by Jim LaVigne
“We should get moving,” he said, as steadily as he could. “I’m sorry for what happened, and that I overslept, but we should go.”
Sulkily, they all sort of shrugged and then went to put the last of their things—including the tent— into the car. Justin sat in the passenger’s seat and waited, trying desperately to recall what he may have said or done to the others, especially to the Old Man, but it was simply no use; there was just nothing there. At last, they loaded up the last of it and themselves and, the car whirring a lot more loudly than he’d remembered, they rolled onto the road and got underway.
For most of the morning, Justin simply sat in his seat, watched the landscape roll past, and wondered how on earth anyone could live with this thing known as a hangover. Even at the CDC, there had been heavy drinkers, people who got drunk at least once a week, and now, experiencing the aftermath of this himself, Justin couldn’t begin to fathom why anyone would think this pain and nausea a fair trade for intoxication. No, it just wasn’t worth it, and he told himself, over and over again, that he would never, ever drink again. Just the thought of the stuff almost made him throw up.
He also felt deeply ashamed, of course, but it was, in the absence of the facts of what he’d actually done and said, a nebulous, vague sort of shame that was, in its very nature, even more disturbing and shameful than any normal sense of remorse. To put it another way, he couldn’t feel bad about what he couldn’t remember, but he felt plenty bad about what he could.
Normally there was chatter in the car, little conversations about this or that, but this morning everyone was silent. Whatever he’d said and done had certainly made an impression! Content with the quiet, in a sour, sick sort of way, Justin let the silence reign.
At their stop for lunch, when everyone was stretching their legs and making something to eat, he drew Bowler off to one side and quietly put the question to the younger man.
“What did I do last night?” he said. “What did I say?”
Bowler shuffled his feet uncomfortably and looked over Justin’s shoulder, at the others, but then sighed.
“Well, you were good and hammered,” he said. “That homemade stuff must really pack a wallop, huh?”
“Yes, it’s quite strong,” Justin said, suppressing a queasy burp. “But I need to know… what did I say to Mr. Lampert?”
“Oh, man, you laid into him somethin’ fierce! You called him all kinds of names, said how he was a, what was it? A shriveled old fossil, that was one. And a heartless, mean old reptile. Lots of other things, too, none if it too nice. Gee, what else? Well, mostly you like, blamed him.”
“Blamed him? For what?”
“Oh, just about everything, seemed like. You, uh, said how people like him were like, what was wrong with the world, an’ how if he would just lift a finger to help, your mission would be a lot easier. And about, you know, her. Teresa. I dunno, Doc, you were pretty smashed. You said a lotta stuff.”
“I didn’t hurt anyone, did I?” Justin asked. “Physically, I mean.”
“Oh, no,” said Bowler, shaking his head. “You were kind of a mean drunk, but not that mean. No, you just kinda yelled at everybody for a while and then you went off and puked in the bushes. Then you went into the tent and passed out. The end. Personally, if it was me? I wouldn’t worry about, it Doc. Everybody needs to blow off steam once in a while.”
Justin smiled. “Thanks,” he said, and meant it. “But I think you’re being kind. Mr. Lampert wouldn’t be so upset, unless I’d said some pretty terrible things.”
“Aw, don’t mind him,” said Bowler. “He’s just tryin’ to get your goat. Trust me, you weren’t that bad.”
“Well,” said Justin, feeling a little better, “that’s nice to know. Thank you.”
“No problem.”
Justin heaved a deep sigh. “Well, let’s get something to eat,” he said. “We have to keep up our strength.”
It was a quiet lunch, but not quite so tense and sullen as that morning, and by the end they were back to making small talk. Even the Old man contributed a few of his crusty old one-liners. Justin felt better with some food—in this case corn mash, bacon, and fresh peaches—in his stomach and when they packed up and got back on the road, he gratefully nestled into his seat and, lulled by the motion of the vehicle and the warm afternoon sun, fell into a sound sleep.
When he woke up, it was toward sundown. Blearily, he looked around and cleared his throat.
“Hey, Doc,” said Cornell, looking over. “You feel better?”
“A little,” Justin admitted. “But how long did I sleep? Where are we?”
“Middle o’ nowhere, basically,” said Cornell. “And you was out for, oh, quite a while. I was startin’ to think about lookin’ for a spot for the night. After all, this baby won’t run without the sun.”
“Er, yes, of course,” said Justin, running his tongue around in his mouth. “Whatever you think best.”
“Yeah, that’s the one drawback to this thing,” said Cornell, nodding at the dashboard. “We can’t travel at night.”
“Yes, well,” Justin said, “if the alternative is to walk, I think we can call it a fair trade.”
“Amen to that, friend,” Cornell nodded. “No way in hell we’d make it on foot.”
Things went quiet again and Justin sat and watched the landscape flow by his window. Mostly they were in open, formerly farm country, but every so often a burned-out strip mall or dilapidated farmhouse came into view, and they had to slow down at one point to navigate a huge pile-up of cars and trucks that nearly obstructed the road. Humming carefully around the mess, a tangle of maybe thirty vehicles, all smashed and starting to rust, Justin couldn’t help but wonder aloud.
“What happened here?” he said. “Is it a Panic Jam?”
They’d seen a few of these in their travels, great fields of derelict vehicles, hundreds and hundreds all crammed together at some choke point like a bridge or tunnel. They called them Panic Jams because they marked where city dwellers had attempted to leave their homes en masse and had either run out of gas or been turned back by the authorities. Typically, they were sad, often gruesome scenes of destruction, but they were also magnets for anyone in need of gasoline or a vehicle and subsequently quite often very dangerous places, like a no-man’s-land combined with a used car lot. This, though, didn’t seem the same.
“Naw, this here’s a roadblock,” Cornell acknowledged. “This banger clan, the Black Fists, they put all them cars and trucks there so they could stop anybody still out on the road. Used to man the thing, like day an’ night.”
“But not anymore?” said Bowler worriedly, swiveling in his seat to eye the pile of cars and trucks.
“Nope,” Cornell said confidently. “Not for a good year or so, anyway.”
Justin caught the implication that Cornell had been involved with some sort of altercation with this Black Hand bunch and had come out on top, but he decided not to inquire about it. There were plenty enough tales of pain and strife going around as it was.
Once past this minor obstacle, they motored along smoothly for another half hour or so and then Cornell slowed the car and, scanning the roadside intently, finally seemed to make up his mind and brought the car to a halt on what was left of the shoulder.
“Here we are, folks,” he said cheerfully. “Home for the night.”
To Justin, the spot Cornell had chosen looked just like any other stretch of disused highway. There was a burned-down farm house and some outbuildings about a quarter mile away, but otherwise the land here was largely open and anonymous. Once he’d climbed out of the car and stretched out some of the kinks in his back and neck, he decided to satisfy his curiosity.
“Why here?” he asked Cornell, as they unpacked the tent and the cooking gear. “That is, was there some specific reason you chose this spot?”
“High ground,” Cornell said. “Top o’ this little hill here, we can see for a good mile or two, let us know if anybody’s comin’.”
“Basic,” shrugged Cornell.
They set up the tent and the cooking stuff—a compact, gasoline-powered stove and the accompanying pots and pans—and then made something to eat. It may have been only their second night away from the House, but somehow it felt like much longer to Justin. Waiting for dinner, watching the sun sink into a forbidding bank of dark clouds to the west and thinking (despite himself) about Teresa, he thought that it felt rather more like a week had gone by since they’d left. Funny how time was often so relative.
After a subdued meal, they all sat around an economical fire as they had the previous night, and talked quietly before Cornell suddenly hushed them to silence and cocked his head to listen. Justin stood up and cast about and the faint sounds of distant gunfire, muted cracks, came to his ears.
“Is that shooting?” asked Cass. “As in gunshots?”
“Sure is,” said Cornell, staring off into the darkness. “But it’s some ways off.”
“How far off?” asked Justin. “Because it sounds more than close enough for me.”
“Couple miles, I’d say,” Cornell said, his casual tones reassuring. “Give or take.”
“But what is it?” asked Bowler. “I mean, gunshots, sure, but who’s doing the shooting?”
“Who knows?” shrugged Cornell. “Could be one of a half-dozen gangs, marking turf, or it could just be some survie wacko out playin’ with his guns. We’re in the Big Wide Open, now, it could be anybody. All I know is, we better douse the fire and keep our eyes open tonight.”
Cornell paused to listen, but presently the gunfire trailed off and then stopped entirely. They listened some more, but there was nothing.
“Huh,” said Cornell speculatively. “I guess they’s done for now, whoever they are.”
“Perhaps,” said Justin, “but whoever it is, it sounds as if they’re ahead of us. That is, somewhere up this road we’re on, or am I mistaken?”
“No, you’re right,” said Cornell, scowling. “It does sound that way. But then again, noises are weird out here, ‘specially since the Fall. They bounce around, sometimes they carry real far, like that. Just means we gotta be real careful, keep our eyes peeled. And put out that fire.”
Bowler, after a moment’s hesitation, did as told and kicked dirt and rocks onto the small blaze. The campsite went dark, and Cornell produced a small flashlight and escorted everyone over to the tent, saying that he’d take the first watch. Justin, neither unaware nor particularly put out about Cornell’s leading the group and making decisions, at least in this situation, followed the others into the tent, unrolled his sleeping bag, and lay down. Cass helped the Old Man to get comfortable, and then they all lay there in the dark.
Justin listened to the night for a while, but there was almost nothing to hear, just the breathing and rustling of the others, and his restless mind turned to the matter at hand. That is to say, the Mission. Back at Zero’s house, studying the map, he’d made some quick calculations (forty miles per hour, six hours per day for a distance of about 1300 miles) and had decided that, under optimal conditions and with no major delays, it would take about six days to get to California. Their route, pretty much a straight shot across the panhandle of Oklahoma, northern New Mexico and Arizona, had been carefully determined and entailed using state highways so as to avoid major population centers, which almost always meant trouble in the form of whatever gang or gangs had taken control. They’d already passed what remained of several towns, including Bartlesville, Ponca City, and a couple of others, but they’d all seemed completely deserted and thus had posed no threat or source of delay. But Justin knew that they’d been lucky so far, and that he couldn’t begin to count on the streak continuing. Sooner or later, they’d run afoul of somebody or something.
Frustrated by the uncertainty, he rolled onto his side and tried to hope for the best, but really he was irritated that he should even be placed in such a position; what did he know about things like logistics and transportation? How could he be expected, even with all the help they’d received, to actually plan and execute this crazy trek? When they’d all been together, with their vehicles and gear and all, there had been two different people—experts—who’d directed their travels. Now it was his job and, as far as he was concerned, the mere idea was ludicrous at best.
But then, he’d been forced into all kinds of impossible positions of late and most of them had been just as absurd, so what the hell? He’d come through everything else so far; maybe he could make it through this as well. He finally decided that tomorrow was another day and he’d just have to wait and see what developed. At least he wasn’t hung-over anymore. He lay there for a while longer, waiting for more gunshots, but nothing happened and he slowly drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Thirty-One
Jack, be nimble,
Jack, be quick,
Jack, jump over
The candlestick.
—nursery rhyme, traditional
There were exactly three things happening that the Kid didn’t like at all. First, some Big People had come, riding in a big shining spiky thing which, unlike most of these things he’d seen, made hardly any noise at all. There were six of them in all, and from what he could see at this distance, of a variety when it came to appearance. Some were taller than others, some had lighter or darker skin, and some moved quickly and efficiently, while others were much slower or more deliberate. In fact, they were like no other Big People he’d ever encountered.
So far, they hadn’t come anywhere near his new home. They’d rolled up, piled out of the shiny thing, had set up some kind of huge, brightly-colored shelter, and had then made some fire. This always fascinated the Kid; he knew what fire was and how it could be used, but he had no way of making his own. But that wasn’t all; the Big People had also made food for themselves and the smell of it, even this distance, made his mouth fill with saliva and nearly coaxed him out of his home. But he was strong; no Big Person was going to trick him into revealing himself!
After they ate, they sat around the fire and did something else that intrigued him, as they made all kinds of noises at each other and waved their hands as they did. He took this for some kind of communication, that they were telling each other things, but the actual sound of it, so unlike the sounds of birds or Rippers or even Howlers, was so foreign to his ears that he could only shake his head in bewilderment and wonder how they made any sense of each other.
The second thing he didn’t like was that he was pretty sure that these Big People were not alone. Something else was out there in the night, something that was hunting these people. He hadn’t seen or even heard anyone or anything, but a sixth sense for danger, inculcated over years of experience, told him that there was someone or something deadlier than even the meanest Ripper or the craziest Howler he’d ever seen lurking somewhere nearby. Maybe it was some new kind of threat, some kind of animal that he’d never met in the Woods, but then, he got the feeling that this was no animal; this deadly thing was a Big Person. Luckily, he was still reasonably sure that this new threat, whatever it was, had not become aware of him.
And so the Kid hunkered down. He hid himself so well that not even a Ripper could have spotted him, kept a sharp eye on everything that the six Big People did (which was not much), listened attentively for anything moving nearby, and waited to see what, if anything, might happen.
The third and final thing that he didn’t like was the look of the sky to the west, as huge banks of towering storm clouds were rolling towards them. The Kid had seen plenty of weather in his few years, including more than a few nasty thunderstorms, but this seemed different, somehow, bigger and more imposing than any he’d ever seen. Even now, as sun-up approached, faint jagged lines of bright white-blue shot through the clouds and, faintly, he could hear the first grumbles of thunder.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Th
is week on Historical Crime Busters, Mother Teresa goes undercover to stop a prostitution ring and General Omar Bradley breaks up a Satanic cult! Don’t miss the excitement!
—promo ad for TV show, UZS network, circa 2052
It was almost dawn when Erin Swails nudged Justin awake with the toe of her boot. At first he was confused and alarmed, as usual, but then he recalled what was going on and struggled out of his sleeping bag.
“Is it my turn?” he whispered. “On watch?”
Erin nodded, but didn’t go back to her sleeping bag. Justin put on his boots and joined her. They stood and watched the first rays of sunlight peep over the horizon, where a clear sky belied the mass of angry black clouds rolling in from the west. The landscape around them, deathly still for most of the night, now began to stir; here a prairie dog scampered, there a flock of small brown birds took flight, and from the grass and weeds around them came occasional rustles. Interesting, thought Justin, how the greater Animal World had been affected by the Fall only inasmuch as it was an absolute boon. With all those people no longer trapping and poisoning and hunting them, they’d more or less run riot. It was their world now.
“Think we’ll make it?” asked Erin, out of the blue. “I mean, do you really think we can do it?”
“I think,” said Justin, staring at the sunrise, “that we stand a good chance. We’ve been through a lot and we undoubtedly will face even more, but we’ve come this far. Who’s to say how far we could get?”
“Yeah,” said Erin thoughtfully. “It’s weird, though, isn’t it? I mean, all the people we lost along the way. Sometimes I have a hard time even thinking about it.”