Plaguesville, USA

by Jim LaVigne

  “What about Bowler?” she asked.

  “Huh?” said Justin, nudged from his thoughts. “Who? Oh, yes, Bowler. Well, we’ve already waited a few hours, what with this little reunion, so I think we’ve done all we can as far as that’s concerned. As I said before, if he wants to find us, he will.”

  Erin nodded. “Good enough for me.”

  “What about the kid?” asked Teresa. “He comin’ with, too?”

  “Well, we don’t know,” said Justin. “We were just about to leave when you showed up, and we were going to let him come along if he wanted, but what do you think? Should we take him with us?”

  “Don’ care,” said Teresa tersely. “He wanna stay, let him. He live out here on his own so far, he be alright. An’ if he do wanna come with? Guess I won’t stop him.”

  As it turned out, the Kid did want to go with them. When Justin and the others started walking away, he sat forlornly for a moment and then dashed into his shed. Before they’d gone a half mile, he came running up the road, a misshapen bundle in one hand and a tire iron in the other, and, his dark eyes rarely leaving Teresa, fell into step with the group. A strange expression that Justin took for a smile graced his grubby face.

  “Well,” said Justin, “it looks as though we have a new traveling companion.”

  “Hey, marverous!,” said Teresa scornfully. “Jus’ juicy. Eh, guess if worse comes to worst, we can always eat him.”

  Justin gaped at her until she glanced over and cracked a smile. “I just foolin’ witcha, Case,” she grinned. “You know me, I don’ even like people meat! Now c’mon, we gotta make some time.”

  Chapter Forty-One

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  Signing in for the second half of his fourth double shift in as many days, Sergeant Lumler decided that he’d finally had enough. Despite its perks and privilege, he no longer liked his job. In fact, he was really beginning to hate it.

  It was midnight, the start of the late shift, but the IC was bustling with activity and Lumler had to thread his way past a couple of officers struggling with a wild-eyed, thrashing perpetrator, an obviously deranged, gibberish-spouting old woman, and a phalanx of cheap desks, where red-eyed PF men toiled at their endless paperwork, to make his way to his own little office. Here, sitting behind his desk, he found his latest assistant, Nails, already waiting for him.

  He didn’t know much about Nails, either where he came from or what he’d been Before, but then again, he didn’t really care. Average in height and weight, dark in complexion and hair color with a long, sharp beak of a nose and beady little, close-set eyes, the man was obedient enough, always quick to act on orders, but Lumler just didn’t like him. He was the kind of guy who would smile and salute to your face and then stab you in the back—maybe literally—the very first chance he got. In other words, an average, dedicated, hard-working Police Force officer.

  Lumler nodded a greeting as Nails quickly gave up the seat and moved to stand at the ready. On the desk was a clipboard with the latest list of suspected traitors to be investigated or brought in. With a heavy sigh, flipping the pages, he saw that it was even longer than the last, almost two dozen names. Feeling Nails standing there waiting, annoyed for no good reason, he grunted without looking up:

  “Coffee, Nails. Black.”

  “Yessir!” snapped the other. “Right away, sir.”

  Then the breath caught in Lumler’s beefy throat as a name on the list leapt from the page like it was written in fire: Santiago, Norman S., Medico Third Class. Frowning darkly, he read and re-read the name, but there was no mistake. It was his friend. And under the name, the usual, ominous, non-descript order: Wanted for questioning.

  Lumler threw down the clipboard and rubbed his temples. Questioning. Yeah, that was a good one! Oh, folks got questioned, alright, but that was far from all! No, even someone of Lumler’s phlegmatic, blunt-edged nature had to admit that the best term to describe what went on in the IC cells was nothing less than torture, plain and simple. In the last week he’d witnessed more of them than he liked and the screams alone haunted his sleep. The screams, the blood, the terrible smells and the crack of bones breaking, the raw, chunky sound of joints being ripped apart… And over all of it, Chief Hanson Knox’s mad, blood-flecked, smirking face, a mask of lustful, maniacal pleasure at the pain he was causing. And now his friend—his only friend, truth be told—was next in line for just such treatment.

  Nails returned with the coffee, the usual weak, acrid brew like watered-down battery acid, and took a seat in the other office chair. Lumler glared at the printed words and slurped some coffee. Some part of his stolid mind noted that he’d never known his pal’s first name. Norman? Go figure. He wondered what Santiago had done to land on this list, but then shook his head; it could have been almost anything. An idle remark, a careless word in the wrong ear, would be enough, and Santiago, a born smartass if he’d ever known one, had never been one to keep his thoughts to himself. Like a living thing, something fearful twisted deep in Lumler’s guts.

  “Looks like another busy morning, eh Boss?” said Nails eagerly.

  Lumler only grunted in reply.

  “How’d that EI go the other night?” asked Nails conspiratorially. “The one you helped the Chief with. Did the guy finally crack?”

  Lumler glared at Nails from under thick brows and scowled. “Yeah,” he said. “He cracked.”

  “Aw, I knew it!” said Nails happily, as if rooting for a favorite team. “Ain’t nobody can take the Chief fer long! Hell, I hearda one, he ripped this guy’s—”

  “Nails, shut the fuck up, OK? Lumler growled, cutting the man dead. “Do me a favor and just keep your trap the fuck shut.”

  Nails blinked at the rebuke but recovered and nodded smartly. “Yessir,” he said curtly. “Can do.”

  For a long moment, Lumler stared at the arrest order, but there was just no way around it: He was being ordered to deliver his friend to almost certain, probably very painful, death. Finally, he got up from the desk, handed the clipboard to Nails, put on his blacked peaked cap with gold badge, and got ready to face the morning’s work. It was going to be a long day.

  Chapter Forty-Two

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  Coming to the ruined Super America store, Teresa halted their march and brought out Justin’s trinocs for a long look. Erin Swails and Justin took a seat on a guard rail. The Kid, obviously fascinated with the trinocs, not to mention their user, hopped about nearby. Finally, when nothing stirred, Teresa put the glasses away.

  “Don’ see nothin’” she said. “Might as well go have a gleep, hey?”

  Setting a blistering pace, pausing only now and then to scan the gravel shoulder, Teresa had led the way all morning and they’d made good progress under sunny, balmy skies. She’d pointed out the tread-marks that she said they were following, but to him they were no more than scratches in the dirt. How she could follow them, let alone pick them out from the others, was utterly beyond him; just another of the woman’s considerable talents.

  Now, though, surveying the half-wrecked SA, Justin frowned and shook his head.

  “No, I disagree,” he said. “Bowler said the floor was unstable, remember? He fell right through it! No, I say we don’
t risk it.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Case,” Teresa cajoled. “They might be all kinda good scroungin’ in there! Food, smokes, sparkers, who know? Don’ wanna pass all that up, do we?”

  Justin considered. It would be nice to stock up on some basic amenities. Right now all they had was some rabbit meat, some water in a gallon jug, the clothes on their backs and the odds and ends they’d scavenged from the wrecked farmhouse. Indeed, having gone without for almost a week, he would risk quite a lot for just a roll of dental floss. And if Teresa thought it was safe, who was he to judge? Finally he gave up and nodded.

  “Alright,” he said. “But let’s be very careful, OK? We don’t need anyone breaking a leg or something.”

  “We be wary,” Teresa said. “Alway. Now how ‘bout it? Me? I hope they gots some jerky beef. Maybe some stupidwater.”

  Trailing Teresa, they walked up to the ruined building. The Kid, who followed warily once he saw where they were headed, followed behind. A big signpost lay on its side, the sign itself smashed to pieces, and the gas pumps had exploded, leaving torn, rusting sheets of metal and twisted remains of wire and pipe work. The front windows had been shattered, the frames charred and twisted, and one corner of the roof had collapsed. Justin grimaced and shook his head.

  “I don’t know,” he said leerily. “Up close, it doesn’t look very safe. I mean, look at that hole in the roof!”

  “Aw, ain’t no thing,” said Teresa. “I seen worse. Jus’ watch where you step, hey?”

  Leading the way, she paced carefully across the parking lot to the front door. Here she took out her shotgun and peered into the place for a moment before stepping inside. Eyes glued to the glass-strewn ground, Justin followed, Erin taking up the rear. The Kid, eyes wide, was evidently having none of it and remained outside, a worried sort of look on his little face that Justin wasn’t sure he liked.

  “OK, here’s yer hole,” said Teresa, gesturing. “So stay away from ‘at, hey?”

  Justin edged a little nearer and peered into what he soon saw was a considerable subsidence of some kind, a yawning pit in the concrete floor like a ragged sinkhole. It was pitch black at the bottom, but something on the jagged edge, a scrap of something bright, caught his eye.

  “What’s that?” he pointed. “See?”

  Teresa peered at the scrap and then, almost giving Justin a heart attack, simply walked over, reached down, and snagged the thing.

  “Careful!” blurted Justin, but Teresa was already away from the hole. She held the scrap out to him.

  “Piece a cloth, look like,” she said.

  Justin took the scrap and then a sinking feeling hit him in the stomach as he recognized the pattern. Red with blue and brown checks, it was, without a doubt, a piece of Bowler’s weathered flannel shirt. He lowered the scrap and gave a little groan.

  “What?” asked Teresa. “So it some shred o’ somethin’. So what?”

  “The pattern,” said Justin. “Don’t you recognize it? Plaid flannel?”

  “You mean Bowler, don’t you?” said Erin, keeping a respectful distance. “It’s from Bowler’s shirt.”

  Justin only nodded. Teresa took another look at the scrap and then nodded as well.

  “Guess you right,” she said, frowning. “He musta fell down there, got snagged, tore his shirt.”

  Gravely, she flipped on the flashlight mounted to her weapon and shone the beam down into the hole. Justin, leaning in behind her, saw that the shaft went down for about ten feet, where the light showed loose rubble and twisted rebar.

  “Don’ see nobody,” she said. “Smells kinda funny, but who know what that is? Wonder what down there, hey? Don’ you? Din’t Bowler say there a tunnel?”

  “Yes, he did,” said Justin. “But he was kind of vague about it, really.”

  Teresa frowned at the pit and then experimentally felt the hole’s edge with one booted foot. A few pieces of fractured cement rolled into the pit, but it didn’t collapse any further. Teresa stepped back and re-slung her shotgun.

  “I say we check it out,” she said. “I mean, I know Bowler ain’t like, the juiciest survie on the road or nothin’, but he ain’t such a bad dude. What if he hurt an’ layin’ down there where we can’t gleep ‘im? Just checkin’ it out don’ hurt.”

  Justin scowled and thought about it, but, loath as he was to admit it, she was right. Maybe the scrap had gotten there when Bowler had fallen into the pit the first time, but then again, there was always the chance that it was more recent. They owed it to Bowler to at least look. Reluctantly, he nodded to her.

  “We have some rope,” he said. “But just take a look, alright? Don’t do anything dangerous, alright?”

  Teresa smiled impishly at him. “Don’ worry, Case. This ain’t the first wrecked-up SA I been in. Be jus’ fine, you see.”

  Justin and Erin waited as Teresa deftly rigged up, tested, and then scrambled down the rope and vanished into the hole. For a few minutes they heard nothing, but then Teresa’s voice rang out from below.

  “They is a tunnel down here!” she called. “Gonna check it out!”

  “What about Bowler?” shouted Justin, hands cupped to his mouth. “Any sign of him?”

  “Not so far!” called Teresa. “Be right back!”

  Justin glanced worriedly at Erin, who just frowned and shrugged.

  “Teresa?” Justin yelled. “Where are you going? What’s going on down there?”

  Listening, he heard her voice, yelling something, but it was so distant and faint that he couldn’t make out the actual words. A cold sort of feeling stole over him and he suddenly realized that this was probably a bad idea. Maybe a very bad one.

  “Teresa?!” he hollered into the hole. “Can you hear me?!”

  Nothing. Not a peep. For an eternity, they waited and listened, but still nothing.

  Justin looked at Erin. “I’m going down there,” he said urgently, going for the rope. “Something’s wrong.”

  “Wait, Doctor Kaes,” said Erin, grabbing him by the arm. “Don’t!”

  “But—” said Justin, tearing away.

  “No, I mean listen,” she said, putting a finger to her lips.

  Justin listened, his heart beating double-time, and heard Teresa’s voice again, just as faint, and then, making him start as if electrocuted, a shotgun blast. It was muffled and far-off, but it was unmistakable.

  “Oh shit!” said Justin. “She’s in trouble! Out of the way, I’m going down there.”

  This time she didn’t try to stop him, but he was only a few feet down the rope when he heard a commotion coming from beneath him and scrabbled back up. Just as he turned to look back down into the hole, vaguely aware of a disgusting, musky smell, first Bowler and then Teresa came bolting into the light. In an instant, prodded by Teresa, the two scaled the rope and were back above ground.

  “What happened?” asked Justin. Teresa seemed the same, if excited, but Bowler didn’t look so good. His clothes were ragged and torn, his hair was even wilder than usual, and there was a frantic, hunted look in his eyes that spoke of some profoundly disturbing experience.

  “Later!” snapped Teresa, eyeing the hole. “We gotta get outta here. Now move! Go on, go!”

  They did, snatching a few convenience store treasures on the way out. Teresa didn’t let them stop until they were a good half-mile away, but finally they took a break and sat down under a big, solitary tree. Justin turned expectantly on Bowler and Teresa.

  “Well?” he demanded. “Are you going to tell us what happened?”

  Teresa looked at Bowler, but the young man had drawn his knees up to his chin and sat staring vacantly at the ground. Justin noticed that he was only wearing one cowboy boot; his other foot was bare. Teresa shrugged, seemingly unruffled.

  “Went down the tunnel, hey?” she said. “Real dark, got this funk-ly smell, too. An’ then I sees this one, comin’ down the tunnel like he on fire, hey? An’ then I sees why, cause they somethin’ chasin’ him. Somethin’ nasty, hey? Din’t ge
t a good gleep, but it was big an’ real fearish-lookin’ for sure. So I blasted it. Leastway, think I did. Anyway, it went away, back into the dark, hey. An’ then we ran like, fast as can, an’ here we are.”

  “Good God!” Justin said. “What was it? An animal? A mountain lion or a bear or something?”

  “No,” said Bowler, in an odd, flat way. They all looked at him, but he only stared at the ground. “Not an animal. Not human, neither.”

  “What?” said both Justin and Erin.

  Justin waved Erin to be quiet and stood up, went over to the young man, and offered their liter canteen of water. Very slowly, Bowler looked up. His eyes were haunted, dark-circled and with an almost inhuman depth.

  “What happened, Bowler?” asked Justin softly.

  The young man shuddered from head to foot, and then took the water bottle and had a deep swig. Wiping his face with one hand, he looked at Justin again and at least some of the intensity was gone.

  “They’re monsters, Doc,” he said desperately, the words coming faster as he went. “I don’t know what else to call ‘em. They got extra arms, some of ‘em, or extra legs, an’ some don’t have arms at all and some got things like tentacles instead and some got these super long hands or arms or just like lumps for heads, and—-”

  Justin gently interrupted; Bowler was babbling, unbalanced, maybe hysterical. This kind of talk wasn’t helping anyone.

  “Bowler, stop,” he said. “You must not be thinking right. There are no monsters.”

  The younger man glared up at him hotly and scowled. “No? How do y’all know, huh? You ain’t seen ‘em! I mean, you can say what you want, Doc, but that don’t change a damn thing. I know what I saw.”

  “Hey, never know!” put in Teresa. “I hearda all kinda stories ‘bout muties. Ain’t you?”