Plaguesville, USA

by Jim LaVigne

  She stopped and shrugged. “Howie,” she said. “He know all kinda ploop, hey?”

  Justin sighed raggedly, scrubbing his face with one hand. “Mr. Lampert,” he spat, like a curse. “Of course.” He looked back to her. “Teresa, look,” he said, trying for his best, authoritative tones, “Mr. Lampert is not an epidemiologist. He’s not a doctor, of any kind. He’s not even a scientist. He was a car salesman Before! And now? Well, now he’s a bitter, cynical old man. I know that you like him and that he can be very persuasive, but he doesn’t know what he’s talking about! This virus will mutate and it will return. Until everyone is dead. Understand? Everyone.”

  She looked sort of frightened, just for a moment, her eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar, but then the accustomed hardness came back to her beautiful eyes and she shook her head.

  “It don’ matter, Case,” she said. “I a’ready made up my mind. I’m stayin’.”

  Down to his last argument, Justin slumped and then, desperately fearful of how she was going to respond, played the last card in his hand.

  “What about us?” he said softly. “What about what we’ve shared? Does that mean nothing to you? You won’t miss me?”

  “Sure I miss ya,” she said levelly. “An’ ‘specially at night. But I don’ know ‘bout the two of us, as in a couple, know what I say? I mean, you a big-shot whitecoat. You gots this big mission you on, an’ like, people to save and all. You an important man, hey? An’ me? I just another banger girl, jus’ like all the others. I prob’ly be better off with someone like me, hey?”

  Justin sighed again, the pit in his stomach widening into a chasm. Again, he had to admit that she made a good point; they were very different people and if they hadn’t been thrown together by circumstance, probably would never have even crossed paths. In a time of peace and normality—say, Before—they would have gotten along like oil and water. Nonetheless, the very thought of losing her, of never seeing her again, hit him so hard that he almost broke into tears. With great effort, he fought down the urge, but Teresa could obviously sense his pain.

  “Aw, it ain’t so bad, Case,” she said, in about the sweetest tones he’d ever heard from her. “You gonna go on you mission, gonna save the humanity race and all, and I gonna learn to read an’ write an’ all that good groop. And who know, hey? If you make it to Cali an’ save ever’body, mebbe you can come back! ‘Course, I might move on some day, but like I say, who know what could happen?”

  Justin groaned. “Yes, there’s always that possibility,” he said bleakly, his chest tight and his eyes hot with repressed tears. “However remote.” He looked at her closely and she stared back. “I will miss you, Teresa. You may have assaulted me and kidnapped me and dragged me from the only world I’ve ever known, but you also saved my life. And for that, I owe you my thanks. As for the rest, well, I feel that I have to tell you that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever known. You are smart, funny, capable, tough, and well, just simply amazing. I don’t know how exactly I’m going to deal with being away from you, but you’re right. I have my mission. And that’s all that really matters.”

  They were quiet for a moment. Teresa, blushing slightly, shuffled her boot-clad feet and then, nearly melting his heart, looked up at him coquettishly and batted her eyes.

  “Ya wanna do it?” she breathed. “Like, one more time ‘fore ya go?”

  Suddenly every fiber of his body wanted to take her in his arms, to kiss her and touch her and be with her in every sense, but it was only a fleeting, animal impulse, and he mastered it and shook his head.

  “No, Teresa,” he said, managing a wan smile. “That would just cheapen it. Let’s just leave things as they are. Besides, we really need to get going.”

  Teresa sulked a little, pouting so sexily that he almost changed his mind, but then she shrugged nonchalantly and smiled back.

  “Yeah, you right,” she said. “That ol’ man o’ yours ain’t gettin’ any younger, hey?”

  “That he is not,” sighed Justin, going to let the others back into the room. “That he most certainly is not.”

  The final preparations for their departure were a sort of dull blur to him after that and he left most of it to Cass, who was more than up to the job, and just floated through the effort. He did check on his patients in the infirmary, of course, but they all seemed pretty much the same, recovery-wise, so he gave Nurse Denny a few more pieces of advice—mainly to watch out for post-operative infections—and then quietly made himself scarce.

  Then there was the packing, including loading everything into the car, plus a long session with Baron Zero, some maps, and the scouts who’d been out on reconnaissance, but nothing about this seemed too dire—or even all that important—and, deciding that he’d like to just plain leave now and get it over with, he merely nodded along and tried to look interested until it was over. Internally, he felt as if his emotions had been scoured by steel wool, but he managed to at least seem like he was listening and so they were finally given more thanks and praise and last-minute gifts—all of which he didn’t really register—and it was about time to shove off.

  He saw her one more time, just as they were about to leave. A fair number of residents, maybe thirty or forty of them, plus Zero and his staff, all turned out to see them off that morning and Teresa was with them. Justin, sitting in the passenger seat of the car, searched the crowd of faces until he found her and, even at a distance and among all of the distraction, their eyes locked. Then, giving a slight, sexy scowl, she parted from the crowd and, dashing forward, ran up to the car window, grabbed him in an awkward hug, and gave him a deep, passionate kiss that brought Oohs from the assembled throng and a feeling like hot lava to Justin’s chest. Ignoring the hooting crowd, they looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment, and then she said: “Bye for now, Justin Case. Take care o’ yerself, and stay lucky, hey?”

  “Goodbye, Teresa,” he said, blushing like mad and not caring a whit. “Good luck to you, as well. I will never forget you.”

  And then tears welled in her eyes, the first he’d ever seen, and, her beautiful features scrunching up in pain, she whirled, ran away, and was quickly lost in the crowd. Next to Justin, Cornell waved to the send-off party through the window and then turned to Justin.

  “Well, Doc?” he said. “Shall we?”

  Justin nodded. “Yes,” he said woodenly, settling into his seat. “Let’s go.”

  If the others had anything to say about this tragic, romantic little scene—or anything else, for that matter—no one saw fit to give it voice. Neither Erin Swails or Barbara Cass, nor Bowler or Cornell. Even Lampert was quiet as they rolled out of the garage and into the bright Oklahoma sunlight. Once on the weed-grown asphalt and gaining some speed, they put Baron Zero, his remarkable House, and the whole strange experience behind them, never to be seen again.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Don’t use gasoline, don’t pollute the earth!

  Don’t buy a gas-burner, buy a brand new Mirth!

  —jingle in TV autocar ad, United American Motors’ Mirth, model year 2055

  “So, Bowler, what’s yer story, anyway?” asked the Old Man.

  It was well after sundown. After a long, long day of bumping along in the car in almost complete silence, they’d finally made camp on the side of the road and now were all huddled around a small wood fire. They’d had some food, the freshest of their provisions, as they were the most perishable, and had set up a big, six-man tent in which to sleep. For Justin, these and all of the other efforts of the day were mainly lost, as he more or less wallowed in self-pity and the sharp sting of bereavement, and let the others guide the course of things and do most of the actual work.

  Now, though, with a good meal under his belt, in the coolness of night after a hot day, things didn’t seem quite so bad (as in, maybe he wasn’t permanently crippled by sadness and loss after all) and he forced himself to shrug it off as best he could and to sit up and pay attention. At the moment, everyone was lo
oking at young Bowler, who now gave a shrug and finished chewing something.

  “Ain’t much to tell,” Bowler said. “I used to be a baggage handler for Trans-World, at Miami International. But that wasn’t much to speak of. Just slingin’ bags. Had a little place, not too far from the water, and, you know, friends and all…” He trailed off slowly, in unspoken homage to the dead, as most people did these days when speaking of Before. “Basically, though,” he continued, “I guess my life was pretty boring. Before the Plague, that is. Then things got real interesting. But then, you all know what that was like.”

  With that, a lull had fallen over the conversation and things went very quiet, with only the crackle of the fire. Then, from somewhere not very far away, a coyote’s bay split the night like a siren and they all jumped in surprise and shot worried glances into the shadows.

  “That’s a coyote, right?” Bowler asked nervously. “Right?”

  “Yup,” said Cornell, sitting with his back against the nearby car. “Since the Fall, they been multiplyin’ like rats. Too much good scavenging. Nothin’ to worry about, though. They won’t come anywhere near the fire.”

  “Uh huh,” said Bowler. “So we better keep the fire goin’, huh? Like all night?”

  “Yup,” said Cornell again. “And we’ll post a watch, too. Matter of fact, if no one objects, I think we oughta do that every night from here on out.”

  Everyone looked at Justin, obviously for approval or disapproval, and suddenly, for no apparent reason, the whole weight of what had happened in the last few years fell on him like a couple of tons of bricks. The sickness, the death, the mountains of dead bodies. The brutality, madness, and casual savagery. The crushing sense that everything had come to an end and the accompanying feelings of total helplessness. The horror, the pain, and enough loss for several human life-times all of a sudden crashed over him like a tidal wave and he almost fainted from the accumulated stress and anxiety.

  It wasn’t easy, but he controlled the urge to scream or sob (or both) and, setting his face resolutely, nodded curtly to the expectant faces.

  “That sounds fine,” he said stiffly. “By all means, set watches.”

  There must have been something noticeable in his voice, because the Old Man (damn his shriveled hide) cocked his head at Justin curiously.

  “You OK, Doc?” he said, in that horrible nasal voice. “You don’t sound so good…”

  “I’m fine,” said Justin, staring into the darkness. Then, before anyone could say anything more, he stood up and, trying not to reel, walked away from the fire, around to the other side of the car. Blessedly, no one followed.

  For a long moment, leaning on the car, he simply held himself in check. If he was to break down now, to let vent all of the years-long store of terror and repugnance, he would start to cry. And if he started to cry, he wasn’t at all sure that he’d ever stop. So he stood and shook and, feeling like a champagne bottle maliciously shaken, fought to banish the memories and raw emotions to some part of his mind where they wouldn’t threaten to send him off the deep end. He was still struggling when his eyes, wandering randomly, fell on something in the car and, despite a tiny little voice in his head saying not to, he reached in and grabbed a bottle of whiskey.

  For a moment he stood and stared at the bottle. It was one of ten that they’d been given by Zero to use as barter. Fresh from an old-fashioned corn mash still on Zero’s farm, it was a brown bottle with a hand-drawn label which read ‘Old Mack’s Pure Whiskey, Baron Zero’s Farm.’ It was probably very strong, maybe as high as 150 proof, and Justin had never been much of a drinker, even back in college, but in the end there was barely any internal debate involved as he roughly spun off the screw top, tipped the bottle up, and had a good long slug.

  At first he was sure he would vomit; the liquor felt like molten metal going down his throat and burned all the way down to his stomach. His mouth filled with saliva and when he exhaled his breath felt like he could have lit it with a match. Doubling over, he set the bottle on the ground and, hands on his knees, breathed deeply for a minute or two. Then his stomach relaxed, numbed into submission by the raw spirits, and a warm glow began to spread through his whole body. Straightening up, he swallowed hard and had a few deep breaths, and then the vision of a flaming pile of corpses flashed into his head and he grabbed the bottle from the ground and had another long pull.

  Fuck it, he thought angrily. Just fuck it all. Fuck the Old Man and all of them. He’d done everything he could; he’d done more than his share and gone above and beyond the Hippocratic Oath. And it wasn’t good enough. So just fuck it all and forget about it.

  Already feeling wobbly and considerably buzzed, he walked a few yards away from the car and sat down on what was left of a roadside guard rail, and took another long, molten metal swallow. There were still images and memories and emotions pressing on him, but the booze was quick, and after another couple of drinks, they all sort of bled into one another and, blunted and disarranged, no longer posed much of a threat. In fact, suddenly nothing seemed like much of a threat. The booze was like some kind of Novocain for the horror and he found that it felt very good to feel nothing at all. And another drink!

  The last thing he recalled was someone—probably Cass—approaching him. She’d looked concerned, and suddenly he’d felt very angry, and then… nothing. The white lightning shorted out the ability in his brain to record events for recall and he descended into the first drunken blackout of his life.

  Chapter Thirty

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  Red. A red wall. Then nothing.

  The need to pee, very urgent, some stumbling and cursing, then sweet relief. Then nothing.

  The red wall again. What was that, anyway? Some noises, people talking. Then nothing.

  Again with the red wall, and suddenly a splitting headache, like his whole head wanted to crack open and scream, and a sudden, greasy spasm wracked his stomach. His mouth felt like he’d slept with an alcohol-soaked ball of cotton in there, and his eyeballs like there was ground glass under the lids. And what was that red wall?!

  Then it came to him; it was the wall of the tent. The tent Baron Zero had given them, where he’d slept last night. Last night! What had happened? Through the pain and nausea, he tried to remember, but there was just plain nothing there to recall. He remembered drinking, of course, and the crushing despair that had led to it, and then Cass talking to him, and then it was as if someone had erased that part of the recording. Blank as a new slate.

  Issuing a groan that resonated from his aching head to his aching feet, he rolled onto his back, absently noting that he was alone in the tent, and tried to think, but there really wasn’t anything to think about and he soon gave up. It seemed to be well into the day, judging from the sunlight on the tent. How long had he slept? Looking around, he saw that, aside from himself and his sleeping bag, the tent was empty. Likely the others had already packed up.

  With another groan, he sat up, precipitating a fresh wave of nausea and headache, and then painfully got to his feet. The world swayed and wobbled for a moment as he gained his balance, but after a pause for a few deep breaths he felt slightly better. His mouth still tasted of liquor and vomit, his tongue like a wooly caterpillar, and his eyeballs burned like he’d been maced. He managed, however, to unzip the flap and step out into the harsh glare of a midday sun, and then very nearly stepped right back into the tent. They were all there, waiting for him, and the looks on their faces told
him that he must have done or said something pretty bad in the course of his drunken binge. But what?

  They all looked up as he emerged from the tent. Cornell, doing something under the hood of the car, glanced up and an expression of deep disgust came to his face as he shook his head and went back to whatever he was doing. Bowler, sitting in the shade of an old highway sign, sadly looked down at his feet, and Erin Swails, standing to one side, did the same. Barb Cass, packing up some cooking utensils, gave him a long, hard sort of look and then nodded to him, not all that warmly, and went back to her packing. It was Mr. Lampert, for some reason, whose expression he was most loath to read, but finally he looked at the Old Man and saw that, for whatever reason, Lampert’s face was a study in calm, like his wrinkled, prune-like features had been set in stone.

  “Hiya, Doc,” he said, his tone as flat as his face. “You, uh… you OK?”

  “I…” Justin tried and then had to pause to cough, violently and deeply, before trying again. “I feel awful,” he said, holding his head with one hand and his belly with the other. “Simply awful.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Lampert. “Well, good.”

  Wondering what that might mean, coming from Lampert, Justin grimaced and then, spying the ten-gallon potable water bladder on the side of the car, complete with a tin drinking cup, went over and poured a whole cup. Going down, warm and stale as it was, the water felt like Life itself returning to his tortured system and he had another two cups before replacing it. He considered something to eat for a second, but the way his stomach writhed from merely trying to cope with water dissuaded him. He wiped his face with both hands and turned back to the others.