The Living Will Envy The Dead

by Nuttall, Christopher

  She smiled dryly as she stopped beside me, barely breathing hard. “Another group just tried to cross country,” she said, meaning that they’d attempted to come around the defences. I wasn't sure if they were probing attacks or just random motion, but I had the nasty feeling that we were in for some trouble. “They retreated when they were challenged by a patrol.”

  I nodded. Ideally, we would have had sensors scattered all around the perimeter, but that wasn't an option at the moment. The EMP effects seemed random – they weren't; anything that had been shielded, or protected in some other manner, had survived almost undamaged – but they had been real. The armoury hadn’t had many sensors in the first place and most of them were useless now. I’d had patrols watching the approaches and, at night time, snipers waiting with NVGs. We’d shot several people who had attempted to approach at night.

  “Good,” I said. I’d been wondering why I hadn’t heard the shots. The world was so silent these days. I hadn’t seen an aircraft in the skies since the Final War. “Well done.”

  “Thanks,” Rose said, dryly. She’d been looking forward to staying in the city, but thanks to me, she hadn’t…and it had saved her life. “I was talking about something with Deborah and she thought I should ask you.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. Deborah was pretty much a grandmother to the entire town. Her kids had grown up and had started families of their own, but she’d embraced everyone. Non-judgemental, despite being a Deputy, she was everyone’s friend and offered advice to anyone who needed it. I rather liked her myself. She was very far from the classic image of Mrs Grundy, who lived to spoil everyone’s fun.

  “I noticed the guards,” Rose said. I blinked. She’d been involved with setting the whole system up. Of course she had noticed the guards. “I also noticed the soldier-boys, and the men you had training them, and the men you had guarding the prison.”

  I frowned, unsure of where this was going. I’d sent another section of men over to the prison as soon as possible, allowing some rotation of the guards, but I hadn’t made much use of the prisoners yet. I wanted the prison empty – it was pretty much a perfect fortress for us, once modified a little – but I didn’t have everything set up here to handle the prisoners. A handful had useful skills we could use, but I wasn't sure if I wanted to trust them as anything, but brute labour.

  “Yes…?” I asked, finally.

  “They’re all men,” Rose said. I didn’t bother to deny it. Apart from Rose, Deborah and a handful of others, they were all men. I’d also done my best to keep the women away from the front lines, such as they were. “Why haven’t you conscripted any of the women?”

  There were actually several possible answers to that question, but for once I was lost for words. I am not opposed to the idea of women in combat. Teaching women how to shoot, according to the Drill Sergeants, is easier than teaching men. (They were shouting at us after a slightly less-than-perfect drill, so they may have been exaggerating a little, but there was an element of truth in it.) Women are often at much more risk than men on the battlefield and they tend to bear the brunt of occupation. Forget Iraq for that; we were far more civilised than we had any right to be. The Russians, when they invaded Germany in 1944-45, looted, raped and burned their way across the country. I thought – and still think – that an armed and deadly girl is the greatest possible deterrent to rape.

  But I didn’t want to lower standards either. A Marine, by the time he graduates, is a walking killing machine. We don’t all look like steroid-abusing bodybuilders – Mac does, but he’s not a Marine – but we’re extremely tough. The requirements are harsh and – let’s be blunt here – few women can hack them. A woman, all other things being equal, will lose a fight to a man. If we accepted women in the Marine Corps, with all the other issues that that implied, would we lose some of our fighting power?

  (And, if we did accept women without lowering the standards, how few women would we get? How long would it be before we were urged to lower the barriers? I’d seen that happen in New York to allow for ‘diversity.’ The city had wanted to have more women and African-Americans in high positions, but instead of training them up – particularly the latter – they lowered standards instead. They did no one any favours. Those who earned their positions were suspected, unfairly, of having cheated. Those who didn’t were treated with contempt.)

  But that wasn't the real reason.

  “We need to keep the women back,” I said, finally. Rose glared at me. I suspect that she thought I meant barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. “Rose…”

  “I am the second-best shot in your entire force,” Rose said, angrily. “I earned this position and I earned my promotion to the big city. Are you now telling me, and every other woman, that we’re going to be disenfranchised permanently – again?”

  I understood her anger. A woman in a position of power is a challenge to any man – and Rose, as a Deputy, had been challenged more than anyone else on the force. She had had to earn her reputation the hard way and now I was threatening that. Contempt from up above would rapidly trickle down to the lower ranks and the rest of the town. Rose wasn't a Feminazi by any means, but she’d earned her position despite her sex. She wouldn’t let me take it away without a fight.

  “No,” I said, grimly. “Listen…”

  It wasn’t an easy explanation to give. The only other person who knew was Mac, and Mac had been with me when we’d hashed it all out. The human race’s total population had just fallen drastically. By my most optimistic calculations – which later proved to be far too optimistic- at least half the population of America and the entire world had been killed, or would die in the coming weeks and months. The human race might be down to a billion. I know that there were people who were ranting about overpopulation, but it struck me that the Final War hadn’t been a particularly good solution…and it had killed the most productive sections of global society. In a way, despite my words earlier, it had killed America. Whatever we formed from the rubble would be very different in many ways.

  But our priority would be building up our population again. I’d already started that when I’d arranged for children to be brought into Ingalls, even if their parents were denied access. That wouldn’t last forever, though, but we’d still have whatever children were born into the community. They would be born into a very different world, but they’d be born and we were going to need them. We could not afford to waste a single breeder.

  Look, one man can have children with as many women as he has the stamina for, assuming that he has enough women. Say, like in one of those space-age pornographic videos we were passing around, when it’s one woman a day for the poor imprisoned man who has the job of fertilising them. Sounds terrible, right? One woman can only have one baby at a time. Yes, she could have twins or even triplets, but on average, one woman, one baby. Fifty women and one man wasn’t a disaster. Fifty men and one women was social collapse.

  And there were plenty of ways things could go wrong. There was a small amount of fallout in the air and more might be on the way. A girl who breathed in too much fallout might miscarry, or worse, give birth to a mutated child. (And no, not like the X-Men. I’m talking about a child being born without limbs, or eyes, or in one extreme case a brain.) A pregnant woman who was underfed would pass on her problems to her child. A woman with AIDS or Cancer might infect their baby…there were too many possible problems to list. The child-bearing women had to be given the best of everything; the best food, the best drink, the best medical care and the best protection. We couldn’t afford to lose even one to an enemy bullet. We had to keep them inside and cosseted. We had no choice.

  I’d worked out the maths back after the Town Meeting. Ingalls had a population of around 3000 men and women. With additions, it might reach 4000 before we had to put a stop to all immigration for fear of succeeding ourselves to death. We had, roughly speaking, around 1200 women of child-bearing age (keeping it a little vague, of course; women can get pregnant very early on, but it’
s not always healthy) and another 400 or so who would grow into child-bearing age. They had to be protected. If they weren't protected, they might become infected and lose their ability to bear children, or be kidnapped by outsiders.

  I have a feeling that problems like this are what started the whole ‘subjection of women’ thing. A woman who can bear children is a valuable commodity in a primitive age, or, for that matter, in modern-day Africa or the Middle East. She has to be protected, not only for her own good, but for that of her family or tribe. The shocking devaluation of rape victims – personally, I preferred shooting the rapists – in such societies might have its origins in women who, when raped, could no longer bear children, or bore their rapist’s child. I hated that kind of logic and even considering the fact that we might have no choice, but to embrace similar measures, shocked me. It was…well, un-American, un-Western, a direct offence against everything I held dear.

  Rose listened, without saying a word, as I stumbled through the explanation. I could relax with her, but not then, not when she had to hear something she would find loathsome. I didn’t blame her. If I’d been one of those porn stars in a Lombardi Production where I had to impregnate the entire tribe of women, I wouldn’t have been happy either. Sex is a wonderful thing between a man and a woman – provided, of course, that you get between the right man and the right woman; all right, I’ll be serious now – but I wouldn’t want to cheapen it. I’d done too much crawling around whorehouses in my younger days.

  “I see,” she said, finally. “I have a proposal.”

  I listened as she outlined her own suggestions. They were simple enough. I had actually intended something similar, but I wasn't going to tell her that. The girls would get training in shooting – those who didn’t know how to shoot before – and other training as well, making them far more than just barefoot and pregnant. They hadn’t been barefoot and pregnant in the first place, but I didn’t point that out to her either. She was on a roll. She also insisted on continuing mixed classes at the school, when it was reopened, just so that boys would see girls as more than just sexual partners. I took her point. I have a feeling, although I cannot prove it, that the general low regard for women in some parts of the world comes from lack of exposure.

  And besides, if the women were defending their homes and families, they’d be more aggressive and determined than anyone else. Never get between a mother and her child. She’ll tear you to bits if she gets a chance and never care about the cost. That’s human nature. If I could take advantage of it…

  My radio buzzed. “Ed, this is Mac at CP2,” Mac’s voice said. The static made it almost impossible to hear him. The nukes, or something, had screwed up reception no end. (Either that, or they were lousy radios. The National Guard didn’t always get the best of equipment.) “I think we’ve got company coming.”

  “On my way,” I said. It had to be serious if Mac was calling for me. He could normally handle anything to do with the refugees. “Rose, I’ll deal with it as soon as I get back from this.”

  I turned and ran towards CP2. Trouble was definitely coming.

  Chapter Eleven

  Anyone who clings to the historically untrue — and thoroughly immoral — doctrine that “violence never solves anything” I would advise to conjure up the ghosts of Napoleon Bonaparte and of the Duke of Wellington and let them debate it. The ghost of Hitler could referee, and the jury might well be the Dodo, the Great Auk, and the Passenger Pigeon. Violence, naked force, has settled more issues in history than has any other factor and the contrary opinion is wishful thinking at its worst. Breeds that forget this basic truth have always paid for it with their lives and freedoms.

  -Robert A. Heinlein

  “There,” Mac said, as I reached the CP. The Command Post was a fancy name for the fallback position just above the defences, but it allowed us a good view down the road. “Company’s coming.”

  I picked up my binoculars and peered through them. There was a small convoy of vehicles driving up towards us; a handful of SUVs, a pair of large trucks and, of all things, a school bus. At first, it looked like just another refugee convoy, but then I took in some of the markings on the bus. They looked, to me, to be suspiciously like bullet holes. My combat senses were tingling a warning. The last time I’d ever seen anything like this had been just before an insurgent had tried to ram a vehicle loaded with explosives through a gate I’d been guarding. The result of shooting the truck at long range hadn’t been pleasant.

  “I see,” I said, finally. It would be bare minutes before they reached the first warning sign, but I was curious to know what they would do. If they were legitimate refugees in search of help and shelter, like we had seen before, they would probably be careful not to cause offence. They would stop and send someone up to bargain with us. “They don’t look quite kosher, do they?”

  I looked back at Mac as I lowered the binoculars. I had a nasty feeling that they’d hijacked the school bus, which suggested that it wasn't the Army or the National Guard coming to tell us that everything was going to be fine. I hadn’t seen any evidence of organised recovery efforts – insofar as there could be recovery efforts – in the days since the Final War. Anyone like us would be trying to ride out the Death Zones and the die-off. They certainly wouldn’t be charging out to rebuild the country.

  “Get the reserves up here,” I ordered, curtly, returning to study the approaching convoy. It might have been a mistake, but I preferred to be on the paranoid side. I wasn't going to start shooting, but if they opened fire, I fully intended to win. “Check with the other posts and see if anyone else is coming to visit.”

  “No, sir,” Mac said, slipping back into formality. It was almost refreshing since starting the training program. Formality was something of a joke with the conscripts. “They’re reporting that all’s clear down their way.”

  “Good,” I said. An attack on all three command posts and the roads they guarded would have been a serious problem. Reserves could only be in one place at once. If I had to parcel them out, I’d run the risk of being overwhelmed at one of the posts and being forced back into Ingalls. A gun battle in the middle of the town would be disastrous, even if we won. “Bring up two of the machine guns as well. We might need their firepower.”

  Mac nodded. The National Guard armoury we’d opened had included six M240 NATO machine guns and a considerable amount of ammo. It was something that worried me. Even the most disciplined soldier burned through machine gun ammunition at a terrifying rate and once it was gone, it would be hard to replace. Herman had assured me that he was working on ways to repack the cartridges and produce reloads, but I had my doubts. Firing off non-standard ammunition is asking for a jam in the middle of a fight. There was a reason we had tended to carry extra weapons while on patrol in Iraq.

  “They’re on their way,” Mac said. I smiled in relief. We were lucky enough, at least, to have a pair of experts for each of the weapons, even though they were also needed elsewhere. We were going to have to train some of the kids up as machine gunners soon enough. “Ed…they’re stopping.”

  I turned back and lifted my binoculars again. The whole unwieldy convoy had slowed to a halt, horns blaring, and a small group of men climbed out for a brief conference. I watched with a certain amount of amusement. They either had no idea we were there, which was unlikely, or they were very confident that we wouldn’t open fire. They were well within Patty and Stacy’s range with their sniper rifles. We could have taken out the dismounts with ease.

  “Not soldiers,” I said, feeling a twinge of disappointment. It would have been a relief to know that there was still some functioning government around, even if some of the complaints about Washington and the IRS had been bitter. The government isn’t set up to handle the problems of the smaller towns when there are so many voters in the larger cities. Neil’s only demand when I appointed him Farming Secretary had been to keep out the Washington-inspired bullshit. “I don’t think they’re even anyone official.”
/>   Mac shrugged. “Why am I not surprised?” He asked, dryly. “Want to open fire now and put them out of our misery?”

  “Not yet,” I said, firmly. I’d spotted a change. “One of them is coming this way.”

  Showing considerable bravery – or, I suspected from the way he was walking – a certain knowledge of a gun pointed at his back, a man was walking towards us. I studied him through the binoculars and confirmed my first impression. That was a man who was certain that whatever he did, he was going to wind up dead. I’d seen expressions like that before, in Iraq, when their secret policemen had forced thousands of soldiers into battle against us. Most of them had died. Far too many of the secret policemen had escaped.

  He wore what had once been an expensive suit, giving me a brief flashback to the first refugees we had turned away from Ingalls. He had probably been a banker, or a lawyer, before the war, but now…what was he now? I had a nasty suspicion that the key word was Judas Goat. That, too, we had seen in Iraq. He had been slightly overweight at one point, but now he looked sick, as if he were going to fall over at any moment. He looked as if he had walked out of Ethiopia, or another famine country, rather than America. It brought home to me just how much had changed in the last few days. He raised his hands as he passed the final sign and I made a decision.