by Jim LaVigne
“What’s in this?” he asked, peering between the slices of hard, brown bread.
Lumler raised and lowered his wide shoulders. “Meat,” he said simply. “And some tomatoes and mayo.”
“What kinda meat?”
Lumler stopped chewing and looked blandly at his friend. “Look,” he said, “it ain’t human, OK? Promise.” Taking another bite, he frowned at the sandwich. “Personally, I think it tastes like horse.”
“Uh huh,” said the other, re-wrapping his sandwich and gently putting it down on the fountain edge. “Well, thanks for the generosity, my friend, but I think I’ll pass.”
“Suit yerself,” said Lumler, un-offended. “More for me.”
As Lumler ate, taking big bites and chewing deliberately, neither really tasting nor enjoying it, Santiago contented himself with another cigarette. Around them, the drizzle had let up and now the wind was starting to rise, bringing occasional whiffs of burned wood and gasoline from the front lines to the west.
“You hear about the mines?” asked Santiago, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “These abandoned mine shafts they say the deformos use?”
“Sure,” said Lumler. “It was in the paper the other day. What about ‘em?”
“Think it’s for real? Think they really live down there?”
“Could be,” said Lumler, tossing his sandwich wrapper—an old issue of the Patriot—into the weeds. “This whole neck o’ the woods was, like, riddled with mines. Coal, lead, zinc, salt, all kindsa stuff, you know? They used to have all kindsa trouble with cave-ins.”
“That right? And now they think the Muties are down there? But why? Why live in some broken-down old mine shafts when there’s plenty of open spaces and abandoned buildings and all?”
“Maybe they don’t live down there. Maybe they just like, use ‘em, you know? I mean, think about it. How come the deformos always show up where we least expect ‘em? Huh? How come all the surprise attacks and ambushes?”
“So,” said Santiago, “you think they’re using the mines as… what? Trenches? Infiltration routes?”
“Call ‘em what you want,” said Lumler. “But you gotta admit, somethin’ like that would be pretty handy for ‘em, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah,” said Santiago thoughtfully. “But haven’t you looked for these things? I mean, it seems like if you found one, you could just blast it, cave it in, you know?”
“Sure, if you could find ‘em,” said Lumler. “We been lookin’ for mine shafts for months now. Down in the fuckin’ sewers, cellars, basements, you name it. But so far? Jack.”
“Huh,” said his friend. “Well, that’s just strange. Have you thought that maybe the deformos have some help?”
“On the inside, you mean?” said Lumler. “Like the Reformists? Yeah, the thought’s crossed my mind. I ain’t that stupid. And neither is the Governor.”
“So with all that, I guess you’ve been pretty busy.”
“Yeah,” Lumler said tiredly. “Real busy. They got us snoopin’ around all over the place. More searches, more arrests, more… interrogations. I don’t even like thinkin’ about it.”
“Sounds pretty grim,” said Santiago. Taking a last drag of his smoke, he flipped a tiny butt onto the ground and stepped on it. “But then, that’s kinda how things are these days.”
“‘These days’,” said Lumler reflectively. “You know, I really hate that saying. These days… like you got any other days, you know?”
“Heh, good point,” Santiago smiled.
Something occurred to Lumler and he sat up and nudged his friend on the shoulder.
“Hey, I been meanin’ to ask you,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“About that Hunter dude. Guy you gave all the supplies to?”
“Sure. What about him?”
“Any sign of him? I mean, he was s’posed to go out and bring in some doctor types. So? Any new Medicos?”
“Nope,” said Santiago, shaking his head. “And believe me, I’d know if there was a new doctor! We’ve all been workin’ our asses off, last few days. Double shifts, every bed full. No, I’d have noticed a new medic. Huh, for that matter, I’d have noticed a new anything if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah,” nodded Lumler ponderously. “We don’t get too many new citizens no more, do we? Not like the early days.”
“Nope. I guess maybe everybody who survived is like, crewed up by now, you know? Gotta be pretty hard to make it out there on your own.”
“Got that right,” said Lumler. He eyed his friend. “So, just curious… how many fighters you think we lost so far? For real, I mean, not what they print in the paper. After all, you’re a doc. You gotta have some idea.”
Santiago shrugged. “Not sure. They try to keep those kinda numbers under wraps, you know? But an estimate? Oh, I’d say a couple hundred at least. And that doesn’t count the wounded, which would probably be another two or three hundred.”
“Shit,” said Lumler, nodding. He’d suspected as much but took no pleasure in being right. “No wonder they’re always drafting us PF guys—they need the bodies! Fuck, at this rate, if the War keeps up, we’re just flat-out gonna run outta citizens! Them deformo freaks’ll swarm all over in here and that’ll be that. So long New America.”
Santiago looked at him strangely. “What are you tryin’ to do, man?” he said. “Scare me? Cause it’s workin’, if that’s what you meant!”
“Hey, I’m just sayin’ is all,” said Lumler, tossing up thick hands. “There’s only so many of us, ain’t there? And it seems like there’s a like, unlimited supply of these muties. Do the goddamn math.”
Santiago scowled at him. “Geez, you’re a cheery bastard today,” he said bitterly. “What, you miss the pancakes at the Jolly Café that much already?”
Lumler had to smile, in a humorless, bulldog sort of way. “Yeah, maybe that’s it, pal. Maybe you’re right. Aw, don’t pay me no mind. Like I said, I just been feelin’ kinda down, I guess.”
“Eh, you should get out more,” said Santiago. “All you do is work and sleep. Shit, you should go down to the Big Time, find yourself a nice girl, maybe a have a drink or two.”
“At the Big Time?” scoffed Lumler. “Not fuckin’ likely. I seen the shit they put in the drinks down there. And them girls? Shit, some o’ them are older than my old mom!”
“Yes, well,” said Santiago philosophically, “we all gotta do what we gotta do to survive, don’t we? Even the State-sponsored, geriatric hookers. Like the Governor says, we all have a—”
“Place to Fill and a Job to Do,” quoted Lumler, finishing the other’s sentence. “Yeah, yeah, I heard that a million times, too, just like everybody else.”
Santiago stretched his arms and then rose from the fountain’s rim. “Well, it may be trite,” he said, “but that doesn’t make that little axiom any less true. Take me, for example. If I don’t get my ass back to the hospital, I’m gonna find have it handed to me on a platter. So…”
“Yeah,” Lumler said, rising and brushing crumbs from his coat. “I gotta get back to the station, too. Well, take care of yerself, pal. Don’t sew yer fingers together or nothin’.”
Santiago laughed, flashing white teeth. “I’ll try not to,” he grinned. “You take care, too. And don’t forget, as your physician, I prescribe a nice night at the Big Time, spent in the company of the youngest, prettiest hostess in the joint, plus at least two drinks of their very best hooch. To be taken internally, once per week or as needed. Got it?”
“Yeah, thanks Doc,” said Lumler. “I’ll see what I can do about havin’ that scrip filled.”
For a long moment he looked at his friend and something fearful stirred in Lumler’s chest and head, a strong sense this might be the last time he ever saw the man. With an effort, no slave to superstition or emotionalism, he shook the feeling off and offered his meaty hand.
“Take it easy, man,” he said. “An’ stay safe. I sure would miss you.”
“Yeah,” said Santiago
softly, shaking his hand. “You, too. Now go on, get outta here. And next week? I’ll bring the food.”
“Deal.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
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—ad for Globo-Chem product, circa 2048
The day before Teresa left Baron Zero’s house began as innocuously as any, just another day of chopping weeds in the stupid, stupid bean fields, but by the end of it she was packing her things. And all because of one little can of Cat.
She’d stuck to her job and her studies for the last few days, but more and more she got the feeling that, try as they might to make her feel at home, she just plain didn’t belong with these people. It wasn’t their fault; all they were doing was trying to survive, same as anyone. But for that, did they have to be so desperately boring? Didn’t they ever want to grab a bike and go zoomin’? Or go out and shoot some coyotes? No chain fights, no dog fights, no chicken fights, nothing to bet on. Hell, most of ‘em didn’t even drink stupidwater! She got the feeling that partly it was because she was young and easily bored, but the fact remained; she just didn’t feel like a real resident of the House.
What was more, she found that the feelings of loss she’d felt for Justin Case (and the others, to be honest) just wouldn’t go away. Every day, as she worked in the fields or sat in the classroom, a significant part of her mind was taken up with mooning and recollection of the times they’d shared. She tried to concentrate, to banish the thoughts, but it was no use; like a bad hangover, they lingered in her head.
The final incident, the thing that made up her mind and got her packing, was an encounter with some long-term residents of the House. She’d had a tough day, puzzling over math and English and hoeing in the fields, but things had begun to look up when her boss, a nice old guy named Smitty, had come up and handed her a sheaf of papers with writing and pictures on them.
“What that?” she’d asked. “Shitpaper?”
“No, no,” Smitty had smiled at her. “It’s money! It’s your pay. For working in the fields.”
It had taken a while to get Smitty to explain about currency and how it could be exchanged for goods and services, but she’d snapped to it quickly enough once the concept was laid out and had readily taken the stuff.
“So, huh, thanks, Smitty,” she’d told him, still wary of some kind of a trick. Did he want something from her? Like most men? “Guess I can find somethin’ to do with this, hey?”
“Don’t thank me,” Smitty had waved. “It’s just how it we do it. You work, we pay you for the work, and then you can spend the money on whatever you want. Or nothing! Understand?”
“Sure,” she’d nodded. “I gotcha.”
Later, in the Bazaar, once she’d established that this paper/currency ploop was actually real and not some kind of a trick, she’d happily gone shopping. Smokes, some cans of beer, a smart new wool cap, and five cans of Cat had used up some of the paper money, but most of it went toward that most valuable and hard to obtain commodity, tampons. More dear than smokes or bullets or even gas, tampons (the use of which she’d been taught by Ugly Jane, the de facto matriarch of the Bloodclaws), were not something to be passed up, at any price, and she’d bought as many as she could afford. Then, tummy growling, feeling pretty flush, she’d headed down to the park to eat.
The park was a nice place, all trees and flowers and paths and benches. It was quiet and it smelled good. When she got there on the day in question, there were two other people there, an older woman and another girl about her own age, sitting at a table with benches built into it and playing some kind of game with dice.
Giving them a nod and a smile, Teresa went over and sat under a big bushy tree. Selecting one of the cans, she dug out her trusty spoon, polished it on her shirttail, and popped it open. For a moment she savored the smell, nice and tangy, before taking a big scoop. Mmm, it was delicious! Some folks liked their Cat heated up, but she liked it like this, at room temperature. Greedily, her protein-starved system begging for more, she downed the whole can and then licked out all of the salty jelly-like stuff at the bottom. Luxuriously, she licked her lips and belched. Then she heard the girl at the bench-table; it was hard not to.
“Eww, mom!” she said. “She’s eating cat food! Gross!”
“Hush, Ashleigh,” said the older woman. “She just doesn’t know any better.”
“But,” the girl protested, “it’s for cats! Oh, yuck, I can smell it from here! Eww!”
“Ashleigh, be quiet!” said the woman. “Now help me pick up the board.”
In another few minutes, they’d left. For a moment Teresa sat and stared at the can in her hand. Was the girl right? Was this supposed to be food for cats? She had always assumed that it was made out of cats. After all, every other can of food, be it beans or meat or ravioli, had a little picture on the label of what was inside; why not this one, with a shot of a fluffy white kitty? Was it the same with cans of Dog? And anyway, why on earth would anybody feel the need to feed a cat, and with special food from cans? Every cat she’d ever known had done just fine for itself!
She’d mulled it over and finally decided that she didn’t care one way or the other. Getting up to leave, she’d been about to toss the empty can into one of the many recycling bins they had all over like a good little resident, but had instead flung it violently into the bushes. That had made her feel a little better.
But it had stuck in her head and each time she replayed the incident, the more out of place and hemmed-in she felt. Not embarrassed, really; she had very little if any experience with the concept of shame. More just confined, bored, and generally unhappy.
And, to be honest, lonely. She’d never made new friends easily, even back with the Bloodclaws, and these people with their highfalutin ways didn’t make it easier. Oh, she got plenty of attention from the boys, hanging around her like crows on roadkill, but they were so clumsy and juvenile (especially in comparison to a certain tall, handsome whitecoat) that she invariably rebuffed their efforts. And as for the other House residents, well, they did things like sneer at you for eating food for cats.
Finally, hoping she wasn’t making a big mistake (but essentially unconcerned either way), she decided to leave. She’d miss the security here, how she didn’t have to stand watches or worry about random violence or having to go outside to crap and all, but the great big old world out there just wouldn’t shut up. Like the old triangle bell back at the Bloodclaw compound, its call was irresistible.
And so it was that, on a beautiful moonlit night, having stuffed her gear and some food into her old satchel and retrieved her boomstick from the gun bin, she quietly left the remarkable home of Baron Zero. She’d thought of talking to the man himself, maybe to thank him, maybe to let him know that she was leaving, but then had thought better of it; why bother? Why cause a scene? Better to just sort of fade into the night.
Now, hiking along through open country, her senses wide open and alert, feeling the cool air on her face and the hard ground under her boots, she felt better about the whole thing. Maybe she’d go back to Zero’s place some day and learn all about Civilization and how to be a good worker and earn more paper money, but for now, the open road, a gallon of water, and a few cans of food were all she needed or desired.
And tomorrow, at first light, she would start looking for Justin Case. Oh, it was a long shot, akin to back
ing a sick dog in a pit fight, but she figured what the hell; if it meant seeing Justin and Mr. Lampert again, she was down for just about anything. A happy smile on her perfect features, she broke into an easy jog, on into the night.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Ritabits are sweet and Ritabits are gray!
But most of all we love the way that Ritabits…
Help us to mind mommy and obey!
Oh Ritabits are sweet and Ritabits are gray!
Go tell mommy that you want some Ritabits today!
—TV ad for children’s breakfast cereal, circa 2055
Of all the odd things that he’d awakened to in the last few months, the dead rabbit that greeted Justin Kaes when he opened his eyes was, without a doubt, among the top five. Skinned and gutted, it lay no more than a foot from his face. With a violent jerk, he bolted away from the gruesome thing, a sharp tang of gamey meat in his nostrils, and scuttled on his backside into a nearby wall. Head pounding and feeling generally as if he’d been beaten from head to toe with a very large stick, Justin blinked, totally disoriented, and got his bearings.
He was inside a building of some kind, in a smallish chamber of about ten feet square with no windows that had, judging from the various implements on the walls, once been a small barn or tool shed. It smelled pungently of something rotten and the earthly reek of human crap. There were deep shadows in the corners and suddenly Justin realized that there was something there, something alive, and scrambled shakily to his feet. Was it an animal? It seemed too small to be human. Good Lord, thought Justin: Now what?
But it was only a child. Hairy, dirty, smelly, wild-eyed and ragged, but a mere child nonetheless. Warily, having skittered forward a few feet, into the light, it looked Justin up and down and frowned.