruly heap. Justin looked around for whoever may have just saved his life, but there was too much smoke and chaos to begin to figure it out. He looked at the woman before him on the ground, but there was obviously no helping her; the puddle of blood beneath what was left of her head told him that. Ruefully, briefly wondering who she’d been, he left her and crouch-ran toward the gut-shot defender.