A Rage for Revenge watc-3

by David Gerrold

  He shut up.

  I unholstered my pistol. I walked around behind the line.

  I stepped up to the first one. I didn't know who this man was. He had red hair. I thought about Holly.

  Bang.

  I took a step sideways. The woman's hair was neatly combed and pulled back in a bun. I thought about Alec.

  Bang.

  Another step sideways. George. Frankenstein's monster. I felt sad for him. The monster had always been a figure of pity. Too bad.

  Bang.

  A step sideways. A nervous looking boy in thick glasses. He'd stood next to me the first night in the Revelationist camp. He'd welcomed me to their tribe. I thought about Tommy.

  Bang.

  A step sideways. Marcie. "Jim, please-" she whimpered. I leaned forward and replaced her hands on top of her head.

  "You surprise me." I said. "I had no idea you had so little faith." I lowered my voice to a whisper, so only she and I could hear what I said next. "My babies are dead. Why the hell should I give a fuck about yours?"

  Bang.

  A step sideways. Jessie. A woman who gave her baby to a worm. There was no human being here.

  Bang.

  I stopped to reload. I slid a fresh magazine into the butt of the gun.

  I stepped around to face Delandro from the front. I pointed the gun at his face.

  "I feel sorry for you, James. You're going to live to see your mistakes. I forgive you."

  "To hell with you." I closed my eyes and squeezed the trigger.

  Have you ever met Jamie McBeezis?

  He does any damn thing that he pleases.

  Says Jamie, undaunted,

  "if you've got it, then flaunt it!"

  But he's referring to social diseases.

  50

  Orrie

  "Jesus had it coming. The self-righteous always get nailed."

  -SOLOMON SHORT

  There was one last thing to do.

  It was a three-hour drive. Not as long as I'd thought.

  The old dude ranch was a burned out ruin. Some of the trees and shrubs in the area had also burned, but the fire hadn't spread.

  I pulled into the big dirt clearing that served as a parking lot and killed the engine.

  I switched the PA system on.

  "Prrrt?" I said into the microphone. "Prrt?" The day was silent.

  I opened the door of the van and climbed down out of it. I went mound to the back and got my torch. I came back toward the front of the vehicle.

  Orrie was just coming up past the ruins of the barn. I knew it.

  He'd come back here because he knew this place.

  He was looking for his babies. He was looking for his family, his tribe.

  "Orrie!" I shouted. "It's Jim! Come here!" I had to get him in range.

  He stopped and looked at me. He cocked his eyes suspiciously. They swiveled independently of each other. They were large and black.

  "Come on, Orrie-I'll take you to Jason!"

  "Prrrt?" He asked.

  "Prrt," I answered. I went down on one knee. "Come on, baby. Come to Jimmy."

  It worked. Orrie slid toward me.

  At the last moment, he hesitated. "Prr-rrrt?"

  "It's all right, baby. I know. They all went away and left you alone. You're hungry, aren't you?"

  He started to half-raise himself off the ground. A challenge? No, it was more of a question.

  He lowered himself again. He decided he could trust me. He slid forward.

  For half a moment, I was tempted-to put the torch down and go over and hug him and skritch him behind the eyes. For half a moment, I loved him again.

  And then I brought the torch up anyway-and sent him straight to hell.

  He gasped. He screeched in surprise and anger and betrayal. The flames enveloped him. They roared. He screamed. He writhed and rolled and shrieked and died. For a moment, his cries were almost human. For a moment, I almost regretted what I'd done.

  But the feeling passed. The debt was paid.

  I still hadn't found out what had happened to Tommy. I didn't think I ever would.

  I put the torch in the back, and got back in the van. I backed away from Orrie's burning body.

  I was on the main highway in twenty minutes.

  I drove for two hundred miles before I finally pulled off to the side and stopped and let the tears come to my eyes.

  I sat there and cried and was sorry I didn't have the courage to blow my own brains out.

  After a while, I stopped crying. There were still more tears to come, a lot more, but there would be time.

  It didn't matter. I knew what I was going to do for a while. I was going to drive and kill worms, drive and kill worms-until one of them killed me first.

  It was something to do.

  There once was a nearsighted gynie

  whose glasses were sparkly and shiny;

  but they stayed in the drawer

  while he worked on a whore

  and tied up the tubes of her hiney.

  51

  Grief

  "lmmortality is easy. It's wearing your watch that makes you grow old.

  (Also, cut out spicy foods after age one hundred and seventy.)"

  -SOLOMON SHORT

  And after we were through bargaining, we did grief.

  Depression.

  This was the most structured part of the process. Foreman had us move our chairs up against the walls; then he started us milling in a big circle in the center of the room. I was sent down from the platform to join the rest of the trainees for this part.

  Some of them patted me as they passed. Others wouldn't look at me. Ashamed? Afraid? I didn't know.

  We walked in a slow circle. Around and around and around. There was no sound but the sound of our moccasins on the floor. That was the instruction. Just walk. Don't try to figure it out. Don't think. Don't talk. Just walk in circles for a while and let your feelings come up to the surface.

  I noticed that the lights were dimmer. Not a lot dimmer, but the room was no longer bright, no longer as clear.

  "All right," said Foreman. "You can start letting some of it out. There're no prizes any more for holding it in. All the rage. All the grief. All the upset." He kept on talking.

  "Remember all the times someone said to you. 'You're not good enough?' Or, 'I'm sorry, you came in second.' Or, 'Couldn't we just be friends?' Remember how you felt? Bring that up."

  What was the point?

  "Think about all the opportunities you've missed in your life. The girls or the boys you didn't proposition. The chances you didn't take. The stock you didn't invest in. The money you didn't save. The classes you cut, the tests you failed, the promotions you missed."

  Some of the people around me were crying. A couple were wailing. Was that the point? To walk in circles and have a good cry?

  "This is your life," said Foreman. "Let it out. Let it all out. Think about all the people you know who've died and left you behind. How do you feel about that? Don't you feel betrayed'? Mommy died and left you alone. Daddy went away. Grandpa and Gramma. Or maybe it was your brother or sister, or somebody you loved who left you. Maybe it was that one special person, the one you loved more than anybody, and after he or she left you, you knew that you would never love anyone again as much. No, you made that decision a long time ago. You're not going to let yourself get hurt again. You're going to hold it back so they can't get to you, right? Well, you win! Nobody can get to you now. You're all in this alone together. What's that feel like? What's the cost?"

  The words bored into us, and we circled, and we cried. The tears were running down our cheeks. The sobs came choking up in my chest. I saw faces from my past. Kenny who killed himself and nobody ever knew why. Steve, who died in his car. Mike's dad, who was found on the patio. Ed, who was murdered. Gramma, who died in the nursing home. My dad--

  I noticed they were all men. Well, not Gramma. But all the others. What did that mean? That I really didn't care about any woman
enough to mourn her death?

  I thought about my mom. Oh, God.

  There were all those trips to the hospital when I was little, because of those constant ear aches. And my teeth. My mom used to point to my braces and brag, "Look, there's my new Cadillac." That was before Dad's first best-seller.

  Goddammit!

  I never had the chance to say goodbye-not to any of them! God-your universe is so damned unfair! I don't mind the dying. I mind the incompleteness of it all! I never had the chance to say goodbye!

  All of them

  I fell to my knees. I couldn't go on. It wasn't fair. I never had the chance to tell my mother how much I really loved her.

  -and all the ones since. Shorty. Larry. Louis. Duke. Jon. Tommy. Alec. Holly.

  I bawled. I raged. I sobbed. I choked.

  Somebody was helping me to my feet. "Come on, Jim. Keep going. It's all right. Let it up. You're doing fine. Just keep walking."

  There were two somebodies walking with me, one on each side. I leaned on them both.

  "This is it," said Foreman's voice. He was omnipresent. "This is your life. This is how it turned out. It's written all over your face. Your whole body is an expression of who you are. Everything. How you walk, how you talk, how you carry yourself, how you present yourself to everyone else.

  "This is you. Let it in. This is it! This is how you used your potential. This is what you did with it.

  "Get it!" Foreman was shouting. "You are not going to be crowned king, after all! You are not going to be president. You are not going to be a movie star. You are not going to marry Prince Charming. And who the fuck cares anyway? This is it!"

  It was horrifying.

  And then, Foreman's tone shifted. He was no longer shouting. Somehow, he had become compassionate.

  "You carry your grief around with you everywhere you go. You drag your dead bodies with you all through your life. So what? What do you get for it? Nothing. So why do you do it? Look at the cost to you. Look at how it pushes you into anger and revenge. Look at how it keeps you from getting close to the people you really care about. Look at how it keeps you from being complete with them."

  Foreman's voice became a comforting presence.

  "The only thing you can do that way is survive. And you can't even do that all that well, because all that energy you have tied up in grief and anger and revenge is energy you don't have for anything else. You certainly can't win a war that way. Listen to me. There's something on the other side of survival. There's something so much bigger than survival that mere survival becomes irrelevant in the face of it-and no, I can't tell you what it is. You have to find it for yourself. And you will. I promise you.

  "Keep or. letting go of the grief. It's like an anchor holding you down. Let it out. Give it up. Give it away. You don't need to carry it around any more."

  And then, after a while, the last of the grief had been shed and we sat down on the floor or leaned up against the walls, We were exhausted. Some people hugged. Some continued to weep quietly, but there were smiles on their faces now and the tears were tears of comfort and joy.

  And then, after that, it was time for dinner. After dinner--

  A shepherd named Jimmie Fitzhugh,

  said to his sweetheart, "It's true.

  Nothing is moister

  than a fresh oister,

  unless, of course, it is ewe."

  52

  Afterburn

  "Nobody is ever really ready for anything. If they were, there would be no point in living through it."

  -SOLOMON SHORT

  I was tired.

  Tired of fighting. Tired of running. Tired of living.

  I was looking at a concrete bridge abutment as it raced toward me. I was thinking how easy it would be to just end the pain once and for all. A quick twist and it would be over.

  Or would it?

  With my luck, I would live.

  I'd probably just knock a bridge down on my head; army vans were supposed to be as strong as tanks. But then again, maybe not . . .

  And while I was frowning over the crashability of the van, the bridge abutment raced past-

  -and I realized how close I had come to actually jerking the wheel sideways.

  I pulled off the road.

  No, not here. The highway was too open. Too unprotected. I wanted a place to stop where I could feel safe.

  I couldn't stop here-and I couldn't keep going. Who was it who had once said hell was an endless highway? Everybody, probably. It was too easy.

  Twenty minutes later, the highway narrowed to four lanes and curved up into the foothills.

  There.

  A shaded rest area on a rise. I could turn on the detectors. Nothing could approach without setting off the alarms.

  I pulled the van onto the dirt and pried open the door. I almost fell out onto the ground. My hands were shaking with exhaustion. I lay there with my face in the grass, just smelling the greenness of it. And the pinkness. That smelled good too. Like cotton candy.

  And then I focused and I saw the little pink sprouts coming up here and there. And the blue as well. That's what I was smelling. I sat up and looked around. Next year, there wouldn't be any green on this hill at all.

  I got up. I walked around the van. I walked away from it. I started to feel nervous. I walked back to it. Maybe I should get my rifle. No, maybe I shouldn't. If something was going to eat me, let it eat me.

  I didn't know if I wanted to live or die.

  "Do you know how a Chtorran likes to be burped?" I said.

  "No," I answered. "How does a Chtorran like to be burped?"

  "From the inside," I said.

  It wasn't funny.

  I shoved my hands in my pockets. I took them out. I felt restless. I wanted something to eat and I felt nauseous. I wanted to run. I wanted to hide. Was this me or was it the effect of all the pink and blue and red and orange I was seeing around here. Did all those Chtorran plants put something into the atmosphere that made people crazy?

  That was as good an explanation as any. I walked away from the van, just for something to do.

  "Did you ever notice," I said, "that people always have to have a good reason for being crazy. There's always a justification. Something is doing it to you. If it isn't your parents, it's the army, w the government. Or the Communists. Now we have the Chtorrans to blame it on. The Chtorran ecology is making me crazy. Shit! Doesn't anybody ever go crazy because they want to? Just for the fun of it?

  "I mean, being crazy is a great way to get attention without having to be responsible. They come and get you and put you in nice padded room arid take care of you forever after. Being crazy is a great way to escape. I think I'll be crazy."

  I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I was already crazy. I'd been crazy for years.

  "We're born crazy," someone had told me once.

  "We spend all of our lives trying to get sane. That's what keeps us crazy. If we'd just relax and be crazy, we'd be all right."

  "Huh?" I said.

  The voice went on. "Trying to prove that you're sane is crazy. If you're crazy, be crazy. That's sane."

  It didn't make sense. "Shut up," I said to the voice. "This neurotic pursuit of sanity is driving me bananas."

  "You got it."

  "I got nothing."

  "Right. You got it. There's nothing to get."

  "Shut the fuck up!" I shouted at the sky. "Leave me alone!" I remembered something I had seen once, a long time ago. We had been visiting my grandmother in Los Angeles. We had been driving west on the Ventura freeway one evening at dusk, when suddenly this bright, bright light appeared in the sky. It looked like a star, only it was too brilliant for that. As we watched, it started to spread streamers of glow through the hazy atmosphere. Wider and wider. Traffic around us slowed. "What is it?" my mother had asked. My dad hadn't said anything.

  I said, "It's too steady to be a missile. Missiles move."

  "Are we at war?" asked Maggie.

  Dad sai
d, "If it were incoming, we wouldn't see it like that. If it's a launch . . . but it doesn't look like any launch I've ever seen."

  I said, "Maybe it's a nova."

  "Too bright," said Dad.

  "A supernova then-?"

  He didn't answer, and I knew for a moment I'd guessed right. I was absolutely certain. Oh, my God. We'd been reading about supernovas in school. They exploded and put out great scouring waves of radiation. For us to see one this big and this bright meant that it was close enough to destroy the Earth. I was certain of it. I was looking at the end of the world.

  We were probably already being bombarded by lethal radiation. We were already dead. I remember feeling cold and alone and totally helpless as I stared at that light in the sky. I wanted to cry.

  And then the light puffed up, exploded and disappeared, leaving only a few glittering twinkles like fireworks.

  I was glad I hadn't said anything. I would have looked like an idiot.

  Dad said, "It has to be a missile launch. Vandenberg is just up the coast. But it sure was a weird looking one, wasn't it?" He switched on the radio, and a few minutes later the announcer confirmed that a test missile had been fired and destroyed when it went off course.

  Why did I remember that now?

  The feeling in my gut-that I was caught in the end of the world, that feeling of smallness and helplessness.

  That was it. I was carrying that feeling around with me every day now.

  I walked without purpose. It didn't matter any more.

  There was no escape. The green grass had pink and blue threads in it. There were puffballs everywhere. They blew across the ground and stuck to your hair, your clothes, your eyebrows. You were always sneezing from them.

  There were worm trails everywhere. There were millipedes everywhere. Sometimes you couldn't walk without stepping on a pipe cleaner bug. They were so stupid. The Chtorran cleanup machinery was everywhere. There was no escape.

  It was going to take longer than the hard radiation, but it was going to happen. I was a witness to the end of the world.

  First the plagues. Now the infestation. What next? Suicides? Oh, yes, we were already seeing a suicide plague. One out of ten people could be expected to die of self-induced causes within the next three years. That was supposed to be a secret, but it wasn't. It was, they said, the reaction to an environment gone out of control.