Plaguesville, USA

by Jim LaVigne

  “Whatcha doin’?” asked Lampert, peering over at the dashboard. “What’s that doohickey? Hey, wait—ain’t that the Geiger counter?”

  “Yup,” said the Hunter.

  “Well, uh, I’m no expert, mister, but ain’t that a tad on the high side? It does say danger there, and the gauge is all red and shit.”

  The Hunter glanced over at Lampert and scowled. Angrily, he cranked the wheel, turned the car in a tight u-turn, and headed back the way they’d come.

  “So now what?” asked Lampert, as they watched the rad detector slowly drop. “You gotta take a detour now, huh?”

  The Hunter didn’t bother to answer. Once they’d traveled back far enough for the rad meter to level off, he pulled the car over, turned it off, and got out. For a while he paced back and forth on the sun-baked, weed-eaten highway and cursed his luck. This meant going a hell of a long way out of his way, on roads with which he wasn’t familiar, and through country he’d heard was as hostile and gang-ridden as any there was. And with that yappy old fart flapping his gums the whole way. All in all, not the skate of a trip he’d envisioned. Still, there was nothing for it but to get on with it, so he spat a final curse, dug out his weather-beaten AAA map, and spread it on the hood of the car.

  For a long while, he traced various lines with a finger and muttered to himself. This way would avoid that hazard, but that way was shorter. Finally, satisfied that he knew where he was going, at least for the day, he carefully refolded the precious map and tucked it into a pocket in his nano-suit. Then he got back behind the wheel and, ignoring the Old Man’s questions, got back underway.

  They’d been rolling along for about another hour, the car at its annoyingly pokey top speed of about 35 MPH, when Lampert quit blabbering about how much he liked some ancient 2D TV show called Futurama and announced that he had to piss. Again. But this time, the Hunter was ready for him.

  “Use the bottle,” he said, jerking his head toward the back seat.

  “What bottle?” said Lampert. “You expect me to piss in a fucking bottle?”

  “Yeah,” the Hunter said. “What, ain’t you ever been on a road trip before? Now crawl on back there and get on with it. Or you can wait.”

  “Or piss myself.”

  “Guess so,” shrugged the Hunter. “Yer choice.”

  With much grumbling and ado, the Old Man clambered into the back seat. This would not have been terribly difficult for any able-bodied person, as the interior of the car was designed to allow this sort of movement, but for Lampert it was practically an Olympic Event. Finally, though, after a lot of grousing and banging around, he made it to the back seat and went about his business. As best he could, given the horrible condition of the side road he’d been forced to use, the Hunter kept watch in the rearview mirror. After nearly ten minutes, with Lampert still in the back and apparently finished, he grew impatient.

  “You done old dude?” he asked.

  “Guess so,” said Lampert. “Hard to tell sometimes with these old pipes.”

  “Well get yer ass back up here. Now.”

  “Yeah, alright,” said the Old Man crankily. “I’m comin’. Damn maniac, makin’ me pee in a fuckin’ bottle.”

  And on and on in a similar vein, climbing back into the front. Finally resettled, he went back to staring out the window. The Hunter drove on.

  About midday they came to a washed-out culvert, where a storm sewer had collapsed, and were again forced to stop. Getting out, he walked over and surveyed the damage. It didn’t look too bad if he could find some tree limbs or boards or something. Nodding to himself, he went back to the car, kicking grasshoppers through the weeds, and stuck his head inside.

  “I got some work to do,” he said. “So I’m gonna let you out ‘til I’m done. No bullshit and nobody gets hurt. Got it?”

  The nurse nodded solemnly. Lampert just waved and made snotty comments. First the Hunter went over and freed Lampert. Then, climbing into the back, he went to undo the nurse’s restraints. And just then, as he was getting out of the car, the Old Man suddenly gave a groan and pitched, more or less headfirst, onto the ground.

  “Urrrghh,” he moaned, writhing weakly. “I think it’s my ticker.”

  Concerned but still wary, the Hunter went quickly back to the other side of the car and stooped down over the Old Man.

  “What’s wrong old dude?” he said. “You sick or somethin’?”

  Just then he caught something in his peripheral vision and his entire being went into survival mode, but it was too late; the nurse was, despite her size, too quick for him and he’d been far too distracted. Snake-like, she stabbed him in the back of the neck with a hypodermic and then, before he could grab her or get out a weapon, scampered away into the bushes.

  In a flash it hit him, the whispered confab, the stall in the back seat, when Lampert must have undone the nurse’s restraints. How could he have been so stupid? Seeing red, the Hunter snatched the now-empty syringe from his neck, glared uselessly at it for a second, and then crushed it underfoot. Already he could feel a numbness creeping down his spine. Whatever the bitch had hit him with, it was strong and fast-acting; even the nano-suit’s automatic anti-toxin module couldn’t keep up. With an effort, he staggered a few paces and then sank to his knees.

  Mr. Lampert, chuckling dryly, struggled to his feet, dusted himself off, and walked over to the Hunter. His performance had been masterful; who’d have guessed the old fart could still move around like that? Standing over him, the Old Man shook his head in mock sadness and clucked.

  “Too bad,” he said. “All this way, and what happens? You get hoodwinked by an old man and a nurse. Yup, just a real shame.”

  “Damn you old man,” grunted the Hunter hoarsely. “Hope you get eaten by cannibals.”

  “Hey, that’s the old spirit!” said Lampert merrily. “But I don’t think yer gonna have much to say about what happens to me anymore. Know what I mean? The flying monkeys blew it. Now be a good little maniac and say good night, Senor Psycho.”

  The Hunter gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, willing every ounce into staying conscious, but it was a losing battle. Within three minutes, his suit overloaded and his system awash in chemicals, cursing the very name of Howard Lampert, he keeled over into the dust. In the brief intervening time, as darkness crowded his vision and the world faded, all he could wonder was: What the hell is a flying monkey? And then he was gone.

  Chapter Forty

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  Justin woke up the next morning more than ready to leave the Kid’s malodorous shed. Eager as he was, he and Erin had spent a good half hour getting some supplies together before they realized that one of them was conspicuously absent. Bowler was nowhere to be seen and there was no trace of where he might have gone.

  “Eh, who knows?” was Erin’s reaction. “Probably out foraging somewhere, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so,” said Justin, scanning the horizon. “And I suppose it’s his prerogative to do so, I just wish he’d tell us if he was going to wander off like this.” Turning to the Kid, who was never far from Erin, Justin stooped down and spoke plainly. “Did you see where the other man went?” He mimed long hair and then a looking-for gesture. “The man with the long hair. Did you see where he went?”

  The Kid grinned and clapped at Justin’s performance, but, of course, offered nothing in response. Justin gave a sigh and rolled his eyes.

  “Well,” said Erin, “what do you think? Should we leave without Bowler, or wait around to see if he comes back?”

  “Oh, I think we should just leave,” said Justin. “That is, I
don’t mean to sound callous, but young master Bowler has shown, several times, that he’s more than capable of, shall we say, sudden flight?”

  “You mean, he’s prone to bugger off when the chips are down.”

  “Well, yes,” Justin said. “Let’s just say he seems to come and go as he pleases. And if he wants to, he’ll probably find us, just like he did before, after St. Alferd’s.”

  Swails nodded. “I agree,” she said. “Now let’s see about some more food.”

  Yesterday, scouring the wreckage, both of the farmhouse and the debris dropped by the tornado, they’d found a few useful things: A couple of cans of chicken noodle soup, several packages of dried food, a sack of dog chow, an aluminum baseball bat, some clothing, a length of rope, a few other odds and ends they thought might come in handy, and what was going to have to pass for luggage, an oversized diaper bag. This last, a violently garish, padded shoulder bag with images of baby animals all over it, was so wildly incongruous and absurd that Justin considered looking for something else, even a garbage bag, but then decided that the time it would take wasn’t worth it; they’d just have to suffer whatever little indignity it caused.

  As they gathered and stowed things in the hideous bag, the Kid watched, attentive as always, but if he understood what it meant, there was no way of knowing. Finally, Justin and Erin were ready to leave and looked at each other and then the Kid.

  “Well, we’re going,” said Justin tentatively. He mimed walking away and waved at the Kid. “Going away, yes? Leaving.”

  The Kid just sat there.

  “Oh, don’t waste your breath, Doctor Kaes,” said Erin. “You might as well be talking to a monkey.”

  “Yes, well—” said Justin.

  Then he stopped short, as the Kid was doing his nose-to-the-wind, hyper alert, there’s-something-coming bit again. Justin looked around warily, but could see nothing unusual. He looked back to the Kid. “What is it, boy?” he asked, for all the world as if he was encouraging a dog. “Is someone coming?”

  Erin also looked around and then shrugged. “I don’t see anything,” she said, shielding her eyes with one hand. “Anyway, it’s probably just Bowler. Again.”

  Paying them no mind, the Kid, as before, bolted for his shed. Justin frowned. Wouldn’t the child be used to Bowler by now? He wouldn’t run like that if were only Bowler, would he? Suddenly he felt exposed and vulnerable.

  “Come on,” he told Erin. “Let’s not second-guess the expert.”

  Huddled in the smelly confined space once again, they waited for a good long while. Justin considered the possibility that the Kid was wrong this time, that he was just over-skittish. But the Kid, scrunched into a corner, almost invisible, showed no sign that he thought it safe to come out. And he’d never been wrong so far. Fretting, Justin waited and watched.

  His vantage point wasn’t the best; peering from a crack in one wall of the shed, he could only see a slice of the farmstead clearing. As time passed and the Kid remained hidden, nothing stirred but a few grasshoppers. Then, his straining ears caught a sound and he tensed as he recognized footsteps. Human footsteps. Someone was out there, and very close. Was it Bowler? No, he would have simply walked up and announced himself. So who could it be? Slowly, his hand shaking, he reached down, grasped a rusty shovel, and raised it above his head. He glanced at Erin and motioned her to silence, but it was an entirely fatuous gesture; she was frozen like a statue.

  Then there came a series of raps on the wooden shed door: Shave and a haircut, two bits! Justin blinked and gripped the shovel handle until his knuckles went white. He glanced at Erin again but she just shrugged, eyes wide, and stared at the door.

  Suddenly the door swept open, bathing the shed interior with bright yellow sunlight and silhouetting a figure without. Justin, the shovel raised and ready, peered into the blinding glare, but all he could make out was that it was definitely a woman. And a shapely one at that. With a shotgun leveled. But wait. It couldn’t be her. Could it? Finding his voice with no small effort, he lowered the shovel a few inches.

  “Tuh… Teresa?” he whispered. “Is that you?”

  And, against all odds and surpassing his wildest hopes, it was. It wasn’t a hallucination and he hadn’t finally gone totally insane. It was really her.

  “Hey, ya doopy greeps!” came her bell-like voice. “Whatcha doin’ hidin’ in there?”

  Justin almost fainted in relief.

  “So,” asked Teresa, “where Bowler at now?”

  For a long moment, stunned and amazed that she was really, actually there, Justin said nothing and simply took her in: voluptuous lips, big dark eyes, a perfect combination of jaw line and cheekbone, with a complexion like aged porcelain and a body so perfectly proportioned and shaped as to be almost inhuman. She’d picked up some new clothes at Zero’s house, but they were much like her earlier choices in apparel, tight and, if not scanty, definitely provocative. In short, Justin had never seen or even imagined a more beautiful woman and, even with all they’d endured and the dim prospects before them, he couldn’t help but be a little bit happy. Oh hell, he was over the moon! Finally Erin Swails—who’d also had to apprise the younger woman of their recent adventures—answered the question.

  “We, uh, don’t know,” she explained, shooting Justin a glance. “He just wasn’t here when we got up this morning.”

  “Henh,” Teresa said. “Guess he doin’ what he want, hey? Like usual. An’ what about the ‘jacker? This greep that took Lampert? He say where he goin’?”

  “No,” said Erin darkly. “He just drove off. That way.” She pointed, down the road and off to the north.

  “Huh,” nodded Teresa. “An’ jus’ one dude, huh?”

  “That’s right,” Erin said. “But this was no ordinary survie. He had all these weapons, some kind of a reactive camo-suit, a state-of-the-art motorcycle, from Before, not to mention he was like, hard as nails. He gave me the impression that he was, I don’t know, like a soldier or a cop or something.”

  “Real death-bringer, heh? Eh, we see ‘bout that.”

  Justin, barely registering what was being said, smiled and inhaled deeply, savoring her familiar scent of crisp flowers and leather, still gaping like a moron, until he realized that both she and Erin were staring at him and that he’d been sitting there gaping like a love-struck teenager for God knew how long. He blushed and looked away. Teresa, already blushing, looked away. Erin, giving a little throat-clearing noise, looked away in discomfort. Finally Justin blinked hard a few times and found his voice.

  “Yes, uh,” he said. “He was a most unpleasant, violent man. And it was a most unfortunate and terrible event. In fact, it downright sucked. But what are you doing here? Why did you leave Baron Zero’s House? And how did you find us?”

  “Heh, you wasn’t hard to track,” she said dismissively. “That car had easy treads. Real differ’nt, y’know? Piece a pie. An’ that other groop, why I left Zero’s place an’ all? Well, that my bidness. Track me?”

  Justin nodded. “Fair enough, I suppose,” he said, not really caring. “If that’s how you feel, I’m just so amazed that you’re actually here! It’s kind of hard to believe.”

  “Be-lieve it, Doc,” said Teresa boldly, smiling beatifically. “The T-girl is inna house an here to save yer doopy asses! Now, tell me ‘bout this here Kid, hey?”

  She jerked a thumb at the child, who squatted nearby, and Justin looked over to see that, if he’d been enamored of Erin Swails, it was obvious that the Kid was positively ga-ga for Teresa. Like a cross between a crush-stricken grade-schooler and a hungry wolf eyeing a piece of meat, he stared unabashedly at her, mouth agape and eyes dreamy and wide. Justin smiled and shook his head.

  “He’s our host,” he said wryly. “This is his home. Such as it is.”

  “OK, but where his peoples at?”

  “As far as we know,” said Justin, “he has none. At least, we haven’t seen anyone, and we’ve been here a few days.”

  “No peeps
?” said Teresa suspiciously, eyeing the child. “Aw, that just doopy. He just a little kid! How he live out here by his own self?”

  “We don’t know,” Justin shrugged. “I guess he just managed to survive.”

  For a moment all three of them looked at the boy, who still sat, absolutely rapt, and gazed at Teresa.

  “Why he gleepin’ me like that?” Teresa finally asked.

  “Well,” said Justin judiciously, “he seems to be somewhat infatuated. With women in particular. Probably some kind of mother-longing, I suppose. At any rate, I guess you might say that he has a thing for the ladies.”

  “Muh huh,” said Teresa unenthusiastically. “Jus’ like any other man, hey? Well, whatever. We gotta get movin’. If we wanna catch this scary death-grunker o’ yours, we gonna hafta jet. See you got yer gear, there, all packed, hey?” She grinned. “Gotta tellya, Doc, that a real nice satchel you got there!”

  Justin looked down at the frightful diaper bag and grimaced. “It was all we could find,” he said defensively. “And besides, what it looks like is hardly important.”

  “Fuck it ain’t!” snorted Teresa. “That thing so bright, people see you a mile away. Naw, you gotta wipe some dirt or somethin’ on there. Dull it up, hey?”

  “Hmm, yes,” said Justin. “You do have a point.” Dutifully, he knelt down and started smearing mud and grass over the blaringly cheerful bag. “And you know something? This is just the kind of thing that you’re so good at! I would never have even thought it.”

  “Heh,” said Teresa huskily. “An’ that ain’t all I good at, neither.”

  Justin blushed again, not caring a bit, and felt his heart lurch in sudden desire. It was suddenly all he could do to not take her in his arms and smother her with kisses. Swails, though, shuffling uncomfortably nearby, coughed facetiously and broke the mood.