by Jim LaVigne
The Hunter smiled, a thin line upturned on his impassive face, and nodded.
“Always suckers, old man,” he said. “Always been, always will be.”
“Yeah, that’s for sure,” said Lampert, flicking ash out the window. “But lately, there’s sure as shit a whole lot less of ‘em, an’ that’s my point. Maybe this plague wasn’t the worst thing that coulda happened.”
Shaking his head, the Hunter gave a low whistle. “That’s harsh,” he said. “All them moms and dads and their little kids? An’ now all the gangs and cannibals and disasters an’ shit? I don’t know…”
“Eh, who cares?” said Lampert irritably, and snapped his cigarette butt out the window. “You, me, Nurse Cass back there, everybody, we’re all gonna buy it, soon or later. Me sooner, of course, but that goes without sayin’. You guys might even die of old age before the plague comes back. But, according to the CDC guys, Doc Case an’ all, it will come back. Over an’ over until everybody’s gone. And then? Well, shit, then the planet’ll take itself back and there’ll be nobody left to care that there ever was such a thing as the United States. So long and that is fuckin’ that. Know what I mean?”
“Guess so,” said the Hunter noncommittally. Grumbling, the Old Man went back to his own thoughts and staring out the window. The Hunter drove on, thinking despite himself about what the Old Man had said.
When the sun started to set, maybe two hours after their rest stop, the Hunter, watching the power level drop like a stone, cursed the vehicle, slapped the steering wheel, and pulled over to the side of the road. Damn solar cars! If he still had his bike, they’d be in New America already! And who would have guessed? A tornado?! Bitterly, he sat and stared at the setting sun for a moment.
“Outta juice, huh?” said the Old Man. “Well, ain’t that a bitch. So whatta we gonna do now?”
“Wait,” said the Hunter. “Rest.”
Opening his door, he got out of the car and stretched. The night wind had begun, a soft, cool breeze that smelled of sage and wet dirt. From somewhere off to their right came the sharp yips of a coyote or two. Overhead, purple clouds, offset by the first bright stars, floated in an indigo sky. For a long moment he stared down the highway to the north and thought again about the rad-meter in the car. Or rather, of its relative effectiveness. He was still thinking when he was startled by the Old Man at his side.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?” asked Lampert rudely.
“Nothin’,” said the Hunter. “Not a god damn thing.”
“Cause ya look worried,” the Old Man persisted. “An’ from what I’ve seen of you, that can’t be a good thing.”
The Hunter sighed and turned to Lampert. “You really wanna know, old dude?”
Lampert nodded. “Why not?” he shrugged. “How bad can it be?”
“Pretty fuckin’ bad,” the Hunter said. He pointed down the road. “Ya see old man, up ahead there’s what they used to call Wolf Creek One, just outside’a what they used to call Burlington, Kansas. Ever heard of it?”
“Nope.”
“Din’t think so. Wolf Creek One was a nuke reactor, and it melted down.”
“Oh, great,” said Lampert, rolling his eyes. “That sounds like lots of fun! But I guess I’m confused. I thought all those old nukes had melted down. Or most of ‘em, anyway. I mean, the CDC guys had to make some pretty serious detours on our little trip, because of the radiation, so why is this one such a big deal?”
“Cause this one,” said the Hunter, “melted down but it didn’t blow up. The containment structure is still intact. Or it was, anyway, last time I came by here.”
“Ah hah,” said Lampert. “Now I get what you mean. You’re worried it’s blown its top since then.”
“Bingo.”
“What about the car?” asked Lampert. “I mean, shit, all those dials and switches and shit in there, you’d think one of ‘em was a Geiger counter.”
“One is,” said the Hunter. “And we’re gonna sure as shit need it.”
The Old Man nodded and shrugged. “Well, that’s how it goes these days, I guess. Everything’s fallin’ apart. It’s kinda like that poem by what’s his face, Yeats, the one about how “the center does not hold, the rough beast slouching toward Bethlehem”, all that.”
The Hunter gazed blankly at Lampert; what he knew about poetry wouldn’t fill a shot glass.
“Never heard of it,” he said. Turning from the Old Man, he went back to the car, leaned in, and eyed the nurse. Apparently unfazed, she blandly eyed him back.
“I’m gonna let you out,” he told her. “And I don’t need no trouble. Understand?”
The nurse nodded. “Don’t worry,” she said coldly, “I saw what you did to Cornell.”
The Hunter winced inwardly, still ruing that little event, but showed nothing on his face, nodded back, and undid the nurse’s restraints. This accomplished, as the nurse stretched and walked around and saw to the Old Man, he went to the rear of the car and rummaged in the storage compartment for a while before selecting a small propane stove, a saucepan, two bowls, three spoons, and three random cans of food.
Eventually, undoubtedly lured by the smell, the nurse and the Old Man came over to where he crouched over the stove. Without looking up, he poured a third of the food into two bowls and set them before the others. Taking the pan and a spoon, he sat down on the ground nearby and began to eat. After getting the Old Man settled on a blanket she’d dug from the car, the nurse took the bowls and she and Lampert also tucked in.
“What the hell is this?” asked the Old Man, grimacing at his first bite. “Some kinda goulash? Or what?”
“It’s food,” said the Hunter. “Eat.”
Lampert stared into his bowl for a moment and then shrugged and spooned up some more.
“Can’t argue with logic like that, now can I?” he said wryly, gazing at the Hunter over the sterile blue-white glow of the propane stove. They ate for a while before the Old Man had to open his trap again.
“Ain’t much for conversation, are ya?” he said, and grinned snidely. “Sorta the strong, silent, violent-as-all-hell type o’ guy, huh?”
The Hunter said nothing, face flat, and stared back. After a long moment, the Old Man shrugged again and went back to his food.
“Like I said,” he wheezed. “Not much for conversation.” He turned to the nurse. “So, Barb, you ever listen to much music?”
The nurse hesitated, eyeing the Hunter, before finally glancing over to the Old Man and nodding slightly.
“Some,” she replied. “I’m something of a jazz fan, actually.”
“Jazz?!” snorted Lampert. “Aw, that’s just for musicians to show off to other musicians. All those scales and the like, incessant noodling. Naw, what I mean is good old-fashioned rock and roll. Ya ever hear of a band called the Clash?”
“I don’t believe so,” said the nurse. “Were they popular?”
“Yeah, pretty popular,” said the Old Man. “Couple radio hits in the eighties. But more influential, I’d say. Anyway, they had this one song, Clampdown. Man, that was a good one!”
“I see,” said the nurse.
“Yup,” nodded Lampert, gazing pointedly at the Hunter. “Workin’ for the Clampdown. Makes you think, don’t it?”
“Um, yes,” the nurse said bemusedly. “I suppose so.”
The Hunter finished his portion of chow and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. Carelessly, he tossed the pan and the spoon next to the stove and glared down at the Old Man.
“Eat up, old dude,” he said evenly. “I need to get some shut-eye.”
Later, his captives restrained (but not too uncomfortably) in the car, the Hunter lay on his back on the ground, stared into the deep oblivion of limitless space, and, for the first time in his long career, gave some thought to the relative morality about what he was doing. It wasn’t so much that he’d had any sort of epiphany or come to some sort of realization, but rather that he knew and liked the song the Old Man had mentioned. In fact
, it was on his compact MP3 player, filed under Classical Rock. If he felt like it, he could listen to it right now. But to have the sentiment of the song, a roaring indictment of the misuse of power and bully-ism, applied to him personally? Well, damn his shriveled old hide, but the Old Man was right; it did make him think.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Combat Ball! Combat Ball!
Are you ready for Wednesday Night Combat Ball?
The brutal Thugs of Cleveland are ready to fight,
And the vicious Beasts from Miami are doin’ it right!
Get your buddies together, get the vodka good an’ cold,
‘cause the Combat Ball league is here for blood and gold!
—theme song for popular sporting event, VFX network, circa 2056
When Sergeant Lumler got to the Jolly Café, he found that, as feared, it was no longer in business. In fact, it was no longer technically there. A few smoldering timbers and a great pile of bricks and debris were all that was left. The café’s sign, half-burned, lay in the middle of the wreckage-cluttered street.
Lumler shook his head. Too bad. But then this part of New America had been hit particularly hard in the War. Buildings on both sides of the street were either damaged or destroyed. Few did not show the scars of bullets or rocket-propelled grenades. Resignedly, trying not to think too much about it, Lumler took a seat on the remains of a low retaining wall and waited for Santiago.
It was a cool day, with low clouds and a persistent drizzle, but, warm and dry in his long black PF overcoat, Lumler didn’t take much notice. The neighborhood, once a busy commercial district, was mainly deserted; those citizens of New America not employed in Vital War Industries had been drafted into the Army. Niceties like restaurants would just have to wait. The only activity was a couple of blocks over, where a bunch of Army grunts could be heard, shouting back and forth in hoarse, aggressive voices. Overhead, a huge flock of crows wheeled and flapped and cawed in the gray sky.
Finally Santiago came along, picking his way around the rubble, ambled up to Lumler and shook his head.
“Looks like breakfast is off,” he said sadly, eyeing the destruction. Lumler noticed that the man’s lab coat, usually pristine white, had blotches along the front like old wine stains.
“Huh, yeah,” said Lumler, rising. “Like forever. Well, never mind. I brought some stuff. Let’s walk down to the park.”
“OK,” shrugged Santiago. “Not like we’re gonna get anything here.”
They walked down West 9th Street, passing a series of big corn and soybean fields, where dozens of Agro citizens, distinct in their green vests, toiled away, weeding and fertilizing and watering the plants, all under the watchful eye of a red-shirted foreman and his three escorts, who lounged nearby under a tarpaulin, smoked, and checked their weapons.
“So what used to be here?” asked Santiago, waving at the crops. “Not bean fields, I presume?”
“Naw, it was like, mostly housing for the University. Frats, apartments. Over there, where them rice paddies are? That was the main campus.”
“No shit? Wow, they’ve been busy, haven’t they?”
“Gotta do it,” shrugged Lumler voluminously. “Can’t plant outside the perimeter no more.”
Santiago just nodded and they walked on. After five or six blocks, a spacious greenway appeared on their right and they turned into an overgrown but still attractive public park. Past the cracked, weed-grown slab and rusting fences of a set of tennis courts and a fallen-down utility shed, they came to an open plaza. Here they walked through the weeds to a decrepit fountain, where they cleared some vines and shrubs and sat down on the decaying marble edge.
Nearby was a huge looming metal structure, rusting badly, that seemed like it had been made of gigantic metal banana peels. In the drizzle, festooned on its lower half with overgrowth, corroded and dripping, it had sinister, imposing look. Lumler glared up at it and then nudged his friend.
“What the fuck’s up with that?” he asked, jerking his head at the thing.
Santiago looked up and smiled. “That, my friend, is what they call sculpture. Art, don’t you know.”
“Huhn,” said Lumler and shuddered slightly. “Gives me the fuckin’ creeps.”
“Yeah, like it is now, anyway. The amazing thing to me is that it hasn’t been torn down to go into the perimeter. Guess they must’ve missed it.”
“Eh, whatever,” Lumler grunted. “Who gives a shit?”
“What’s eatin’ you?” asked Santiago, after a short pause. “I mean, aside from the obvious.”
Lumler grimaced and shook his head. “Aw, I’m sorry, man,” he said, practically contrite. “It’s just… I dunno, the whole thing, I guess.”
“What whole thing?”
“This,” said Lumler, waving his thick arms. “All of this. The whole New America thing. I guess it just ain’t what I thought it’d be, you know?”
Santiago laughed bitterly. “Man, you got that right,” he said. “And the screwy thing? There’s only one guy who likes it the way it is! But hey, this is pretty big, coming from you!”
“Whattaya mean?”
“Well, you’re a Police Force officer,” said Santiago with a shrug. “And you’ve always been, well, what you might call a loyal follower of the Governor. No offense.”
“Naw, yer right,” said Lumler morosely, waving off the apology. “I used to think he was the greatest thing since flush toilets. But lately…” He trailed off meaningfully.
Santiago waited for him to go on. When he didn’t, Santiago sighed and took out a half-smoked cigarette. He lit it and smoked, waiting. Finally Lumler found the words.
“It’s like the other day,” he said, his voice low. “I had to go with the Chief to see the Governor. Regular thing, we gotta make this weekly report, you know? Tell the Big Man what we been doin’, who we arrested, all that. Usually, it’s pretty boring, but with all the Reformist agitation lately, well, the Governor’s been pretty jazzed about keepin’ tabs on us, you know? So anyhow, we go into the Governor’s office like always, and I read off the weekly blotter, like always, and then I sorta sit back an’ wait while the Chief gives his summary and the like, highlights of the week, blah, blah, blah. But right then, for the, like, very first time, I start lookin’ around at the Governor’s place. I mean, really lookin’, you know?”
“And?”
“And shit,” said Lumler plaintively, “the guy’s got more gold and jewels and expensive little doo-dads and paintings and shit than you could imagine! Like he’s some sorta king, you know? Or like one o’ them crazy rich oil sheiks from Before. Hell, he’s even got this chair that’s so big it’s like a damn throne! Got his name carved on it an’ everything.”
“Yeah? So what’s so bad about that? I mean, it’s not like any of that stuff has any intrinsic value anymore, is it? Not like ammo or gas or food.”
“No, but that ain’t my point,” Lumler frowned, struggling to express himself.
“OK, so what’re you saying? He lives too large?”
“Yeah, sorta,” said Lumler. “Aw, fuck I dunno. Maybe it just gets to me when I see some o’ the other folks around here an’ how they live. I mean, some o’ these people hafta work all day, seven days a week, an’ they live in fuckin’ shitholes, you know? Oh, sure they got running water and juice an’ all, but they also got rats and roaches. And half o’ them apartment buildings are practically fallin’ down around their ears! So I dunno… I guess it just bugs me is all.”
Santiago flicked his cigarette butt into the bushes, grinned widely, and shook his head.
“What the fuck’re you smilin’ at?” Lumler rumbled.
“You!” said Santiago. “You and your conscience! You actually care about these people, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah,” said Lumler. “I mean, most of ‘em, anyway. But it just seems unfair, you know?”
“Yes, I do know,” said Santiago, the smile fading. “I see these people every day. Well, I see the sick and wounded
ones, anyway, and I know exactly what you mean. But then, what can we do? It’s the Governor’s show. He gets to call all the shots.”
“Yeah,” nodded Lumler. “The fat little creep. But I dunno. Maybe things’ll change.”
Santiago cocked an eyebrow. “Change, you say?” he said. “Or maybe… Reform?”
Lumler stiffened and glared at the Medico. “Don’t even say that,” he growled. “OK? Don’t even. That kinda shit’ll get you tossed into the IC in a fuckin’ heartbeat, Medico or not. Hear me?”
Santiago nodded gravely. “Yeah, OK, I hear ya. And I won’t say another word about it.”
“Good.”
“Hey, you brought it up, man!”
“Yeah, I know,” said Lumler. “But let’s just drop it, alright? Forget I said anything.”
Santiago nodded again and they sat in silence for a while. Finally Lumler grunted and, remembering that he was hungry, took two sandwiches he’d made at home from his voluminous coat pockets. One he handed over to his friend, the other he unwrapped and began to eat. Santiago unwrapped his and looked at it skeptically.