Plaguesville, USA

by Jim LaVigne

  Donning this crude garment, which was better than nothing, he couldn’t help wonder about his beloved n-suit. Over the last few months, he’d really come to rely on that crazy thing. It kept him warm in the cold, cool in the heat, and meant that he needed to eat and sleep about half as much as usual. Even more, it had been very expensive and even harder to get; he’d had to call in a lot of favors to procure it. Yes, even more than his weapons and gadgets, the suit was a bad thing to have lost. He was balefully eyeing the lima beans (why lima beans? He hated lima beans) when the coughing came again and he cocked his head to listen. After a while, though, the cougher, whoever he was, went silent and the only sound was a slow drip of water.

  After another sip of the water (which was warm and tasted like old rust), he rose painfully, went over to the wall where he’d judged the sound to come from, and knocked on the wet stone with a rock.

  “Hey!” he rasped, just above a whisper. “You there! Can you hear me?”

  There was a short silence and then he heard some whispering, as of two or more people, and then came the familiar voice he’d heard earlier.

  “Who’s that?” it asked. “Who’s there?”

  “My name’s Shipman,” said the Hunter. “Jack Shipman. Who are you? And how many of you are there?”

  There was some more whispering, a few coughs. “Just the two of us,” said the voice. “Just me an’ the nurse.”

  “The what? The nurse?” hissed the Hunter. Then it finally dawned on him and he groaned and held his forehead with one hand. “Oh no,” he said miserably. “It’s you, ain’t it, Old Man?”

  “None other!” cackled Lampert. “Old as dirt and twice as filthy! Is that you, Senor Psycho?”

  The Hunter groaned again but didn’t bother to reply.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” came Lampert’s voice. He coughed a while before he went on. “Well, mister tough guy,” he rasped, “it looks like the tables are turned, now don’t it? Be ironic if it wasn’t so trite. Anyway, you’re in here with us, now. You and me and Cass and a whole mine-full of loonies and deformed freaks. An’ I gotta tellya, of all the fun places I been on this little excursion, this is definitely the worst. Shit, even the cannibals were better than this! Well, I guess that’s how it goes these days, but then again, who’d of thunk it, you know? I mean, damn!”

  Lampert laughed again but it quickly devolved into a coughing fit. To tell the truth, the Old Man didn’t sound so good. Kind of labored and weak.

  The Hunter scrubbed his face with his hands and groaned again. What the hell had happened? How had they gotten here? Christ, what the hell had he gotten himself into now? Underground god-damn mutants? And, even more importantly, how the hell was he going to get out of it? Nothing presented itself, but then he’d learned over the years that, however hopeless things seemed, there was always a way. You just had to wait and watch and pick the right moment to act. What he’d done all his life.

  What was more, he now knew that he wasn’t alone. Even if his fellow captives were folks he’d lately kidnapped, and thus perhaps a bit unreceptive, the very idea was a comfort; he wasn’t the only sane man in the nuthouse. Grimly, he went over to the can of lima beans, picked it up, and began shoveling them into his mouth.

  It was the next day (or night; it was impossible to tell) that they brought him a cellmate. Unceremoniously tossed into the cave by a couple of big freaks, naked and bruised with a bloody bandage on his thigh, his new roomie was an average-sized, black-haired man of stocky build with a thick mustache and the dark skin of a Latino. Struggling to his knees, the newcomer looked around the cave and shook his head disgustedly.

  “Fuck,” he said simply. “Wouldn’t you just fuckin’ know it.”

  The Hunter offered the rusty water can. “Here,” he said. “It tastes bad, but so far it ain’t killed me.”

  The man greedily took the can and drank. “Gracias,” he said. For what seemed like a long time, he stared at the Hunter, who could almost hear the gears grinding, before posing an obvious question. “Who are you?” he asked. “I mean, I know you ain’t Army, an’ you ain’t PF, neither. So where you come from? Who the hell are you?”

  “Shipman,” said the Hunter. “And no, I ain’t from New America. Well, I’m no citizen, anyway, but I was hired by the Governor. Sort of a freelance job. What about you? You got a name?”

  “Rodriguez,” said the man. “Chui Rodriguez. But everyone calls me CJ.”

  “You’re Army?”

  The man didn’t reply at first; instead he eyed the Hunter again, much more intently, before giving a shrug.

  “Yeah, I’m Army,” he said. “But that’s about all I’m gonna say. Cause, no offense pal, but I don’t know you from shit. For all I know you could be some kinda rat. A plant, you know?”

  The Hunter nodded. “Fair enough,” he said. “I guess you got no reason to trust me. But don’t forget, the same thing goes for you. I got no reason to trust you, neither.”

  They eyeballed each other for a while before CJ finally snorted and let out a bitter laugh. “Aw, to hell with it!” he said, shaking his head. “At this point, I seriously doubt that it even matters anymore. Whole goddamn world is dyin’ an’ here we are, stuck in a filthy hole and ready to turn on each other like fuckin’ chickens in a cockfight! That’s fucked up, esse.”

  The Hunter allowed a thin smile and nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s a fucked-up world now, ain’t it? Well, first things first, CJ. Let’s get you something to wear…”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Traveling these days can be a real nuisance. What with the body scans and the sedation and restraints, not to mention the time spent, wasted on runways and fighting adverse weather, it makes you just want to stay home. But not anymore! Now available in most major cities, US Transairways announces new Sub-Orbital Service aboard its fleet of state-of the-art XS4000 Rocket Planes! Just pass a simple physical screening and personality profile and then sit back and be amazed! New York to London in under an hour! Chicago to Tokyo in four hours or less! No more waiting, no more grogginess from all those medications! Using safe, proven technology from NASA’s Operation Mars, our new SO Service will change your mind about travel!

  —ad for transportation service, circa 2055

  Chafing to get started, imagining Howard Lampert’s ancient body getting more ancient by the second, Justin didn’t think too much about Bowler’s change of heart. When the younger man appeared next morning, ready to descend into the tunnels with them, he more or less just chalked it up to the fellow’s mercurial nature. Teresa, though, was more circumspect and gave Bowler a suspicious look.

  “Change yer mind, hey?” she said. “How come? Las’ night, you said no fuckin’ way.”

  Bowler shrugged and stared back at her evenly. “Y’all might need me,” he said. “After all, I’m the only one who’s been down there, ain’t I? And besides, we all gotta, like, stick together, don’t we? Safety in numbers an’ all that.”

  Justin stepped in. “Yes, yes,” he said, clapping Bowler on the shoulder, “of course we need to stick together. Now, can we get going? Please?”

  And so they did, climbing down first into the pit and then, switching on their flashlights, into a long, narrow passage in complete darkness. The Kid, after some obvious internal debate, came climbing down last and trailed along at Teresa’s hip like a frightened pet. Justin led the way, but there wasn’t much leading to do, since the tunnel proceeded straight, level, and uncluttered, for as far as they could see. Interested in the construction, he shone his light on the walls and ceiling and saw that this was a man-made passage, marked with regular scoring and cuts, and supported every twenty yards or so by creosote-smeared wooden trestles.

  “Is this a mine?” he wondered aloud, his voice echoing eerily. “It’s certainly not a natural cave.”

  “Looks like it,” said Erin Swails. “Can’t think of any other reason for tunnels like this.”

  “And what is that smell?” asked Justin.
“Like some kind of animal. Like at the zoo.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty rank, alright.”

  They walked for quite a while, instinctively crouched, and the tunnel kept on straight and level. They’d gone at least a mile when Justin finally called a rest break. As the others had some water, he directed his light down the tunnel, but there was nothing to see except more tunnel. He turned to Bowler.

  “How long is this thing?” he asked. “How far do we have to go?”

  Bowler shrugged lackadaisically. “Pretty far,” he said. “Like I said, these holes go on forever. Miles an’ miles. But, I dunno, we should come to a, like, intersection, pretty soon, an’ after that there’s all kindsa tunnels, up an’ down and all over.”

  Justin frowned. “That sounds as if it would be easy to get lost. Are you sure you can find your way back?”

  “Yeah, dude,” said Teresa edgily. “I don’ wanna get stuck down here, hey?”

  “Relax,” said Bowler. “I know where I’m goin’.”

  Suddenly worried, in an infuriatingly impotent way, Justin nodded and tried not to think about it. They’d made their choice and, short of turning around right now and leaving, they were committed. There was no sense in second-guessing.

  Unfortunately, his more animal instincts were not so reasonable and a looming sense of where he was began to take over. The darkness, the way every sound echoed so eerily, the horrid musky smell… But most of all he was aware of the tons and tons of earth and stone over his head, a vast physical weight that could suddenly fall and bury them so deeply that no one would even know they’d ever been there at all. And to think that there were apparently people living down here? It made his skin crawl. With an effort, trying to set a brave example, he shook it off and got them moving again.

  They went along the tunnel for maybe another mile and, though it was slight, Justin noticed that it sloped steadily downward. Was that significant? All it meant to him was that there was even more earth, more weight, hanging over their heads.

  At one point there was a hissed exchange from the rear of their little group and Justin stopped and turned to see that Teresa, with the Kid glaring protectively from around her knees, was in some kind of dispute with Bowler.

  “Go ahead, dude,” she was saying, motioning for Bowler to proceed her. “I gots the back, hey?”

  “Yeah, OK,” said Bowler, shrugging sullenly. “Whatever.” And he fell into line ahead of Teresa and the Kid.

  Justin gave Teresa a questioning look, but she only made a “who knows?” kind of face and shrugged. More concerned with their surroundings than Bowler’s (only natural) reticence, Justin turned back to the tunnel and kept going.

  After another quarter mile or so, they came to a spot where a large grate of some kind, like an ancient portcullis, set into the ceiling, emerged from the darkness. Luckily, it was raised, allowing them to walk right under it, but Justin saw that, once lowered, it would block the passage as effectively as a cave-in. He looked around, shining his light all about, but there didn’t seem to be any mechanism for raising and lowering the thing.

  “What is this?” Justin asked, looking to Bowler.

  “How should I know?” said Bowler testily. “Some kinda gate, looks like.”

  “Could be a storm grate,’ said Erin, playing her light on the thick, rusty bars. “In case of a flood, you know? They could’ve closed it off, to minimize damage.”

  “Hmm, yes,” said Justin. That sounded reasonable enough. “Well, whatever it is, it’s not blocking our way or anything, so let’s go on.”

  And so they did, for about another two hundred yards, when suddenly a couple of things happened, and neither of them was good. First, Justin heard a clanking, grinding noise, coming from both ahead and behind them. Then a weird, high-pitched laughing, so utterly bizarre that it made Justin’s hair stand up, echoed down the tunnel.

  Stopping dead in his tracks, his blood going cold, Justin looked back to the others and saw that they were all similarly frozen in place. All that is, but Bowler, who wore a sort of rueful, hangdog expression and stood off to one side as if nothing much had just happened. Justin blinked at the man.

  “Wha… what is this?” he stammered. “Bowler? What…”

  Teresa whirled on the man, her shotgun leveled at his chest from about two feet away, brilliant eyes flashing, and cleared it up.

  “Trap!” she snarled. “I knew it! He took us into a fuckin’ trap!”

  “Bowler?” said Justin desperately, hearing something moving, off in the darkness ahead. “Is this true? Oh no, what have you done?”

  “Sorry, Doc,” said Bowler guiltily, eyes downcast, “but y’all know how it is. We all gotta do what we gotta do to survive, don’t we? An’ these guys, the mutants, well, they made me the sorta offer I just couldn’t pass up, you know? Ain’t nothin’ personal.”

  “Nothing personal?” sputtered Justin, reeling. “Are you kidding me?”

  Teresa glared daggers at the man. “I should blast you in half, ass-monkey,” she told him, her thin fingers white on the blue-black gun. “Gimme jus’ one reason not to.”

  Bowler cringed. From the tunnel ahead, there was now definitely someone or something approaching. It sounded like a crowd of people, all shuffling their feet, and a faint, bobbing light soon appeared. Justin turned desperately back to Bowler and the others.

  “Don’t kill him,” Justin told Teresa. “That won’t solve anything.”

  “But he got it comin’!” she said hotly, eyes riveted on Bowler. “Ain’t nothin’ but a fuckin’ rat! Fuckin’ vermin, hey?!”

  “Teresa, no,” said Justin firmly. “Do you hear me? Shooting Bowler won’t help us.”

  Glancing down the tunnel, Teresa seemed to think it over for a second before nodding and turning to face the approaching sounds.

  “Fine,” she said, peering down the tunnel. “I won’ blast his vermin ass. But I ain’t gonna get killed by no muties, neither.” Whirling back to Bowler, she motioned with the shotgun. “Yo, rat!” she said, her voice like steel. “Get up here, hey? Out in front, greep. Move!”

  Slowly, Bowler did as told and walked a few paces ahead, down the tunnel. After a quick glance at their immediate surroundings—just an average piece of tunnel with nowhere to hide—Teresa snatched the pistol from her boot and pressed it on Justin.

  “Here, Case,” she said. “Take this an’ don’ fire til you see they eyeballs, hey? That a little gun, so let ‘em get good an’ close!”

  His hands leaden and stiff, he took the pistol and looked at it stupidly. This was all happening too fast for him to react. Should they try to run away? He certainly didn’t relish the idea of any sort of gunfight. And what was that horrible smell? Weakly, he flipped the gun’s safety to off, told Erin and the Kid to stay back, and, joining Teresa in a kneeling position on either side of the tunnel, waited for whatever was coming.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Don’t take a chance on some stranger’s organs; grow your own, with Stemigro! Using recently deregulated cellular growth technology, plus a little contribution of your own, now you can guarantee a ready supply of fresh, clean organs, ready for transplant! Why roll the dice on a donor organ? Visit Stemigro today, and start growing your own!

  —TV ad for Globo-Chem service, circa 2056

  The Hunter and the Soldier had lots of time to talk, but, taciturn by nature, they mostly sat in their inky cell in complete silence. From next door, they heard nothing more. Either the Old Man and his nurse had been moved or they were dead. Ultimately though, out of sheer boredom and small measure of curiosity, the Hunter finally spoke up.

  “So what’s the deal in New America?” he asked peremptorily. “What’s with this here war you were talkin’ about?”

  The other man said nothing for a while and the Hunter could sense him staring back in the dark. Finally the Soldier snorted and gave a bitter laugh.

  “New America,” he said acidly. “That’s a fuckin’ laugh! Shit, if that’s the new
version of the U.S., I say piss on it! Buncha fuckin’ assholes. You know the hell of it? I actually swore an oath to that Governor pendejo! Maricon pajero fuck! But I guess that don’t mean shit no more. I mean, both of us are prob’ly as good as dead, anyway.”

  “Yeah, looks like it,” said the Hunter laconically. “But what about the war? Who’s the enemy?”

  “These fucks!” said CJ. “These deformo freaks. They been swarmin’ up outta the ground like cock-a-roaches for the last six months. Come in big gangs, fifty, hundred at a time. Not so well-armed, mind. All they got’s like, axes and knives and clubs, some old rifles an’ pistols. But when there’s a hundred screamin’ muties at a time, well, even all our fancy assault rifles don’ mean shit. Plus, they’re fuckin’ smart, man! Use diversions, sneak attacks, all kinda shit. Don’ know how they can be so clever, to look at ‘em, but there you go. An’, like you can see, they’re like, fuckin’ underground. They use these mine shafts, the sewers, pop up wherever they want.”

  “Jesus,” said the Hunter, “that’s rough. But what about the muties themselves? What are they after? Whatta they want?”

  “Who fuckin’ knows? Maybe they just wanna take over, you know? Take all our food an’ all our stuff. I mean, some people say that they eat people, sure, but right now? I personally don’ wanna think about that. Know what I mean?”

  The Hunter felt a slight shudder; one of his few unreasonable fears was of being eaten by cannibals. Not that he cared if people ate other people, really, that was their business. He just didn’t want it to happen to him. And to think that all those monsters out there were man-eaters? It gave him a shock.

  “What about this Emperor freak?” asked the Hunter, deliberately changing the subject. “You met him yet?”