by Jim LaVigne
Lampert laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. The big greep, Lumler, now spoke, and it was still like an angry pit dog, only a little more pissed-off, like a pit dog who’s just had his nose laid open in a fight.
“New America,” he growled. “You talk about it like you give a shit about these people, the ones you call citizens, but you don’t. I been from one end of New America to the other. I seen old ladies sittin’ in the dark, eatin’ fried rat, after a twelve-hour day in your goddamn algae plants. I seen good people arrested and tortured by that psycho you put in charge of the police. I seen little kids who never been in a school but know how to wire a Claymore mine. And you call ‘em citizens.”
“Ah, Sergeant Lumler,” said the Governor, looking over at the big man. “The obvious man inside, shall we say? After all, turncoat is a rather harsh term.”
“Fuck you,” said Lumler. “You ain’t in charge of shit no more. Some good men died here, and one of ‘em was my friend. Now, that makes me mad, Governor. Like, real mad, you know? Don’t know what I might do.”
Teresa’s eyes widened as she stared at the thick finger on the trigger of the man’s assault rifle. Ever so slightly, it squeezed.
“Mr. Lumler, stop,” said Justin, intervening. “That won’t solve anything. And besides, we don’t yet have what we need.”
“Yeah, Lumler,” said the Old Man, nodding his chicken neck. “Ya can’t just blow the guy away! I mean, that ain’t cool! And besides, there’s a few things I wanna say to this stuffed shirt bastard, anyhow.”
“Mr. Lampert…” Justin began, but the Old Man waved him away.
“This won’t take long,” said Lampert, eyeballing the Governor. “No, I just wanna ask this dude, just ask him one simple thing: Where the fuck do you get off? Huh? Who made you king hell shit of this junkyard? And who sold you the franchise rights to America? Huh? New America. Ha! From what I heard, this wasn’t nothin’ but a two-bit Nazi con game! Prey on people’s fears, get ‘em to give up their lives for the measly little bit of safety you’d give ‘em. Naw, this ain’t New America, Mister Governor. This is just another gang.”
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong,” said the Governor, still cool but sweating pretty good. Teresa felt Justin fidgeting at her side, anxious to go, but he let the Governor keep talking.
“You see,” the man was saying, “I brought these people things that no one else could, that no one else had the strength to bring them. I gave them electricity and running water. Safety, yes, but also amusements and entertainment. I gave them purpose and direction in a world where, you must admit, these things are sorely lacking. In short, I gave them order. Society.”
“A fucked-up society,” snarled Lumler. “Juice and water, sure, an’ food at the outlets, but they had to work their asses off for it, too, and sometimes they got sick or didn’t make it to the food lines on time. And entertainment? All there ever was to do around here was to get drunk, gamble, or pay a visit to one o’ the whorehouses. No movies or music or art or anything like that, just sleazy shit like booze and hookers and dope. And order? You wanna talk about order? To me? The guy that had to work with that fucking psycho Hanson? Don’t think so.”
“Looks to me,” said the Old Man, smiling in a mean way, “like not all o’ yer citizens were all that contented, pal. Ya see, that’s the whole problem with bein’ a dictator, isn’t it? Sooner or later, everybody hates ya! And ya know what? I’ve seen assholes like you my whole life. Shit, history is full of ‘em. Prob’ly what’s caused most of humanity’s troubles, matter of fact. But even beyond that, even in the business world, in everyday life, there were always assholes like you.”
“Like me?” echoed the Governor. “And what am I like, exactly?’
“You want power,” said the Old Man. “Like any other asshole. Whether it’s through money or sex or political clout or fame or whatever, you wanna control other people. Power, plain and simple, power over others. And for its own sake, far as I can tell! I mean, what is it? Does it make ya feel good, to boss people around? Or is it a feeling that power makes you better or bigger somehow? Apart from the crowd, some kinda VIP? Honestly, I’m curious!”
The Governor smiled again. “Someone has to lead,” he said. “Someone has to take responsibility for the hard decisions. Perhaps, for men like me, it is simply destiny.”
“You actually think that, don’tcha?” said Lampert, shaking his head. “You actually buy your own line of shit. But if there’s one thing we’ve learned, as a race, it’s that anybody who wants power shouldn’t be allowed to have it. It’s like a what-cha-call-it, axiom, you know? A basic truth. And now, what with the Fall, maybe there’s a chance that we can get rid o’ assholes like you. Or at least make sure they don’t get power. Just start from the ground up and keep an eye on people like you like a hawk and get the smartest and wisest people to do the leading, to make the hard decisions.”
He paused for breath and to shake his head. “Aw, hell, I dunno. Maybe assholes like you are like cockroaches and Keith Richards. Maybe it’s just the human condition to get lazy and let assholes take over. All I know is, this New America of yours is done for. I don’t know what these folks are gonna do with ya, but I’d say they got every right to do whatever they want. Hell, remember what happened to Mussolini? That’d be a start.”
Justin now stepped in. “I think that we have wasted enough time with this.” He looked down at the Governor. “You have something we need,” he said, his voice stronger and harder than Teresa had ever heard. “The security chip for the plane, the one in the hanger outside. Please hand it over, at once.”
The Governor seemed to think this over for a minute, but something, probably the look on Justin’s face and his tone of voice, made him finally shrug and nod. He reached for something at waist level in the desk in front of him but Shipman leapt forward and, quick as anything, had his assault rifle up under the Governor’s chin.
“Uh uh,” he said, his voice quiet but sharp and hard. “No tricks there, dude. Now. You jus’ move nice an’ slow, and reach into that drawer and get the chip.”
Moving slowly, the Governor did just that, his hands shaking only a little, and laid a bright green plastic thing, a little computer dingus with some wires running through it, on the desk in front of him.
“Take it,” he said, like he didn’t care. “Take it and go.”
Justin snagged the chip from the desk and, looking like he felt a little more confident, turned away from the Governor and made to leave. They all moved to do the same, even Lumler lowering his gun, when suddenly several things happened, all running together, and Teresa felt like time had slowed down, like in the old vids, all slow-motion and sharp, as she watched.
First there was a click, just a small noise, and they all whirled back to see what it was. The Governor, still seated at his desk, grinned in a very nasty way, like a dead man. Then, before anyone could move, Justin dove forward, putting himself between the desk and Mr. Lampert.
Something puffed out from the front of the desk, some weapon hidden in the big wooden beams and panels. It didn’t make a bang or anything, just a pfft! kind of noise, but whatever it was that came shooting out hit Justin square in the chest and he went down to the thick rug with a grunt.
Then, with everything still in slow motion, about to leap to Justin’s side, she saw the Governor suddenly jolt upright in his chair, like he was very surprised, and his mouth and eyes went wide open and then he flopped, face-down, onto the desk. Suddenly starting up from behind his victim, eyes like glowing coals, was the Kid. He’d stabbed the Governor in the back with a great big knife, right through the back of the fancy chair. Even now, the man was coughing blood and rasping for air.
But Teresa gave him not a single thought. As time snapped back to its normal rate, she gave a cry, threw aside her gun, and dove to Justin. Rolling him over, she saw that there was a dart or something, a nasty big dart with a scary-looking green bulb on one end, stuck deeply in his chest. With a snarl, she
ripped it out and threw it aside.
“S’okay, Case,” she said, scared beyond belief, frantic and angry. “You gonna be alright, you gonna be OK!”
But he looked up at her and smiled and something in his eyes said otherwise. Already, he didn’t look so good. Pale and sweaty and he was breathing hard.
“No,” he said, his eyes sad and calm. “Not this time. I’m afraid this time I’ve run out of luck. Whatever that dart was…” he shuddered from head to foot, grimacing in pain. Then it passed some and he looked at her again and smiled. “Goodbye, Teresa,” he said. “Get Mr. Lampert to San Francisco. And always remember that I love you.”
Then he shuddered again, much worse this time, and some white foamy stuff came from his mouth and nose and she screamed and hugged him, crushing him in her arms, but it was no good. With one more shudder, he groaned, took one last breath and then blew it out, and died, right in her arms.
Something inside of her broke, like a taut wire snipped, and she let out a keening wail from deep in her gut that felt like molten metal erupting from her belly. Around her, she could vaguely sense the others, moving around her and saying things, but she clamped her eyes shut and wailed again. Nothing in her life, nothing even of the Fall or her years with the Bloodclaws, had caused pain like this. This was a pain that killed.
For a while, she just sat there and hugged his body and wailed. Nothing else seemed worth doing. Then, like he was far away, she heard the voice of the Old Man. Her wails dwindling to wracking sobs, she tried to listen.
“Teresa?” came the cracked, high voice. “Teresa, I’m sorry… he’s gone.”
Throwing back her head, she let out an animal scream of anger and pain that echoed around the big room like a scared bird. It took every last breath, and she slumped afterward and released her grip on his body some, sobbing and shaking her head.
“No, no, no!” she spat bitterly, the words like bullets. “Not him! Not Case. No.”
“Teresa, dear,” said the Old Man, and his voice kind of reached into her, like a shot of hard stupidwater. “You have to listen to me. For your sake, for his sake, you have to listen, alright?”
Staring at Justin’s rapidly-paling face, she nodded slightly and the Old Man went on.
“These people tell me that there are lots more of these guards, the men in the black uniforms, and they’re on their way. Hear me? If we stay, we’re gonna get caught all over again, or killed, and that won’t do much for his mission, now will it? He’s gone, dear. I’m sorry, but he’s gone. And so is the asshole that did it. But we’re not, OK? We’re still here and we still got his mission. We still have things to do, if we’re gonna do what he wanted. What he most wanted, out of everything. What he gave up everything for.”
Again, she felt the teeniest bit better, like his words were big swigs of numbing stupidwater, but it was in a daze that she slowly released the body and stood up. It must be a dream, she thought. One of those really scary, life-like nightmares. Maybe that was it. In deep shock, not really believing in what she was experiencing anymore, she sniffed and wiped her eyes and looked at the Old Man.
“That’s my girl,” he said, smiling sadly. He looked up at Still and Lumler, who were standing at hand, looking angry and sad and nervous all at once, and gave them his sharpest stare. “You will,” he said, “give this man a decent funeral. At least a proper grave.”
Lumler nodded his big head. “I give you my word,” he said. “We’ll see to him. Him and CJ and Santiago. I promise.”
She was about to let them lead her away, deep inside her daze of pain and rage, but then spun back, stooped down, and kissed him once more. After that, when they led her out, the short trip in the dark to the airplane, then climbing into the thing and lots of noise and rough, strange jostling all passed in a fog. All she knew, all she could feel or know or think of, was that Justin was dead.
Epilogue:
San Francisco, Republic of California, One Year Later
The Hunter stopped at a bakery on the way to Teresa’s house and picked up some of the sweet cakes she liked so much, the yellow ones with cream inside, before heading up the wide, shaggy expanse of Van Ness Avenue. The city of San Francisco spread out before him. Partially burned, partially overrun by vegetation, a shadow of its former self, it was nonetheless a living city. All around him, stirring in the morning fog, were its residents, gearing up for another day, and down on the docks and mammoth, abandoned piers, small ships sounded their horns on the way out to sea. It would still take time and a lot of work, but there was life here, and more of it all the time, as the steady stream of former New Americans swelled its population.
Passing a bicycle shop, already open and bustling, and a coffee shop where at least a dozen people waited in line, chatting and listening to music on the shop’s radio, he kept walking.
He thought about Teresa and hoped that she would like the cakes. Lately she’d been better, not so desperately sad and listless, but there was still a wound, deep in her heart, that would never really heal. Her son helped, the baby boy she’d given birth to six months ago (and named, of course, Justin), and there was also the Kid (now called, in honor, Santiago), who she’d more or less adopted as her own, but sometimes the look he saw in her eyes almost made him, the flintiest bastard around, want to break down and weep like a schoolgirl. Like all the pain in the world was in those beautiful, perfect eyes.
Like the man who made sure he’d gotten there, who’d given everything for the sake of the human race, the Old Man was dead. After he’d donated as much blood as the doctors would let him, after they’d gotten everything they needed to make their vaccine, he’d lived quietly and modestly with Teresa for about three more months, telling stories from old vids, drinking beer, and smoking those nasty old pre-Fall cigarettes, until passing away quietly one night in his sleep. No goodbyes, no big scenes at his deathbed, just quietly slipped away and nothing left but a bag of bones. The spark that had driven the ancient sinews and the razor mind had finally flickered out.
It was, of course, no surprise. After all, Lampert had been 103 by then! But it still was hard on Teresa. Not even moving into her new place, a huge apartment in the North Waterfront district, had really cheered her up that week.
But she had plenty of company and they all tried to make sure that she at least wanted for nothing. There was Barb Cass, the nurse, who baby-sat when Teresa needed a break—when she wasn’t working with the other medical types down in the labs in the Mission. And there was Erin Swails, who had a new job on the radio, managing the only station in town, and who stopped by often with food and toys for the children.
Doug Lumler was also a frequent visitor. Having emigrated to the West Coast after the end of New America, he was now a fisherman, working on the steam-powered trawlers that plied the bay for tuna and salmon for the big markets on the Wharf, rarely speaking of his life in New America. The fate of the settlement itself was obvious. Most of the citizens of NA had quickly abandoned Lawrence, Kansas and, within weeks, had started showing up in Frisco. Men, women, kids, old and young, they all seemed, if a bit wary and skittish at first, to be fitting in alright. A few had not been so easily assimilated; there had been thefts and beatings, but nothing serious. Likely these bad apples would either see the light or hit the road.
Thinking of Lumler, passing a man pushing a cart of water jugs, who greeted him cheerily and moved on, the Hunter grinned a little at the vision of the big man, hovering over the baby and mother, wringing his cap, terrified of knocking things over, and smiling and laughing like a great big old teddy bear. It just made him smile.
Besides these visitors, Teresa and the kids had the Hunter. He didn’t exactly live there, but he might as well. Every day, whether she needed him or not, he made sure she was alright, with plenty of food and good water and the best place to live that he could find. It wasn’t a romantic thing, at least not yet, and it went beyond simple pity, although she certainly deserved pity, but he somehow just liked being around her
and the kids. It made him feel like he was part of something, anything, for once in his life, and not just roaming around looking for dirt-bags and claim jumpers. And if maybe, some day in the misty future, Teresa saw fit to think of him in that way, at all? Well, that was almost too much to hope for. And if she never did? That was perfectly fine, too. He was more than willing to devote himself to her happiness either way. He owed her that much.
Turning onto Bay Street, he walked another few blocks as the sun started to burn off the morning fog and the sea began to glitter, out past the sagging remains of the Golden Gate. Like a perfect symbol of the Fall, the once-mighty span now lay half-collapsed in the bay. Huge rusted cables trailed in the water and only nesting birds had any use for it. It had fallen.
But it sounded, from the first reports anyway, like the human race would not suffer the same fate. The doctors and scientists were already testing a new vaccine for the Sick that they said would stop it once and for all. Maybe not plague itself, and not everything else that people died of, either, not disease or old age or violence, but at least now the main threat, the shape-shifting, evil strain they’d all come to call the Sick, would be tamed and humanity would at least have a fighting chance. Oh, humanity might still flicker out, but if it did, now it would be its own fault.
And all thanks to Dr. Justin Kaes. To be fair though, the Hunter reminded himself, there had been plenty of others without whom they would never have succeeded. Teresa, the Reform Council of New America, Santiago and CJ and Stiletto and that whole group. Justin’s colleagues, Dr. Poole and the others who’d died so terribly and needlessly along the way. The Kid, little Santiago Junior, who’d saved them all, not to mention crusty old Mr. Lampert himself. Even Bowler, the poor dumb bastard, had played a part. So many, and so few survivors.