Plaguesville, USA

by Jim LaVigne

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Georgie Porgie, puddin’ and pie,

  Kissed the girls and made them cry.

  When the boys came out to play,

  Georgie Porgie ran away.

  —nursery rhyme, traditional

  The Kid had decided, after the small, mean man had departed, along with two of the other Big People, that he’d been right all along about these creatures; they really were crazy. After all, who in his right mind would kill something for no apparent reason? Heck, the man hadn’t even chopped up the body for food! Now that was crazy. He had to admit, though, that the man’s weapon, whatever magical thing it represented, was something to be envied; it sure would come in handy dealing with Howlers and Rippers!

  He was also upset because not all of the Big People had departed; three of them, lying flat out on the soggy ground, still remained. He watched them for some time after the small man had taken the shiny moving box and driven away, but from where he was he couldn’t tell if they were sleeping, sick, or what had happened to them. He knew from the color of their skins that they weren’t dead, but then why were they just lying there?

  The storm itself had been scary, but, nestled in his new home, safe from flying junk, he’d experienced no more than some minor flooding. The aftermath was more interesting, as it had thrown all kinds of strange and intriguing bits of flotsam around, all of which he was itching to explore, but that would have to wait; no way was he going out to scavenge with those three crazy Big People hanging around.

  Not to mention, there was another Big lying there dead as a rock. Already a small cloud of flies had formed around the body and the Kid was well aware of what would happen next. Bloating, the terrible stink, carrion-hunters circling, maggots and flies and beetles, all of which meant that he couldn’t just leave the body where it was. He’d have to dispose of it somehow.

  For a while he thought about what to do. Eating it was out; something deep down made his stomach twist at the very thought and, besides, there was too much there to consume before it would go rotten. So what else? Digging a nice deep hole would be good; toss the body in and bury it. But that would take forever and by the time he’d finished, who knew what nasty thing would come nosing around for dead meat? Then it hit him; there was a deep hole at hand, some sort of man-made pit that he’d found near the ruined farmhouse that, judging from the smell, he suspected had been used as a place for going poop. Yes, that would work. Heck, it already smelled terrible! But how to get the body to the pit?

  Experimentally, he tried dragging the corpse, but it was so heavy that he could barely budge it. For a moment he stared at the poor dead Big Person. Then he noticed that, among the man’s odd and numerous garments, stuck in one of his weird foot-bindings, was a very nice knife. With a little grunt of appreciation, he pulled the blade from the dead man’s body and waved it around in the sunlight. He knew about blades; unlike tire irons, they cut things. He had one of his own, but it was dull and chipped. Not like this one, nice and clean and sharp.

  Eyes narrowing, the Kid looked at the knife. Then he looked at the body. Then back to the knife. And then he bent down and got to work. It was hard and messy, what with the blood and the flies and all, but he didn’t much care about that and, since the Big Person himself didn’t seem to mind, being stone dead, there was really nothing to give him pause. Diligently, knowing that time was an issue, he hacked and sliced and chopped.

  Once he’d reduced the man to manageable pieces, he toted each over to the old poop pit and tossed them in. Splash, plop, splash, and soon enough, the whole thing was gone. With a last look down the smelly hole, he decided that he’d done all he could with the body and, putting it easily from his thoughts, went down to the stream to wash off some of the blood.

  That took care of one problem, but there were still three more, just lying there on the ground. After considering them, the Kid decided to simply wait for these remaining Bigs to either wake up and go away or to just have done with it and die

  After a long time—the sun was well past its high point—he was still waiting when he suddenly caught sight of a Ripper, a big, shaggy one with a huge head full of yellow teeth, as it loped silently toward him across the fields. The Kid knew it must have smelled the blood, all that filthy innards-stuff from inside the dead man. Instantly, he grabbed his tire iron and froze, tensed and ready to strike, but the Ripper passed right by him, no more than twenty feet away, en route to the prone figures of the sleeping Big People.

  For a long moment, the Kid considered doing nothing; after all, if he just waited a little while, the Ripper might very well take care of all three of the Bigs for him. Better them than he! But then something rebelled in his mind, some quite novel (and terribly alien) scrap of humanity that told him no, that wasn’t right. He had to do something. He had to help.

  But why? argued the rest of his mind. Why should he risk himself for these crazy Big People? What had they ever done for him? Or anyone else, for that matter? No, better to leave ‘em to the Rippers. That way, they’d be gone, the Ripper, well-fed, would eventually be gone, and things would go back to normal. Problem solved.

  But the other voice still nagged. You know what you have to do. You can’t leave those people to be eaten by Rippers. And why? Because that’s what they are: People, just like you. Oh, they’re big and crazy and probably meaner than any six Rippers combined, but they’re still people and that means you have to help them. It might not even make sense, but you still have to do something. And you’ll be glad you did. Trust me.

  In the end, the voice of reason, the one that said to leave the crazy bastards to die, finally lost out and the other voice, the brand new one that sounded as crazy as any Big Person, was triumphant. But that didn’t stop the Kid from cursing it in every way he knew as he emerged from cover and went to fight the Ripper.

  The beast sensed him at once. Whipping around to face off, crouching low and ears flat, it bared its fangs and growled. Suddenly this didn’t seem like such a hot idea anymore; this was a very big Ripper, maybe the biggest he’d ever faced. It had to be more than twice his weight. The metal in his hand suddenly went slippery and the sun seemed blinding and far too hot. But it was too late for regret; the Ripper was advancing. The Kid could see the drool on its parted jaws, the scars on its face and its one mangled ear, and smell its gamey, greasy hide. Grimly, a fierce scowl on his muddy baby’s face, he raised the tire iron and braced for the attack.

  Obviously one of the smarter representatives of its kind, the Ripper didn’t rush at him right away. Instead, it circled, low and ready to spring, and eyed the Kid like he was a big piece of raw meat. Angrily, his blood singing with the thrill of battle, the Kid growled back and brandished his weapon. Come on! he thought. Come and get me, you big ugly monster!

  But it wouldn’t; it just kept circling and snarling. Then it stopped, just for a moment, to throw back its head and emit a loud, long howl before continuing to circle him. The Kid, well aware that the Ripper was calling for help, maybe a whole gang of his friends, knew then that his time was up. He had to kill this Ripper, and right now, or he’d end up as dead as the Big in the poop pit.

  Snarling deep in his throat, moving low to the ground, he darted forward but, fast as he was, the Ripper was faster and darted to one side and away from the sharpened steel tip of the tire iron. Balanced lightly on the balls of his unshod but leather-tough feet, the Kid struck again, going for a slashing blow to the Ripper’s head, but again the beast was too quick for him and the weapon fell on empty air.

  Then it was the Ripper’s turn to strike; launching itself from ten feet away, fangs bared and claws flailing, like a big furry ball of teeth and talons, it flew wildly at the Kid, who only just managed to twist aside. The Ripper thudded to earth but then slid on the slippery wet ground and fell, scrabbling madly, onto its side. Instantly, the Kid saw his chance and rushed forward, raised the tire iron high, and brought it down with every ounce of strength he could muster.


  Another howl, this one of stark pain, suddenly rang out as the Ripper, pierced through the neck by the tire iron, thrashed violently and bloodily back and forth in a vain attempt to dislodge the steel shaft. But it was no use and, soon enough, as the Kid watched, catching his breath with an eye open for more Rippers, the beast finally coughed horribly before falling over dead.

  The Kid almost let out a good loud yell of victory, quite proud of himself, but then decided against it; better to not attract any more attention. Sneering at the dead Ripper, he went over and gave it a hard kick, just to make sure it was good and dead. It most definitely was, so he jerked the tire iron from its neck and wiped away the blood on the wet grass. After another long glare at the beast (which was, he now decided, definitely the biggest he’d ever seen, let alone fought), he shouldered his weapon and, since he was out there in the open, had a look at the prone trio of Big People.

  He crawled up to them on all fours, sure they were playing possum and would leap up and grab him any second, but they didn’t so much a bat an eye as he edged up to within a few feet. Once he was up close, he saw that, at least for the moment, the Bigs were no threat to him. He was puzzled, though, as to what was wrong with them. Why did they just lay there? They couldn’t be asleep, not out here in the open. They weren’t dead, as he’d already guessed, because they were still breathing. So… what? The Kid had no frame of reference for such odd behavior.

  For a while, he simply crouched and stared at them, marveling at their oddness. For one thing, they were enormous! How did People get so big? Their hands and feet alone, especially in comparison to his own, seemed absurdly large, and their heads, nearly bald by his standards, were as big as good-sized wasp’s nests. Amazing. Plus, they were draped in stuff that he considered eminently impractical. Who could fight all wrapped up in that tight-fitting stuff? And what were those weird things on their feet?

  Two of them were alike, furry of face, tall and thin, and vaguely like himself, but the other one was different, and in a way that he somehow knew was profound. This one had weird bumps under its shirt, long hair, no fur on its face, and an overall build much curvier (and somehow appealing) than the others. It even smelled different. Bemused, he cocked his head and wondered about this new variety of Big Person. Why was it so different? Why did it stir these weird feelings in his narrow chest? And how could it possibly smell so wonderfully nice?

  Confused and nebulously upset, the Kid shook his head, edged a little closer, and then dared to reach out with the tire iron (the blunt end) and give the nearest one, one of the two bigger ones, a good poke. Nothing. Not so much as a snore. Huh.

  Standing up, he scratched his head and stared at them a little longer, but there was just no reason he could think of for what was wrong with them. Finally he gave up, shrugged, and went to skin the Ripper and dispose of the corpse. More for the pit. And either these crazy Bigs would wake up or they wouldn’t; that was how things worked. All he could hope for was that they wouldn’t cause him any more trouble.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  She’s an albino crack addict with a sexual perversion. He’s a paraplegic party clown with an eating disorder and three adopted transvestites for sons. Now they have to share an apartment! Can they ever get along, or is homicide in the air? Find out, this season on the new runaway hit reality series, Eye For An Eye!

  —ad for TV show, VFX network, 2054

  At first the Hunter was able to tune out the Old Man’s rambling, pointless, wheezing, nasal monologues, but right about the time they crossed the former border between Oklahoma and Kansas, Lampert became quite a bit more demanding. So far all he’d blathered about, despite the recent ugly scene of his being parted from his CDC friends, had been weird, arcane things from the past; TV shows, cinema, popular culture, politics, things like that, all of which meant next to nothing to the Hunter and went in one ear and out the other. He had experience in this, as one of his cellmates, a bank robber named Darrell, had been of a similar nature and he’d learned how to ignore this kind of aimless blather. Now, though, the Old Man had a rather specific request.

  “Hey, bullet-head,” he said. “I gotta take a leak. Hear me? I need to pull over and have a piss.”

  The Hunter said nothing.

  “Yo, screwhead!” said the Old Man, louder and more insistently. “You awake up there? You gone deaf or what? I said I gotta take a leak. Gotta drain the lizard. So unless you want me to piss myself and stink up the car, I recommend you pull this bucket of bolts to the side of the road, undo these restraints, and let me out for a minute.”

  The Hunter scowled and cursed himself for not thinking of this before. Of course the old fart had to piss; old people were well-known for incontinence, weren’t they? What had he expected? Angrily, he hit the brakes and brought the car to a halt.

  “‘Bout time,” Lampert grumbled.

  Moving quickly, the Hunter got out of the car, undid the restraints on the Old Man and then stood back.

  “You need help old dude?” he asked, not at all because he wanted to know but rather because he wanted to speed this along. “Want me to untie the nurse here?”

  Lampert looked up at him from inside the car and scowled.

  “Get bent,” he said defiantly. “Rather piss myself than accept anything from your psycho ass.”

  The Hunter shrugged. Suit yourself, he thought. Slowly, like a video in slow motion, Lampert eased his skeletal ass from the back seat and then pulled himself out of the car. After getting his balance (another slo-mo process), the Old Man finally tottered to the side of the blacktop and began his business. More from disgust than propriety, the Hunter turned away and waited, but even after a good minute, there was no sound of pissing.

  “What you doin’ old man?” said the Hunter testily. “I thought you had to go.”

  “I do!” Lampert snapped. “But I’m workin’ with a 102-year old prostate, here, psycho-boy. OK? Sometimes it takes a while.”

  The Hunter grunted and paced back and forth. Finally, a grunt and then a stream of liquid came from the Old Man and, before long, he was done, zipped up, and ready to go.

  “OK, ya homicidal weirdo,” he said jauntily. “I’m all done. Although you might wanna check on Barb back there. Be a shame if you have to stop again.”

  The Hunter considered. Was the Old Man trying something? Some sort of trick, or was he stalling for time? With a practiced eye, he scanned the horizon, but nothing stirred in the midday heat and there was no sign of trouble. After a moment’s thought, he stuck his head into the car and looked at the nurse.

  “You need to piss?” he asked.

  The nurse shook her head.

  “OK, fine,” said the Hunter, turning to the Old Man. “Now get back in the car, old man.”

  Lampert put his skinny arms akimbo and glared back. His eyes, the Hunter now noticed, were an amazing shade of piercing blue, not unlike his own.

  “What if I don’t wanna?” Lampert said petulantly. “Huh? What if I don’t wanna go with you? What you gonna do then?”

  The Hunter frowned and swore under his breath. Why did this ancient bag of bones have to be so damn difficult? He’d had escaped multiple felons that were easier to deal with! Grimly, he glared back at the Old Man.

  “Tie you up and toss you in,” he said flatly. “If I have to.”

  “And risk harming precious little old me?” sneered Lampert. “Risk losing whatever reward you’re lookin’ at? By the way, what are you gonna get for me, anyway? Money? Power? Women? Just curious.”

  “Never mind that,” snapped the Hunter. For a moment he considered his options. Then he looked back to the Old Man and cocked his head. “Just get into the car, OK? I’ll let ya ride in the shotgun seat. OK? Happy? And all I ask is one little thing.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “That you shut. The fuck. Up.”

  A snort of suppressed laughter came from the nurse in the back seat. Lampert gave a wheezing laugh of his own and slapped his thigh.
>
  “Well, we’ll just see about that,” he said, shaking his head. “But OK. I’ll do my best to keep a lid on it. Deal?”

  “Just get in.”

  For a long time, the Old Man was good to his word and they hummed along in relative silence. The road, while potholed and weed-grown, was straight and level, with few wrecks or pile-ups, and the Hunter used the opportunity to survey the various gauges and meters in the dashboard, looking for one in particular, until he saw what he’d hoped for—a radiation detector—and relaxed. He could live without tachometers and fuel gauges and such, but a Geiger counter would soon be absolutely essential. After a quiet few hours, the Old Man, true to form, just couldn’t stay still.

  “Ya know something?” he said, staring out the window. “I ain’t so sure this isn’t actually a good thing. The Fall, I mean.”

  That got the Hunter’s attention. Lazily, he glanced over at the Old Man.

  “What’s good about it?” he had to ask.

  “Well, for one thing,” said Lampert, lighting a smoke, “it means the end of the fucking United States of America. And good fucking riddance, far as I’m concerned.”

  “And what,” the Hunter stonily, “was wrong with the United States?”

  “Phhh, don’t get me started,” said Lampert, waving a bony, spotted hand. “But, just for fun, I’ll give ya an example. Show ya what I mean.”

  The Hunter rolled his eyes and waited.

  “Remember Nine Eleven?” asked the Old Man, lighting up a cigarette. “The terrorist attacks on New York and Washington? The jets flyin’ into the World Trade Center?”

  “Sure. Read about that in school. Pretty big deal, right? Led to the first Pan-Islamic Congress, an’ that led to the Jerusalem Accords and—.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” interrupted Lampert. “That ain’t what I’m talkin’ about. No, what I’m talkin’ about is right after the attacks, when the country went to war and they started sellin’ these stupid little decals that people bought for their cars. On account of this shitty pop song by an even shittier group called Tony Orlando and Dawn, which was about a convict being let outta prison, by the way, not a soldier at all… Anyway, these things were yellow, in the shape of a ribbon. And they said Support Our Troops on ‘em. Idea was, you’d buy one’a these things and stick it on your car, right? Show that you were like, patriotic, I guess. Like payin’ yer god damn taxes wasn’t good enough. But here’s the thing: no one ever asked who was sellin’ these stupid fuckin’ things! Did the profit go to disabled Vets or something? Did the money go to war widows and orphans? Who the fuck knows?! Shit, for all those jackasses knew, the decal company was owned by the fucking Taliban! But did they ever ask about it, or even fuckin’ think about it? Oh, hell no! Just buy one’a them decals, slap ‘er on there, and boom! You can quit thinkin’ about how we’re busy killin’ people on the other side of the world and get back to workin’ on yer next heart attack. And the decal company gets good an’ fuckin’ rich. Stupid fuckin’ bastards.”