by Jim LaVigne
There was some general hubbub about this, mainly scowls and angry whispers from Swails and the other CDC folks, plus a few of the Council. Then Doctor Kaes, newly shaved and dressed in a plain white coverall jumpsuit, stood up and raised his voice.
“I beg to differ,” he said stiffly, blushing a little. “That is, much as I admire your pragmatism, I cannot condone the taking of human life. Ever. Under any conditions whatsoever. It isn’t a matter of philosophy, it’s a matter of right and wrong. And murder is always wrong. Even now, after the Fall. And what’s more, let me assure you, neither I nor any of my colleagues has ever killed anyone. I can’t speak for Teresa, of course, but even with all we’ve been through, none of the rest of us has been forced to that.”
“Then yer awful fuckin’ lucky, pal,” came a deep voice like gravel on asphalt. It was the big man, Lumler, the former PF man, who now shook his head disgustedly, without rising. “That, or yer just plain chickenshit. Hell, why are we even listening to this pacifist crap?”
This, of course, brought a whole big noise of protest from Kaes, his group, and more than a few others, and pretty soon the whole theater was echoing with angry words of accusations and counter-accusations. The Hunter sat back and waited. For a second he thought of standing up and saying something, but no one would have heard him anyway, so he just sat and let them argue. Finally, after maybe a good ten minutes of bickering, the nasal, wheezy voice of none other than Howard Lampert rang out, cutting through the clamor like a rusty bugle.
“Shut up, allaya!” he called harshly. “Just shut the fuck up for one minute, alright?!”
Sort of confusedly, the assembly quieted down, looking at each other and shrugging. Lampert nodded and, painfully rising from his seat, headed up to the podium. The Hunter saw that the dried-up old coot was freshly dressed, shaved and clean, and apparently no worse the wear for his imprisonment in the mines. There was a long pause as Lampert, rejecting assistance, tottered on up to the front of the room. Then he looked down critically at the New Americans before him and gave a snort.
“Look at all of you,” he said sneeringly. “So self-righteous, so sanctimonious. Call yourself the Reform Council all you want, but really all you are is a gang. Thugs, murderers, thieves and terrorists. Just a gang like any other. Yeah, yer a real sweet bunch alright, real prime specimens of the species.
“But I’m here to tellya,” he said after a pause, glaring pointedly at Santiago, “that these CDC people, Dr. Kaes and his crew, are not like you. Understand? Shit, didn’t you hear what they’ve been through? All the shit they’ve put up with? And through all of that, from the moment I met ‘em to right now, they have never, ever stooped to your level. Never harmed a hair on head one, no matter how insane or violent the survie they came across. You can call ‘em pacifists, or chickenshit or whatever damn thing you wanna call ‘em, but here’s the plain facts—they are still human, or at least humane. Get me? They’re good people, and not in some daffy, goodie-two-shoes bullshit way, neither. They do good things. In other words, they still care about their fellow man.”
He paused and caught his breath as an uneasy silence came over the NA group. Finally Lampert went on.
“And with all they’ve been through,” he waved, “what the fuck thanks are they gonna get? Who’s gonna thank ‘em for saving the whole damn species, even if they manage to do it? Not you screwheads, that’s for sure! You’re too busy fighting over what’s left of fucking Lawrence, Kansas! I mean, what is the goddamn point?!”
“Sir, I—” Santiago tried to say, when the Old Man paused for breath, but Lampert cut him off.
“Quiet, you!” he snapped, staring Santiago back down into his seat. “I ain’t done yet. Now, I don’t know what kinda plans you got for me and Doctor Kaes and his mission, but I do know that if you don’t do everything in your power to help him, do whatever he says, you’re all nothing more than a bunch of fucking morons, too goddamn stupid to save your own species. And that’s all I wanna say about that.
“As far as this Shipman fella goes, well, I hate to tell ya, Erin and Doc Kaes and you guys, but this man is valuable, like it or not. Deadly and homicidal, but valuable. And he could really help in your mission. I dunno, mebbe you could think of him as I weapon, you know? Point him at something you want to die. Not that I’m sayin’ you should trust him, either, but you gotta admit, he’s shown that he’s pretty damned good in a fight. But hell, did you ever think of maybe asking him what he wants to do? I mean shit, we been here for hours now and he ain’t put more than three words together yet!”
Oh, thanks a whole bunch, thought the Hunter; thanks a million, you shriveled old bastard. But he nodded and stood up when every last person in the room went dead quiet and turned to stare. After a moment, he gave a shrug.
“If yer asking,” he said, “I’d like to help Dr. Kaes get to California. Obviously things in New America sorta took a turn for the worse. And now that I know that, and all about how the Sick’s for sure gonna come back an’ kill everybody? Well, I want to help. I ain’t gonna argue about what I did or why, but you can let me help, or you can do whatever else. Guess it’s yer choice.”
With that, feeling like he’d just delivered an hour-long oration before the UN, he sat back down and waited as Lampert wobbled back to his seat and the theater again hummed with conversation. Glancing up, the Hunter saw Dr. Kaes looking at him in an odd kind of way from across the room but something in his eyes made the Hunter quickly look away. After maybe fifteen minutes of quiet discussion among the NA group, most of it about him, some sort of consensus seemed to have been reached. They all went quiet as Santiago again went up to the podium.
“Well, OK,” he said abashedly, “we obviously have a diversity of opinions. And, far as that goes, it’s good we’re having this little discussion. Get everyone’s thoughts out into the open, you know? And I guess we New Americans sorta needed a reminder that well, not everyone is as cynical and ruthless as we’ve had to become. But here’s the thing, folks, differences aside, we’re all on the same page. We have to get Mr. Lampert to Frisco, and as quickly as possible. Am I right?”
Everyone, even the Old Man himself, nodded at this and Santiago went on.
“So, anyway,” he said, smiling a little, “I guess Shipman is in, yes? Part of the group? OK then, moving on, here’s the basic, like, germ of my idea for getting Mr. Lampert to California. See, the Governor has his own plane. A functioning, maintained-by-a-mechanic, ready-to-use twin-engine prop job from Before, very reliable, very easy to fly. You see where I’m goin’ with this? Of course, the problem is that we can’t just walk into the Governor’s mansion and ask him if we can use it. So, I think we need to figure out just how exactly we’re going to, you know, get in and get out. And,” he nodded solicitously at Kaes, “with as little violence as possible.”
They all seemed pretty happy with this, nodding and knitting their brows, and were about to launch into another undoubtedly long and involved discussion. Before they could really get revved up, the Hunter raised his hand until Santiago noticed and asked what he wanted.
“Just one little thing,” said the Hunter wryly. “If you guys don’t mind, now that I’m like, part of the group, I guess, can I please, for the love of God, get somethin’ else to wear?”
They all had a good laugh at that, sort of breaking the tension, the Hunter supposed, but he was not joking; if he had to spend ten more minutes in the stinking, itchy piece of garbage he had on his body, he might very well just end up running around naked. And nobody wanted that.
To his surprise and gratification, though, he got a lot more than some measly clothes. In fact, he couldn’t hide a big grin when the New American assigned to help him, a younger woman named Olive who’d taken him back to near where he’d awoken, produced from the community lockers nothing less than his beloved nano-suit.
“Hey!” he said gleefully, taking the fine mesh into his hands. “My suit! Excellent! But where did you get this?”
“
Down in the mutie mines,” said Olive, nodding admiringly. “With a buncha other crap they didn’t have the brains to use, I guess. We tried it out ourselves, of course. Hope you don’t mind too much. But then we discovered how it’s all like, specially geared just for one person and all and, well, I guess you know all about it.”
“Yeah,” said the Hunter absently, fingering the suit. “I do at that.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Thus sayeth the Lord God: As I live, surely they that are in the wastes shall fall by the sword, and him that is in the open field will I give to the beasts to be devoured, and they that be in the forts and in the caves shall die of the pestilence.
—Ezekiel 27
As the others loaded their weapons and checked their gear for the umpteenth time, Justin sat apart, his things all packed and ready, and waited. The past few days had been busy ones, planning and preparing, but, thanks to the safety and provisions of the Council, there had been plenty of time for other things as well.
Following the big confab with the New Americans, they had first decided on just who exactly was going to undertake the mission at hand, that is, the invasion of the Governor’s Mansion and the theft of the man’s airplane. Of course, he and the Old Man were automatically in. As soon as they had the plane, they were (hopefully) off to California. To this end, Stiletto, the only real pilot in the group, was also in. Santiago would be leading the group, and the big man named Lumler would be his second.
The Small Man, Shipman, was also an obvious choice, but after that, things had gotten a bit more contentious, as there were more volunteers than needed. Teresa, for one (and by extension, her two-foot shadow, the Kid) had been adamant about going along, as had Barb Cass and several of the Council, but in the end the former Army man, CJ, had been tapped as the final member; he knew the area very well, he was good with a gun, and he had the sort of high-stress experience they would need. Naturally, Teresa had been upset.
“But you gotta lemme come!” she’d argued, making her case to Justin later. “You gonna need me!”
Justin had frowned and shaken his head. “I’m sorry, but it’s not my decision to make. And even if it was, I would still rather you stayed behind.”
“But why?” she’d asked ingenuously. “I can take care o’ myself, Case! You know that! Take care o’ you an’ the Old Man, too!”
“Yes, I know that,” he’d said. “You’re more than capable. But this is going to be dangerous. Maybe very dangerous.”
“So what?” she’d waved. “The whole big world dangerous now! An’ ain’t we always been in danger? What about them cannibos or them muties? Ya sayin’ that weren’t danger?”
“That’s not what I mean,” he’d countered. “As I said, I know you’re more than able to defend yourself. But this is not some rival gang they’re going up against. It’s not a cannibal cult or even a race of deformed underground humanoids, this is a large, organized, force, apparently well-armed and heavily defended. And what’s more, I frankly could not bear it if anything were to happen. So please, for once, stay out of the fight.”
She’d looked at him oddly, and for good reason, It had been a stilted and awkward statement, because a faint trace of the disgust he’d felt earlier at her callousness still wafted through his thoughts. It was blunted now, submerged in his almost physical need for her and everything she represented (love, kindness, family, future), but it was still there, mixed in with his own regret at what amounted to robbing the cradle. At the time, Teresa had, after a long look into his eyes, shrugged and frowned.
“Don’t know what you thinkin’,” she’d said, “but you been all grunchy and sad for days. So what up, Case? Somethin’ wrong? Somethin’ I did?”
No, he’d thought sadly, it’s something you are, not what you did. Something I am, something you are, and something the world has become. To her face, though, he had smiled and stroked her cheek fondly.
“No, Teresa,” he’d said. “It’s nothing like that. I just want you here, safe and sound. And, besides, it would be one less thing to worry about.”
Again, she’d given him a long, searching look, but he’d been careful to keep his features kindly and bland and his voice even and she’d finally shrugged again, knowing something was wrong but with no idea just what, and had gone off to sulk. Justin felt bad for her and wished that he could just blurt it out and tell her all about his fears and misgivings, especially about her specifically, but this was neither the time nor the place for such things. Not when they were so close. And so he’d had to let her sulk.
Once they had determined who was going, they’d spent another whole day planning how they wanted to proceed. Through most of this discussion Justin had paid little attention but had, as the voice of cooler heads, spoken up whenever there was talk of killing or violence. Finally several of the group had thrown up their hands at his incessant, meddling objections.
“Jesus Christ, doc!” Lumler had said, exasperated. “Whattaya want us to do, walk up and tickle ‘em? Maybe engage ‘em in a nice pillow fight? These are heavily armed men, trained to kill! And they will not hesitate to blast you right the fuck in half, doctor or not. Understand? You, the Old Man, me, anybody! Like in the old western movies, shoot first an’ ask questions later.”
“Yes, I understand that,” Justin had nodded. “But surely we can try to keep casualties to a minimum, can’t we? After all, you’ve said yourself that we can’t take on the whole armed forces of New America. Perhaps we can rely more on stealth than force?”
“I agree,” Shipman had said, surprising Justin. “We’ll all get wasted if we go in guns blazin’. We gotta make this a sneak attack.” He’d turned to Lumler and Santiago. “Don’t you guys got any non-lethal arms? No tasers or beanbag guns or nothin’?”
Lumler had shrugged and nodded reluctantly. “Yeah,” he’d allowed, “we got that kinda shit. Gas, rubber bullets, net guns, zappers. But I for one ain’t goin’ in there with nothin’ but some gas grenades an’ a measly net gun!”
“Course not,” Shipman had said. “That’d just be stupid. But we can try to use the non-lethals as much as possible. You gotta admit, they sure as hell keep the noise down!”
Lumler had grumbled and fretted the issue, but in the end had ceded the argument. Justin got the feeling that the man was only giving lip service to the whole idea, but had had to content himself with at least getting him and the others to consider it. Maybe some lives could be spared.
After that, they’d gone into a whole lot of little details; which guards would be on duty, where and when they would patrol; how they would be armed and what exactly were the layouts of the buildings they had to infiltrate. Justin’s attention had again waned and he’d been almost dozing when the high scratchy voice of the Old Man, sitting at his side, had broken in.
“Think this is gonna work, doc?” he’d asked quietly, out of one side of his mouth. “Think we can really swipe this guy’s plane? Fly to Frisco?”
Justin had looked over at him and made a wry face. “I certainly hope so, sir,” he’d said quietly. “But then, these people seem well-acquainted with this sort of thing, so maybe we stand a chance. And, if we do succeed, well, in theory we would be in San Francisco in a matter of hours.”
The Old Man had been about to go on, but Justin, not wanting to disturb the others, had waved him gently to silence. Quietly, he’d gotten up and slowly wheeled Lampert’s new chair (courtesy of the Council) out of the room and into an empty cafeteria room next door. The Old Man, nicely recovered from his bout with the common cold, had looked up at him, his eyes their usual crystal blue but somehow softer and less piercing, and shaken his head.
“Stealin’ a plane?” he’d said. “And flyin’ to Frisco? I dunno, doc… but then again, I guess it’s no crazier than tryin’ to drive to California in some big-ass RV, is it?”
Justin had made a face. “Touché, sir. And believe me, I tried to get them to think of some other way. I asked if there maybe wasn’t another plane somewh
ere we could use, I asked if maybe we couldn’t just use another car or some other, safer transportation, something that wouldn’t involve storming an armed compound, but no. Problematic as this plan is, I have to concede that it seems the most likely to succeed.”
“Huhn, I guess,” the Old Man had wheezed. He’d paused for a moment before shaking his head ruefully. “Damn, you have been through some shit, ain’tcha doc? Gangs, chemical spills, nuke plants, wild animals, more gangs, fucking Christian cannibals and freaky mutant mole people and that horrible Johnson creep, not to mention the source of all this misery, the goddamn Plague itself, surviving that and not goin’ crazy. I mean, Jesus Christ on a scooter, doc, you been to hell an’ back!”
Justin had just sighed and nodded; nobody needed to tell him about what he’d been through. “Yes. It has been a long trip. And we’ve lost a lot of good people along the way.”
“That’s the hell of it, ain’t it? I mean, here there are only what, like twenty, thirty thousand people left in the whole goddamn country? And what do they do? They go around killin’ each other over a couple tanks o’ gas or a package o’ them crappy Krillo-bars! Shit. So what is that, Doc? Irony? Or tragedy, or what?”
“I have no idea,” Justin had owned. “Maybe it’s a bit of both. All I know for certain is that we’re closer than we’ve ever been to getting you to California.”
“Mmm hmm,” Lampert had said. “And then what?”
“What do you mean?” Justin had asked. “When we finally accomplish our mission and have you safely in San Francisco, we’ll make a vaccine, of course.”
“No, I mean after that,” the Old Man had persisted. “Say you do accomplish your mission and you get me there and make a vaccine and save the world. Then what?”
Justin had blinked and frowned, realizing that he’d never given this a single thought. The very idea that they might beat the odds and somehow succeed had been enough to ask for and the idea of a future beyond had been too much. At the time, he’d had to shrug and admit his loss.