by Jim LaVigne
The rest of the battle blurred together in Justin’s memory. There were more wounds, some severe, some superficial, and plenty more shooting and explosions, but it all blurred into one long phantasmagoria of noise and fire, punctuated by the screams of the wounded and the garish color of arterial blood on the parched ground. His hearing returned, grudgingly, and he hoped that his eardrums hadn’t been perforated, but otherwise he came through it unhurt, if profoundly shocked by the experience. In no more than thirty minutes it was over and, after a few last parting gunshots from either side, the firing stopped and the wind began to blow away the clouds of smoke and dust.
As it turned out, the bald, mustachioed man who’d encouraged his efforts was the House nurse, Denny. He and Baron Zero strolled up just as Justin was finishing with the last of the wounded, an older man named Lou who’d sustained a grazing bullet wound, and gave Justin a pair of big smiles. Zero had a pretty good scrape on one cheek and bits of dirt and plaster in his shaggy hair, and Denny sported a bandage on one lower leg, but they both seemed otherwise uninjured.
“Good work, Doctor,” said Denny earnestly. “I surely do appreciate your help.”
“Yeah, Doc,” nodded Zero. “You saved some good people today. I owe you my thanks, at the very least.”
Feeling both very tired and what he supposed was stress-induced trauma, a sort of detached, numb sensation, Justin looked up at them and frowned.
“I wish,” he said wanly, “that I had not been needed. I… I’m not accustomed to this kind of thing.”
“Aw, you get used to it,” said Zero wearily. “Strange as that seems.”
“What about the wounded?” asked Justin, rising from his knees. “Ted and the others, the ones who’ve been shot?”
Zero looked over at Denny, who shrugged noncommittally, and then back to Justin. “Well…” Zero said sheepishly, “I was kinda hoping that you would work on them.”
“Me?” Justin said sharply. “But those people need operations, complex procedures! I may be able to administer first aid, but I can’t perform surgery!”
“Why not?” asked Zero. “We have everything you’d need, back at the House. Scalpels and forceps and all of that, plus uni-plasma, whole blood, monitors, anesthetic, all kinds of drugs and anti-biotics and such.”
“But,” Justin protested helplessly, “but I’m an epidemiologist! I can’t go cutting into people! What did you do with the wounded before I came, anyway?”
“Our best,” Denny stated. “It’s not like we had any choice, so we just plain did what we had to do. Dug out the slugs, stitched up the holes… some lived, some didn’t.”
“Oh, Lord,” said Justin, holding his head. “What have I gotten myself into?”
Zero clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “It’s OK, Doc,” he said softly. “You don’t have to do it if you’re not up to it. We’ll muddle through. We always have.”
Justin knew that the man was clumsily applying some sort of reverse psychology, but that didn’t change the situation; if he didn’t operate on the wounded, Denny would. And it didn’t sound like Denny was all that great with a scalpel. Finally, heaving a sigh that went right down to his toes, Justin nodded.
“Alright,” he said miserably. “Against my better judgment and every rule of medical ethics, I’ll do it.”
“Good man!” grinned Zero. When Justin didn’t say anything, he again patted him on the shoulder. “Try to look at it this way, Doc—we all have to do stuff that we’re not really qualified to do. I mean, look at me! Do you think I was trained to lead a post-apocalyptic community? Hell no! But we all gotta do what we can. Right?”
“Yes, of course,” said Justin, “but this is different. This involves people’s lives.”
“Thing is,” said Denny gravely, “these people are sure to die if we don’t do something. If I work on ‘em, they just might not. And if you work on ‘em? Well, I’d say they stand a lot better chance. A hell of a lot better.”
“Yes, yes,” said Justin irritably. “I said I’d do it and I will. Now where are the patients?”
Eight hours later, with the last suture in place and all of his patients still alive, Justin stripped off the micro-pore gloves, tossed them into the waste bin with bits of organ and tissue and wads of bloody sponges, sighed deeply, and looked at his two assistants.
“Well,” he said thinly, “we did the best we could. Thank you both for your assistance.”
Cass, looking somewhat frazzled and very tired, only nodded.
“You’re welcome,” said Denny. “And for what it’s worth, I think you did a fine job.”
“Yes, well,” Justin said, “I hope that it was good enough. That hepatic lobectomy was very difficult.”
“I know,” said Denny. “But it’s something that I wouldn’t have even tried. I would have had to oversew the liver, most likely, and who knows if that would’ve worked? No, you should be proud, Doctor. Seriously.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Justin. “But I don’t feel very proud. Let me ask you, though, does this sort of thing—gun battles, that is—do they happen very often?”
“Maybe once or twice a month,” said Denny. “Depends on the time of year. We get a lot more attacks in the summer, but it slacks off in the winter.”
Justin shook his head. “Amazing. Simply amazing. But, as for the wounded, do you have people to monitor their conditions? Because I could really use some rest.”
“Sure thing,” said Denny. “We’ll keep an eye on ‘em. You go get some sleep.”
Justin exhaled slowly and deeply, rotated his cramped shoulders, and nodded. After a quick check to see that all four of his charges were still stable and receiving adequate post-surgery care (which, a bit surprisingly, they were), he collected Cass and followed her to their new quarters on the third floor of the House. Fortunately—and probably primarily due to the look on his face—no one asked about either the battle or the aftermath, and Justin was free to stumble over to an unoccupied bed, flop down, and fall into an exhausted slumber.
Chapter Twenty-Four
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It was hard for the Hunter to sit back and watch the firefight at the Farm. A strong part of him thrilled at the sights, sounds, and smells of battle and yearned to open up with everything he had on the scumbag attackers, but he’d kept himself in check and, with one notable exception, caused neither side any harm. But he’d wanted to help the defenders, mainly because he liked these people. Baron Zero, the Farm, the House, indeed the whole setup, from what he could see and hear from outside observation, was about the best post-Fall enclave he’d ever seen. They had electricity, fresh food, some kind of mercantile system, you name it! In short, a real society. And, unlike New America, the next best in his estimation, it wasn’t run by the Governor. Hell, that fat bastard would never have even considered leading his people in a fight! No, this Zero dude seemed much more like the Hunter’s kind of people.
Through the scope on his slugthrower, he’d kept an eye on the tall guy from the CDC, the one they called Doctor Case; after all, with the Old Man safe inside the House, Case was the only one of the group in which he was technically interested. He’d watched as the fight had broken out and the slugs had started flying, and then (with some admiration) as Case did his doctor thing.
He was still watching when the scrawny banger chick with the bald head had popped up out of the smoke and had made to drill Case between the eyes. Quick as lightning, he scanned the battlefield, but no one noticed Case’s predicament; the doctor was about to be shot dead. Deciding in a millisecond, the Hunter zoomed back in on the enemy w
oman, sighted his shot, and squeezed the trigger. Among the greater noise, the report from his rifle, coming as it did from almost a half mile away, had gone unnoticed, but the attacking woman had flopped over, head-shot, and died. You owe me one, Doctor, he’d thought.
The rest of the fight didn’t concern him, but he was glad to see the defenders finally win out. With the society they were building, they (unlike the dumb-ass survie gang, who undoubtedly lived for nothing more than their next beer), deserved a chance.
Having watched Case, the Old Man, and the others present themselves to the House’s authorities, the Hunter had considered doing the same, but then decided against it. Even if the CDC folks had never seen him, there was always a risk that someone else might recognize him and tip his hand. After all, he had built something of a name for himself. No, better to stay out in the open, where he could watch and listen and take to the road if things went sour. Besides, with his parabolic mics and high-powered scopes, it was almost like being there, anyway, and he’d managed to not only glean the names and occupations of each of the surviving CDC crew but also of the various officials and methods of Baron Zero’s House. Not that the information really helped him in any tangible way, as these peoples’ names and jobs weren’t anything of concrete value, but then again, he also knew that knowledge was always power. In addition, he’d been able to affix a name to his target: Mr. Howard P. Lampert.
Over the next day or so, watching and listening, hidden in deep foliage with his bike, he had a lot of time to think about what to do next. They were getting close to New America, now; just a quick shot up I-35 into Kansas. By rights, he should probably act soon, before they got any further away from New America. Yes, give them a day or two to get away from the aegis of Baron Zero, then swoop down on them, take the Old Man, and be gone. Of course, this plan might need some fine tuning, depending on the situation, but the basics seemed sound. And then all he’d have to do is deliver Lampert to the Governor. Easy as could be.
But, unbidden, the Hunter’s upper lip curled in disgust at the thought of his employer and, what was more, at the idea of handing Lampert over to him. Normally, the prospect of a job finished and well done gave him a sense of satisfaction and a certain pride, but not this one. This job would bring only regret because, despite his ruthlessness and general lack of empathy, the Hunter still held on to some shreds of ethics and morals. Right was right and wrong was wrong, no matter how chaotic and violent society became, and what the Governor was up to—the abduction and ransom of a human being—was just plain wrong, on all counts. Wrong in the moral sense that no one had the right to own, let alone sell, another human being, wrong in that it would delay or even derail the efforts of the CDC people to formulate a vaccine, and wrong in that it was being ordered and carried out by a pompous, tin-plated dictator like the Governor. Wrong any way he looked at it.
But then again, there were things that were very right about it, too. The pay, for one thing, was more than he’d ever dreamed of. With what he made on this job, he could probably finally quit this lousy occupation and settle down like he’d always wanted, somewhere on the beach in Mexico, and just sip tequila, eat, sleep, and watch the waves roll in.
Beyond that, there was his reputation to consider. If he was to fail to bring in Lampert, he would be marked; every other hunter and scumbag in the entire Southwest would be on his ass and, even worse, word of his failure would spread and no one would want to hire him. And that meant bye, bye Mexico.
So what to do? In the end, as he watched Case and the others prepare to leave the House, he still wasn’t sure. But then, he was certain he’d think of something when the time came. He always did.
Chapter Twenty-Five
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Next day, having seen to his patients (all doing as well as could be hoped) Justin set off to see Baron Zero. After a few wrong turns, he finally found the man’s office, where a receptionist, a middle-aged woman with striking red hair and round, pale features, looked up at his approach and smiled.
“Dr. Case, isn’t it?” she said charmingly.
“Kaes, actually,” said Justin. “Like a group of small islands. But yes, that’s me. I was wondering if I might speak with Baron Zero.”
“Well of course!” she beamed. “Just go right in!”
Thanking her, Justin did just that and found himself again in the capacious, cluttered office.
“Hey, Doctor Kaes!” Zero said, as soon as Justin was in view. “I was wondering when you were gonna show up.”
“Yes?” said Justin, noting a small nano-gauze bandage on the man’s cheek from the scrape incurred at the Farm. “And why were you wondering that?”
“Just a feeling,” said Zero, taking his seat behind the desk. “So what’s on your mind, Doc? Something I can do for you or your people?”
Justin frowned slightly. “Well,” he said, “for one thing, the individuals with whom I’m traveling are not “my people”, although I can see where one might get that impression.”
“No?” said Zero, smiling. “Then what are they, exactly?”
“Hmm, well,” Justin said slowly, “they’re something of a mixed bag, really. Mr. Lampert, of course, is my patient. Barbara Cass and Erin Swails are colleagues. Bowler is what I can only describe as a hanger-on, and Teresa? Well, when it comes to her, I can’t honestly say.”
“Not a girlfriend?” asked Zero. “If that’s not too personal to answer, of course.”
Justin frowned again and shrugged. “No,” he said, after a pensive pause. “I wouldn’t say that. I explained all this earlier, didn’t I?”
“Oh, I know,” Zero nodded. “And I didn’t mean any harm by the “your people” thing. Just seems like you’re the leader is all.”
“Completely and utterly by default, I assure you. But that’s not really what I wanted to talk about.”
“No? And what did you wanna talk about?”
“Our departure,” said Justin. “I don’t want to be rude or impertinent, but every day that goes by means that Mr. Lampert is that much older. And, as I said before, we absolutely need to get him to California alive. So, as you can see, any delay might be, well, disastrous.”
“Yeah,” said Zero laconically, “that whole one foot in the grave thing, I know. Here’s the deal, Doc; I sent some scouts out yesterday to have a look around and see what it looks like to the West. They should get back, oh, probably by tomorrow night, and then we’ll know what’s goin’ on out there.”
“Going on? What would be going on?”
“Hopefully, not much,” said Zero. “But who knows, right? With any luck, it’ll just be the usual bangers and survies, but you can never tell what’s gonna, like, develop out there, you know? One gang is always shovin’ another gang off of their turf, which causes turf wars, and there’s always the Muties, further west, always something. I just figured that we’d better have a look. Didn’t wanna send you off straight into some nasty survie shitstorm, right?”
“Indeed,” said Justin, nodding. “That does seem prudent.”
“And,” Zero said, holding up an index finger, “I think I found just the vehicle for you and your peop—uh, group. Wanna see it?”
“A vehicle? Really?”
“Yeah, it’s right down in the garage. C’mon, I’ll show ya.”
Intrigued, Justin followed Zero down some stairs and through some doors, into the massive ground floor garage and into one corner where a pair of oil-streaked mechanics, one male, one female, were toiling away on the oddest-looking
car Justin had ever seen. It had a great big panel mounted on the roof, for one thing, there were all kinds of wires running along its flanks, the tires seemed to be solid and made of metal, and the passenger compartment, while spacious enough, looked to be a collection of mismatched car seats. It had once been an autocar, he could see that much, but as to what brand or model, the modifications made it impossible to tell. All in all, especially compared to the other vehicles in the garage, all big, truck-like monsters, to Justin this thing looked like a diminutive, cobbled-together piece of junk.
“Well, whataya think?” asked Zero, pacing around the car. Noticing Justin’s somewhat crestfallen mien, he hastily added, “Oh, I know it doesn’t look like much, but this little baby’s your best shot at making the coast, believe me.”
“Oh?” said Justin. “And why is that, if I might be so inquisitive?”
“Jerry?” said Zero, turning to one of the mechanics. “You care to field that?”
“Well, it’s solar powered, for one thing,” said Jerry proudly, stepping up to indicate the panel on the roof, “so no need for gas or hydro. It’s got solid tires, made of ceramics, so you can’t get a flat, and the chassis and frame are reinforced with solid, welded steel plates. It’s got a broad-scan radio, a separate two-way radio system for localized com situations, plus infrared and ultraviolet sensors so you can see things in the dark. It’s got double-strength shocks, electricals, and servos, triple-strength halogen headlights, and can carry up to eight people comfortably. Ten in a pinch.”