“Mr. Allison. Hi. Come with me.”
He walked with her down a gravel drive to the big farmhouse, which he could now see was part of a compound including several sheds and a long barn. Crossing a wide, screened-in porch, the woman unlocked the front door and ushered Allison into an unlit living room.
“In there, please.” She pointed to a door standing ajar across the living room. Allison knocked twice on it, then entered without waiting for an invitation.
A man in camouflage fatigues sat at a roll-top desk, drinking coffee. He was somewhere between forty and fifty, with close-cropped hair and a seamed face. With an abrupt gesture, he motioned Allison to an armchair and poured him some coffee.
“My name’s Frank Burk,” he said in a deep, hoarse voice. “I’m a fan of yours.”
“Oh?” The compliment put Allison off balance.
“I thought Gunship was one of the best movies in years. One of the best ever. It was honest, it was fair, it was almost as exciting as the real thing.” He grinned, showing small grey teeth. “Brought back a lot of memories.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. But I don’t give autographs.”
Burk’s laugh was an unnerving cackle, octaves higher than his speaking voice. “I hear you’re representing our neighbours.”
“Mr. Burk, they need their cow.”
“Call me Frank. Let me explain something, Bob. I wouldn’t have their cow as a gift. We’re in no position to feed one.”
“You have kids here.”
“Sure. They drink powdered milk. You see, we saw this coming — not the waves, but the whole social collapse. We’ve been preparing for it for years. Personally, I figured on nuclear war. That’s why I chose this place, out of the fallout zones. And I figured livestock would be a liability. We raise rabbits for meat, keep a few chickens, and grow some vegetables. But we planned to live on canned and dehydrated food for a long time. We intend to survive on our own and we don’t need to rob our neighbours. Leave us alone and we’ll leave you alone.”
“So you’re what they used to call survivalists.”
Burk grinned again. “Aren’t you? And the Brotherhood?”
“Okay, maybe so. But why are the Brotherhood people so sure that you took their cow? They say they followed her droppings right up to your gate.”
“Maybe cowshit is more persuasive than bullshit,” Burk cackled. “Hell, Bob, for all I know their damn cow wandered up the road and then turned off into the woods. But I’ll tell you something — she won’t last long if she’s outside in daylight. She’ll go blind by sundown, and the coyotes will finish her off at night.”
Allison began to feel foolish. Burk was much more his kind of man than Ray Wilder or Jeremy Lamb; he felt as if he had been suckered in on the side of the wimps.
“Well,” he said. “I’ll tell Mr. Lamb what you’ve told me. Thanks for your time.”
Burk stood up and extended his hand. “It’s been a real pleasure meeting you, Bob. Take care of yourself and your people. Nobody else will.”
Allison let himself out the front door and walked across the porch. The tall woman was nowhere around. He studied the vegetable garden admiringly: the sunshields faced south, leaving plenty of open space for rain and cultivation. The sun was up now, somewhere behind the overcast, and he should be getting under cover; but he walked into the farmyard behind the house to see what else Burk and his people had done.
In the yard was a fresh cowpat. “Uh-oh,” Allison muttered. He walked farther into the yard, until he could glance into the open barn door. A rivulet of blood ran over the concrete floor of the barn and lost itself in the mud Inside, working by the light of a Coleman lantern, three men were butchering a cow. They didn’t notice him, and he walked quickly out of the yard. The tall woman was standing on the porch.
“I didn’t expect you to be finished so soon,” she said. “I’ll walk you back to the gate.”
“That’s okay; I can find my way”
“It’s no trouble,” she insisted. Allison ignored her all the way out to the gate, while he angrily thought that cowshit was indeed much more persuasive than bullshit.
*
A month after the waves, the wrecked areas of Monterey were still uncleared moraines of rubble, turning green in places with UV-resistant weeds. The surviving neighbourhoods, south and west of the rubble, were not much better. No store was open; all had long since been emptied by the army or by looters, and many had been gutted by fire. Squatters had moved into some storefronts, patching the lost windows with plastic or cardboard. Now that it was after five in the afternoon, and mostly cloudy, a few children were venturing out of apartment buildings and houses to play in the littered, potholed streets. Like the adults who watched them from behind glass, the children were scrawny, ragged and deeply tanned. The only other people on the streets were soldiers, most of them blacks, patrolling in teams of three. They watched expressionlessly as Allison and Bert drove past in the Range Rover; the truck carried an orange plastic pennant on the antenna, a passport bestowed by a patrol in Carmel when Allison had told them his destination was Ford Ord.
The waves had wiped out Highway 1 from Monterey to the village of Marina, north of Ord. The fort’s dunes and firing ranges were gone. For a mile inland from the surf, the shore was a sandy plain studded with half-buried cars, boats and odd bits of wreckage — all of it blackened by oil.
“Really stinks when you’re downwind,” Bert observed.
“Ray Wilder tells me it’s from a tanker called the Sitka something. I think I must’ve seen it the morning before the waves hit. Big son-of-a-bitch, off in the middle of the bay.” Alison glanced out at the water. “About where that sailboat is. Christ, who would be crazy enough to go sailing through an oil slick?”
“Maybe it’s somebody thinking about salvaging the tanker.”
“Good luck. I’d be surprised if there was any oil left in that damn thing. The whole goddamn shoreline is filthy.”
At the new main gate, six black MPs inspected them, then waved them through. The post, as they drove up North-South Road, looked almost normal. The lawns in the dependents’ housing area were dead, but house plants in the picture windows were vividly green. The school was deserted. Except for MP patrols in Scouts, the streets were empty.
The centre of Fort Ord was busier: soldiers and their families were in the PX, the snack bar and even the library. The bank was opened; Allison had heard that it now dealt only in army-issued scrip. Everything was in good repair, but buildings and cars looked shabby: months of UV had blistered and bleached their paint.
General Miles’s office was in a stucco-and-tile building not far from the officers’ mess. Miles was cheerful, friendly and drunk. He offered them Scotch or rye, and did not mention Perrier water. Both men took Scotch and settled onto a leather couch, across a coffee table from Miles’s armchair.
“You’re looking pretty damn good, Bob. Pretty damn good,” Miles boomed after Bert had been introduced. “Haven’t seen you since the big day. Boy, that was a hell of a week, wasn’t it? Huh?”
“It sure was, General.”
“How d’you like living under martial law?”
Allison hadn’t noticed that he was living under any sort of law at all, but he leaned forward, solemn and intent. “General, it was your decisiveness that saved this whole area. We all owe you a debt of gratitude. Otherwise we’d have gone down the drain like L.A. or San Francisco. I mean that sincerely.”
“Well, I appreciate that, Bob. Hell. I’m just trying to do my job. Not getting any easier, either. I keep asking for help, and they keep telling me to hang tough, hang tough, I got it better than most.” He finished his drink and poured another. “Got it better than San Diego, I’ll admit that.”
“What’s the story there?” Allison asked.
“They had some kind of radiation spill when the waves hit. Some people think it was a nuclear reactor on shore, some think it was one of the nuclear subs that got sunk. Whatever, they ended
up with about a quarter-million dead from radiation alone. Not counting the hundred thousand dead in the waves. Fallout reached all the way to Tucson.”
Allison and Bert stared at each other.
“Things’re screwed up all over the west,” Miles went on in a slurred drone. “Some kind of war going on in Seattle, with regular troops and National Guard units fighting each other. No goddamn organization at all left in San Francisco. All they got is these local councils, sort of vigilante outfits, and some individual army units still runnin’ a couple of neighbourhoods.”
“What’s it like back east, General?” Bert asked. “We haven’t heard a thing.”
“I haven’t heard much either. The president’s still in Washington, but the government doesn’t seem to amount to much outside of the army and air force.” Miles rambled on in a monologue full of rumours, digressions, bad jokes and nostalgia. At last Allison found an opportunity and explained why they had come. The general listened, nodding and grunting, and then said:
“Can’t have that. Not for a minute. We’ll kick his butt. Only thing is finding the men to do it.”
“I don’t follow you,” Allison said.
“We got a little AWOL problem here. See, a lot of my boys are getting worried about the folks at home, you know? So they’re packing up and moving out, a couple dozen every night, sometimes more. The ones that stay are gettin’ hard to handle. They sit around smokin’ dope and gettin’ kinda wild. I’d like to shoot a couple, but the next thing, they’d frag a couple of officers or just take over. So I don’t have the reliable manpower I had a month ago. Some of them are gone, some of them are stoned, and lots of ‘em just aren’t obeying orders.”
“My God, Ernie,” Allison said urgently, “we just need like a platoon for a day or so, to sort out these guys and arrest the leaders.”
“Oh — that’s all? Well, hell, we can manage that. Sure.” He yelled for an aide, who popped through the door instantly. “We got a company of trainees that’s up to strength and not assigned to anything too serious?”
“Uh, two or three, sir. A-one-one is probably the best. Lieutenant Mercer’s the OIC.”
“Okay, fine. They’re goin’ out on police duty tomorrow. These guys here will give you the details.”
His handshake was hard and too long; his breath reeked. Allison met his eyes and saw blankness.
*
Company A, First Battalion, First Brigade arrived at the ranch at dawn the next day, in a big cattle truck with a canvas canopy. Shauna watched them from the bedroom window; they stopped where the driveway met the road. The sky was clear for once, and the first shafts of sunlight struck down the valley from the Salinas Range, across the brown-and-yellow hills. A young officer and an older sergeant, both blacks, left the truck. Halfway up the drive they were met by Allison, Bert and Dave Marston, all carrying side arms. The five men talked for a few minutes; then the whites walked up to the garage and came back down in the Range Rover. The two blacks got in beside Allison. The trucks moved on.
Shauna rubbed her neck. The bump under her left ear felt bigger: a mole or a wart, or even a cyst. Maybe she should get an army doctor to burn it off. It didn’t show or hurt, but it bothered her sense of herself.
Wrapped in her shapeless old bathrobe, she went downstairs. The Wives — she always capitalized them — were chattering away in the kitchen. Sarah was helping to feed the D’Annunzio twins. The excitement in the air only made Shauna nervous.
“This ought to shut those guys up for good,” Aline D’Annunzio was saying.
“I just wish our brave husbands had stayed put,” said Diana Marston. “If that Burk character decides to start shooting — ”
“Will he?” asked Sarah. “Hi, Shauna! Shauna, will he shoot anybody?”
“No. Don’t be silly.” She poured herself a cup of coffee. “Good morning,” she mumbled, and took her cup back upstairs. God, how could they all mob together like that? She wished they would all go away. Okay, folks, disaster’s over. Thanks a lot for everything It’s been real. A month of this was enough. Another month would drive her crazy.
*
The lieutenant’s name was Odell Mercer; he came from Los Angeles and, like Allison, had graduated from Hollywood High. His senior SCO was a master sergeant, Calvin Hoops, who was from Texas and said very little. Allison drove slowly up the road; the cattle truck stayed close behind.
“There’s Brotherhood House,” he said as they drove past. Two women were hanging out laundry, seizing the sunny morning; others, men and women and children, came out of the big house and the barn when they heard the trucks.
“You religious yourself?” Mercer asked. His voice was deep, soft and sibilant.
“No.”
“Me neither. Something like this happens, everybody gets religion or gives it up. I gave it up.”
Allison glanced at Mercer with wary interest. He was a handsome kid, athletic and graceful, a sharp contrast to his burly but potbellied sergeant. But where Sergeant Hoops was cheerful and relaxed, Lieutenant Mercer looked dangerous. Allison decided to do nothing to annoy him.
Near the little meadow half a mile before the gate, Allison braked to a halt. Burk’s settlement could not be seen, but the lay of the land was clear. “Okay, the main buildings are about a mile from here on the left. Four or five other cabins are scattered around on the right side of the road, up in the trees.”
“Any problems with the road?” asked Mercer.
“The gate is padlocked, and they keep at least one sentry on it, with a CB radio.”
“Well, well. All the latest technology. Okay, we’ll just go on up and tell ‘em to open the gate.”
Two men carrying rifles stepped into the road from the trees. They wore dirty beige jackets and pants, and crash helmets with tinted visors that covered their faces. Allison stopped the truck without turning off the engine. Mercer and Hoops got out, followed by the whites.
“We’re here to see Frank Burk,” Allison announced.
“You seen him already. You’re trespassing. Turn around, and don’t come back.”
Mercer shook his head almost pityingly and stepped forward.
“You are in the Martial Law Zone,” he said, “and you are attempting to interfere with a military officer in the performance of his duties. The least you could get for that would be deportation out of the Zone, with confiscation of all your property. Now, open that gate and stand aside.”
The two men stood silently for a moment; then one of them slowly walked back to the gate, unlocked it, and swung it open. The other walked to the side of the road and leaned against a tree.
Mercer walked back to the Range Rover, his face impassive. Everyone climbed back inside; the cattle truck, a few yards behind, started up. Allison put the Range Rover in gear.
“That was really well done, lieu — ”
The windshield flared into thousands of branching cracks, and disintegrated in a spray of fragments.
“Drive on! Get going!” Mercer barked. Allison jammed his foot on the gas pedal and the Range Rover barrelled towards the gate. The man who had opened it was trying to swing it shut, but was too slow: the Range Rover’s right front fender struck the half-open gate, knocking the man down.
Allison hadn’t heard the first shot, but he heard several more. In the rear view mirror he saw the cattle truck, almost on his bumper. Another burst of rifle fire chattered behind: the soldiers, returning fire.
“Go straight to the main building,” Mercer commanded. “We gotta take it over before they get organized.”
The gate at the end of the farmhouse drive was closed, and Allison smashed through it with glee. The Range Rover and the cattle truck roared into the farmyard, and Mercer catapulted from his seat with Hoops right behind him.
“First Squad — secure the barn and outbuildings,” Mercer yelled. “Second Squad — secure the farmhouse. Get everyone out on the porch. Search ‘em. Seize any weapons you find.”
Allison watched as the so
ldiers spilled out in all directions. A third squad took up positions surrounding the compound and facing outward.
“Bob Tony — ” Bert’s hand was on his shoulder. “We got a problem. Dave’s been hit.”
Allison turned and saw Dave Marston sitting in the rear of the Range Rover, next to the back window; it too, Allison noticed, had been shot out. Dave was bent over, elbows on his knees with one hand holding up his head and the other clutching his middle. “I feel kind of funny,” he said breathlessly.
Bert and Allison helped Dave to lie down in the rear of the truck. Bert delicately unbuttoned Dave’s jacket and shirt.
“Oh yeah,” he murmured casually. “No big deal, Dave. It’s just a graze. You can show it off to Diana.” A first-aid kit was in his hand; he pressed a bandage to Dave’s belly. “Feel anything when I press?”
“I don’t know. It’s all kind of … numb and … tingly, you know? Hey, am I bleeding?” Dave’s face was strangely pale despite his tan, and his lips had turned blue.
Bert glanced up at Allison, then at the bench where Dave had been sitting. The black vinyl seat was splashed red. Bert pulled another bandage from the kit and gently drew Dave over onto his right side.
Allison felt himself go dizzy. Blood and excrement pumped from the fist-sized wound at the top of Dave’s buttocks. Bert put the dressing over it; it turned a sodden red almost instantly.
“What’s that, Bert?” Dave mumbled. “What you doing?”
“Gotta get you cleaned up a little. Don’t worry.”
“Boy, I sure feel weird,” Dave said.
Allison stood by the rear door of the Range Rover, watching blood drip from the seat onto the floor. Dave’s eyes met his.
“Don’t go away, Bob.”
Allison reached in and squeezed his hand. Christ, it was stone cold. “I’m right here, old friend. It’ll be okay.”
He had no idea how long he stood there, holding Dave’s hand while Bert pressed dressings futilely against both wounds. Finally Allison realized Dave was dead. His next thought was that it could just as easily have been himself.
Soldiers had rousted out everyone in the compound buildings: five women, three teenagers, four children. No grown men were among the people on the screened-in porch.
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