by Jim LaVigne
“OK, OK,” Justin said indulgently. “Just take it easy, alright? Both of you. Start from the beginning. Bowler, you obviously went back to the store, after we agreed to avoid it. What happened?”
“They grabbed me, that’s what!” said Bowler, shuddering again. “I was in there, just gettin’ some stuff, and then… then there was this thing, an’ it grabbed me an’ it knocked me out. When I woke up, I was down there. I tell ya, Doc, they got a whole damn world down there. Must be miles an’ miles of tunnels. Freaks me out just thinkin’ about it. But hold on! I ain’t told ya’ll the kicker! See, check it out: they got the Old Man!”
Justin sat up like he’d been poked in the back with a knitting needle. “What did you say?” he demanded. “What about the Old Man?”
“They got him, man!” wailed Bowler. “Them monsters. They got him.”
“Are you sure?” asked Erin. “I mean, how do you know?”
“Heard ‘em talkin’ about it,” said Bowler. “Before I got loose. Oh, they got him alright.”
Justin resisted the urge to take the young man by the shoulders and shake him till his teeth rattled, but managed to keep his cool. His voice, though, had a very sharp edge.
“What, exactly,” he said, “did you hear?”
Bowler frowned in concentration. “I can’t remember every word, man,” he said sulkily. “But I know for a fact that one of ‘em said the name Lampert, that Lampert was in a cell. Guess like the one I was in, you know? This little room with no windows, like a cave.”
Reeling, followed comically by the Kid, Justin stood up and paced agitatedly back and forth. Lampert alive? And somewhere relatively nearby? It was more than he could have hoped for, monsters or no monsters! A sudden spate of hope bubbled in his heart. First Teresa, now this?
“What about Barb?” asked Erin. “Nurse Cass. Did you see her? Hear anything about her? Or the man who killed Cornell, the little guy. What about him?”
Justin hadn’t thought of this and whirled on Bowler. “Yes,” he asked. “Any sign of them?”
Bowler shrugged. Some of the panicked urgency had gone out of him and he seemed suddenly tired and listless. “Not that I heard,” he said. “But then, I didn’t stick around, neither.”
“At’s a question, too,” said Teresa, eyeing Bowler suspiciously. “How you get loose? Them monsters jus’ letcha go?”
“I broke out,” said Bowler. “This cell they had me in wasn’t much, just a like, latch thing onna door, an’ I managed to get it open. An’ then I ran away!”
“Uh huh,” said Teresa dubiously. “You say so.”
But Justin wasn’t paying attention. A sort of febrile excitement had come over him and the prospect that the Mission might not be doomed made him almost giddy. Grinning, he turned to the little group and threw out his arms.
“We are not done yet!” he said exuberantly. “Don’t you see? We can still do this thing!”
No one seemed too thrilled. Erin Swails made a wry, eye-rolling face; Teresa smiled but looked a bit confused; Bowler shook his head miserably and groaned, and the Kid emitted a series of baffled hoots. Justin didn’t care—there was still a chance! And even if it meant crawling down into some sort of tunnels and dealing with God knew what kind of thing Bowler had mistaken for monsters, he still didn’t care. He had back two things he’d thought lost forever; the love of his life and the chance to save what was left of humanity. Life was, if not good, at least not as bad as it had been. And in the world of After, that was all anyone could ask for. Now, to question Bowler more closely, formulate a plan. Suddenly there was lots to do.
Chapter Forty-Three
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Lumler and Nails were just pulling up at the address, a smaller bungalow-type thing in a quiet part of town, when suddenly a motorcycle, a big, modern job carrying two helmet-clad riders, came roaring from the attached garage and sped off into the night.
“Shit!” Lumler spat. “After ‘em, Nails! Go!”
And they were off, the heavy, souped-up ‘62 Transauto GT leaping over the cracked pavement as Nails eagerly cranked the wheel and Lumler braced himself on the interior chassis. In another minute, they were gaining on the fleeing bike.
It had been Santiago’s house, of course; Lumler had been there several times. And the more he’d thought about it, the more it had made sense. Santiago had always talked about Reform and how crazy the Governor was. He was what they used to call a Liberal, one of those kind of people that were always worried about the poor and the sick and whatever. Yes, it added up. The only thing now was, did he care? Did it even matter anymore? After all, the way the War was going, who knew who long New America would last? Already there were some who said it was all but over.
Suddenly the car veered crazily as Nails negotiated an Army roadblock. Helmet-framed, angry faces floated past and Lumler swore as they almost hit a brick wall. Then Nails got the car under control, mashed the accelerator again, and the roadblock was behind them.
The bike was vastly more maneuverable and speedy than their car, and often they lost sight of it on a sharp turn (especially because its driver had been clever enough to disconnect the rear lights), but on the straightaways the car’s toughness and acceleration steadily closed the gap.
Careening off of a side street, they turned right onto the city’s main thoroughfare, Massachusetts Street, a straight shot from north to south, and swiftly gained on the bike. Within another minute, they were twenty yards behind their quarry and Lumler was wondering what to do next (as in, run them down? Shoot at them? Forget the whole thing and go home?) when the bike’s passenger suddenly turned, raised his arm, and threw something at the car.
They were moving too fast to tell what it was, but whatever it was smashed into the windshield with enough force to spider-web the glass into a million little cells. Suddenly unable to see where he was going, Nails hit the brakes, but they were moving so quickly that this sent the car into a skid that had them traveling almost sideways down the street.
Lumler swore viciously and held on as Nails struggled with the wheel. When the car was back under at least some semblance of control, he lurched forward and, striking with heavy, bear-like blows of his leather-gloved fists, bashed out the windshield. Most of the tiny bits of safety glass flew into their laps, and suddenly the cool night air was roaring through the car’s interior, but at least now they could see where they were going. Desperately, Lumler peered into the wind, down Massachusetts, but there was no sign of the bike.
“Fuck!” he snarled. “We fucking lost ‘em!”
Nails slowed the car down. “Sorry, Sarge,” he said. “But whatever they throwed at us… Shit!”
Lumler thought for a moment and then an idea came lumbering up in his mind.
“Keep goin’,” he told Nails. “South on Mass.”
“Whaa? Why? They gone, Sarge.”
“Just shut the fuck up and drive,” Lumler said. “I’ll tell you where to go.”
“You the boss.”
They pulled up in front of Santiago’s clinic about ten minutes later. There was no sign of the bike, but that didn’t mean much, thought Lumler; of course they’d hide the thing. Then again, maybe it was already a mile away from here and getting further every second.
Lumler grabbed a shotgun from the back seat as they exited the car and Nails drew out his .45 as they approached the building. It
was a low structure, one story with only a few windows, and it was dark inside. Lumler led Nails up to the front door and peered past the glass panels and thickly welded bars. Nothing stirred.
“You think they’s here, Sarge?” whispered Nails excitedly. “You think?”
Lumler said nothing but the glare he gave the other man shut Nails up just the same. He tried the door and found that it was unlocked. Funny. This place, with all its valuable drugs and supplies, should be locked up good this time of night. Slowly, he opened the door and moved deliberately into the clinic. Nails, his eyes left, right, and out the back of his head, jittering like a squirrel, followed along.
A noise, a scraping bump, made Lumler stop short. Before Nails could say anything, he glared the man to silence and started toward the doctor’s offices, from which the sound had come.
It was dark back there where the moonlight didn’t reach, and when they came to the first office Lumler reached inside the doorway, felt around, and snapped on the bright overhead lights. Nothing, just a sterile-looking exam room, with padded table, chairs, and a shelf with a couple of boxes and jars.
Moving along, Lumler did the same for two more exam rooms. Again, nothing of interest. He was starting to relax a little, thinking that the noise was probably just a rat or something, and snapped on the lights in the last room.
Caught in the glare like he was paralyzed, eyes wide, mouth in a broad ‘O’, Santiago knelt in the corner of the exam room, just behind the stirrup table. Before him was a duct or grille of some kind, propped open, down which Lumler saw a pair of legs quickly vanishing.
“Hold it right there!” shrieked Nails, brandishing his pistol in both hands.
Seeing that Santiago wasn’t obviously armed, hands up and empty, Lumler brushed past him and quickly knelt and looked into the vent, but whomever had crawled down the shaft was already long gone.
Lumler stood up and looked down at Santiago. Nails, vibrating in place, his knuckles white on the .45, stood nearby in a crouch.
“We got one, Sarge!” he said, excited as hell. “Shit, we got one!”
Santiago looked up at Lumler. His expression was apologetic, regretful and tired, but his dark eyes sparkled as brightly as ever.
“Hiya, Doug,” he said glibly. “You uh, you come by for a check-up?”
Lumler didn’t say anything. Something deep in his ponderous mind was talking to him and, for the first time in his life, and at this unlikely moment, he decided to listen to what it said. For what undoubtedly seemed like a long time to the others, he stood and fingered the shotgun, clicking the safety on and off, on and off, and listened. Santiago just waited, hands laced atop his head, but finally Nails could take no more.
“What’s up, Sarge?” he said. “You OK?”
Lumler looked over at him. “Fine,” he said, flat as a pancake. “Just fine.”
“So,” said Nails uncertainly, “whata we do next? We takin’ him in, right? Or should we jus’, you know, take care of him right here?”
“Yeah, Sarge,” Santiago said sardonically. “Whatcha gonna do?”
Lumler frowned. He quit flipping the safety. He was done listening now and whatever it was that had stirred and risen in his mind had ultimately won him over. His thick reasoning processes didn’t allow for anything like a revelation, but whatever it was, it was right, in just about every sense of the word he could imagine, and right was right. Nothing else was.
Before Nails could react, Lumler whipped the barrel of the shotgun around and let the other PF man have it with both barrels. The gun, a riot model of a 12 gauge double barrel loaded with solid slugs, made an enormous boom in the small exam room. Nails, his face a study in surprise and confusion, was hit in the chest and neck. Blood and flesh splattered the walls, smoke wafted in the still air, and Nails, dropping his gun, slid shuddering to the ground to lie in a growing puddle of his own blood. In an instant, a loud, incredibly violent and gory instant, the man was stone dead.
Lumler busted open the shotgun, ejecting the two spent shells, and jacked two more from his pocket into the breech. Santiago still knelt before him, hands behind his head. Looking from the dead man to Lumler, his eyes were wide but unafraid.
“Holy shit!” he breathed. “You killed him!”
“Nice diagnosis, Doc,” said Lumler wryly. “Any further observations?”
Santiago slowly lowered his hands and shook his head. “You know what you just did? You know what’ll happen to you?”
Lumler shrugged, a small mountain shifting position. “Guess so,” he said. “But that’s only if they catch me.”
Santiago slowly grinned. “So that’s it? Now you’re one of us?”
Lumler considered his words. “You gotta make choices sometimes,” he finally said. “An’ sometimes they’re hard choices, you know? I guess I just made a pretty hard one.”
“I guess you did!” said Santiago, eyeing Nails’ oozing corpse. “But did you have to do that?”
“Yup,” said Lumler placidly. “Trust me, he would never have let me let you go. And he would never have kept his mouth shut. So yeah, I had to. Anyway, he was an asshole. He had it comin’.”
Santiago nodded gravely, got to his feet a little unsteadily, and glanced at the still-ajar vent. Lumler noticed and gestured at the aperture.
“Who was that?” he asked.
Santiago shrugged. “Friend of mine. Name of Stiletto.”
“Stiletto?! Christ, is that really his name?”
“Her name,” corrected Santiago. “And you can pretty well guess how she got it. But don’t worry, you’ll meet her soon enough, I guess. I mean, you do want to come with me, don’t you? Or are you gonna, you know, try it on your own?”
“Oh, I’m with you, pal,” said Lumler, shouldering the riot gun. “I mean, where else I got to go, right? Not like I can go back now.”
Suddenly the radio on Lumler’s shoulder went off in a burst of static and the tense, nasal voice of none other than the Chief himself issued forth.
“Sergeant Lumler, report at once! Repeat, Sergeant Lumler, your report is required immediately! Report!”
Lumler glared at the radio for a moment. Then he reached up and tore it from its velcro mount. He was about to crush it underfoot, maybe in some kind of stupid, defiant gesture, but then decided that it might be useful and instead simply switched it off.
“Fuck you, Chief,” he said to the dead radio. “Fuck you and the Governor and the whole goddamn thing.”
“Amen to that, my friend,” said Santiago, nodding and smiling. But then he abruptly frowned. “But it ain’t gonna be so easy, explaining you to the others. My other friends, that is. I mean, after all, you are—or were, anyway—the second in command of the PF! These folks aren’t exactly going to welcome you with open arms, you know?”
Lumler scowled. “Not much I can do about that. Guess they’ll just have to trust me. You’ll have to trust me.”
“Yeah, well,” said Santiago, without hesitation, clapping Lumler’s broad shoulder, “once I tell ‘em about Officer Nails there, it should be a little easier. Now, let’s go find you some normal clothes. Cause if we walk in with you wearin’ that, Nails or no Nails…”
“Yeah, alright,” said Lumler. “An’ we should get the fuck outta here, anyway. We’ll just leave Nails. They’ll find him soon or later.”
“Agreed,” said Santiago, and exhaled a deep, pent-up breath. Looking up at Lumler, he grinned again, a dopey sort of relieved look on his face, and then led the way out.
“Man, this is weird,” he said, shaking his head. “One minute I think I’m gonna be grabbed or shot by the police, the next I’m walking away with the Deputy Chief. And he’s…” he trailed off.
“Turned coat?” finished Lumler. “Gone traitor? Trust me, pal, it’s a hell of a lot weirder for me!”
“Yeah,” said Santiago, nodding at the sound of approaching sirens. “Well, one thing for sure, if we stay here much longer, we’ll both go to the cells. Now c’mon. Let’
s blow.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Got the Sick, got the Sick!
No more fun, no more tickety-tick!
Gonna jump on the burnin’ pyre,
Say goodbye to all the sinners and liars!
—lyrics from Illness Becomes You by Pox Populi, Sanitation Records, 2062
Knowing nothing of spelunking or geology or anything pertinent to such subterranean pursuits, Justin was at something of a loss when it came to planning their next move, but he knew that a few things were essential. A source of light, for one thing, and more rope, plus all the rest of their meager possessions, food, and water. But beyond that, he was stumped. Who could say what they might need down in this purported tunnel system?
Bowler had not been exactly forthcoming when it came to relating his experience, traumatized and fearful as he’d been, but finally Justin had pried enough out of the young man to be satisfied that they should definitely go down into these tunnels in search of Mr. Lampert. He had no idea what the “monsters” Bowler spoke of actually were, of course, probably some figment of Bowler’s imagination or a simple exaggeration, but then again, it didn’t matter to him in the least. If Lampert was down there, then there he must go, monsters or not.
He’d listened to the opinions of the others, as well, Erin’s misgivings that anyone might have when faced with this sort of endeavor, fears of cave-ins and poison gas and such, plus Teresa’s mythic lore about “muties” and “trogs”, but again, they made little impression. Lampert was the only thing that mattered.
Now, having spent the rest of that day returning to the ruined SA and gathering everything they could carry that seemed evenly remotely useful, they were just finishing a very satisfying meal of packaged, good old fashioned, pre-Fall junk food. All but the Kid, that is. After one sniff of a bag of Nacho-flavored Krillo Chips, he produced a nasty-looking chunk of some kind of meat from his rabbit-skin bag and made his own dinner.