Alas, Babylon Part 10

Malachai grinned. "You heard the man, Two-Tone. He means now."

The three men, with Ben Franklin and Caleb helping, required two hours to lift the pipes and connect the artesian line with the water system in the pumphouse.

It was the hardest work Randy remembered since climbing and digging in Korea. The palm of his right hand was blistered from the pipe wrench, and a swatch of skin flapped loose. He was exhausted and wet with sweat despite the chill of evening. He was grateful when Malachai offered to carry the tools back to the garage. He said, "Thanks, Malachai. You know that two hundred bucks I loaned you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Just consider the debt canceled." They both grinned.

Randy and Ben Franklin went back into the house. Randy turned on the tap in the kitchen sink. It gurgled, coughed, sputtered, and then spurted water.

"Isn't it beautiful!" Helen said.

Randy washed the grime from his hands, the water stinging the broken blisters. He filled a gla.s.s. The artesian water still smelled like rotten eggs. He gulped it. It tasted wonderful.

Just after dawn on the third day after The Day a helicopter floated over Fort Repose and then turned toward the upper reaches of the Timucuan. Randy and Helen, hearing it, ran up to the captain's walk on the roof. It pa.s.sed close overhead, and they distinguished the Air Force insignia.

This was also the day of disastrous overabundance.

That morning, when Helen apprehensively opened the freezer, she found several hundred pounds of choice and carefully wrapped meat floating in a noxious sea of melted ice cream and liquified b.u.t.ter. As any housewife would do under the circ.u.mstances, she wept.

This disaster was perfectly predictable, Randy realized. He had been a fool. Instead of buying fresh meat, he should have bought canned meats by the case. If there was one thing he certainly should have forseen, it was the loss of electricity. Even had Orlando escaped, the electricity would have died within a few weeks or months. Electricity was created by burning fuel oil in the Orlando plants. When the oil ran out, it could not be replenished during the chaos of war. There was no longer a rail system, or rail centers, nor were tankers plying the coasts on missions of civilian supply. It was Sam Hazzard's guess that few major seaports had escaped. After the first wave of missiles from the submarines, they could still be taken out by atomic torpedoes, atomic mines, or bombs or missiles from aircraft. It was Sam Hazzard's guess that what had been the great ports were now great, water filled craters. Even those sections of the country which escaped destruction entirely would not long have lights. Their power would last only as long as fuel stocks on hand.

They stared into the freezer, Helen sniffling, Randy numb, Ben Franklin fascinated. Ben dipped his finger into a pool of liquid chocolate and licked it. "Still tastes good but it isn't even cool," he said. "All that ice cream! I could've been eating ice cream all yesterday; Peyton, too."

Helen stopped sniffling. "The meat won't spoil for another twenty-four hours. I'm going to salvage what I can."

"How?" Randy asked.

"Boil it, salt it, preserve it, pickle it. I've got a dozen Mason jars in the closet. There may be more around somewhere. Perhaps you can get some downtown, Randy."

"Town and back means a half-gallon of gas," Randy said. "It's worth it, if you can just find a few. And we'll need more salt."

"Okay, I'll give it a try. Maybe I can find jars at the hardware store, if Beck is still keeping it open."

Helen reached into the freezer and lifted out two steaks, six pounders two inches thick. She brought out two more steaks, even thicker. "Steaks, steaks, steaks. Everywhere steaks. How many steaks can Graf eat tonight? How does Graf like his steaks, charcoal-broiled?"

Graf, lying in the doorway between kitchen and utility room, ears c.o.c.ked and alert at sound of his name, sniffed the wonderful odor of ripening meat in quant.i.ty.

"He likes 'em and I like 'em," Randy said, "and we've got a few sacks of charcoal in the garage. So let's have a party. A steak party to end all steak parties. Literally, that is. We'll have the Henrys, and the McGoverns."

"I've always believed in mixing crowds at my parties," Helen said. "But what about mixing colors?"

"It'll be all right. I'll ask Florence Wechek and Alice Cooksey and Sam Hazzard too. And Dan Gunn, if I can find him. And I'll scrounge around for more charcoal. It'll be a relief from cooking in the fireplace."

"Don't forget the salt," Helen said. "We're going to need a lot to save this meat."

On this, the third day after The Day, the character of Fort Repose had changed. Every building still stood, no brick had been displaced, yet all was altered, especially the people.

Earlier, Randy had noticed that some of the plate-gla.s.s store windows had cracked under the shock waves from Tampa and Orlando. Now the windows of a number of stores were shattered entirely, and gla.s.s littered the sidewalks. From alleyways came the sour smell of uncollected garbage.

Most of the parking s.p.a.ces on Yulee and St. Johns incongruously were occupied, but the cars themselves were empty, and several had been stripped of wheels.

There was no commerce. There were few people. Altogether, Randy saw only four or five cars in motion. Those who were not out of gas h.o.a.rded what remained in their tanks against graver emergencies to come.

The pedestrians he saw seemed apprehensive, hurrying along on missions private and vital, shoulders hunched, eyes directed dead ahead. There were no women on the streets, and the men did not walk in pairs, but alone and warily. Randy saw several acquaintances who must have recognized his car. Not one smiled or waved.

Four young men, strangers, idled in front of the drugstore. The store's windows were broken, but Randy saw the grim, unhappy face of Old Man Hockstatler, the druggist, at the door. He was staring at the young men, and they were elaborately ignoring him. They were waiting for something, Randy felt. They were waiting like vultures. They were outwaiting Old Man Hockstatler.

Randy pulled into the parking lot alongside Ajax Super Market. It appeared to be empty. The front door was closed and locked but Randy stepped through a smashed window. The interior looked as if it had been stripped and looted. All that remained of the stock, he noticed immediately, were fixtures, dishes, and plastics on the home-hardware shelves. Significantly n.o.body had bothered to buy or take electric cords, fuses, or light bulbs. As for food, there seemed to be none left.

Randy tried to remember where the salt counter had been, but salt was something one bought without thought, like razor blades or toothpaste, not bothering about it until it was needed. He thought of razor blades. He was low on them. Finally he examined the guidance signs hanging over the empty shelves. He saw, "Salt, Flour, Grits, Sugar," over a wall to his left. The s.p.a.ce where these commodities should have been was bare. Not a single bag of salt remained.

As Randy turned to leave he heard a noise, wood sc.r.a.ping on concrete, in the stockroom in the rear of the store. He opened the stockroom door and found himself looking into the muzzle of a small, s.h.i.+ny revolver. Behind the gun was the skinny, olive colored face of Pete Hernandez. Pete lowered the gun and jammed it into a hip pocket. "Gees, Randy," he said, "I thought it was some G.o.ddam goon come back to clean out the rest of the joint."

"All I wanted was some salt." "Salt? You out of salt already?"

"No. We want to salt down some meat. We thought we could save part of the meat in the freezer." Randy saw a grocery truck drawn up to the loading platform behind the store. It was half-filled with cases, and Pete had been pus.h.i.+ng other cases down the ramp. So Pete had saved something. "What happened here?" Randy asked.

"We'd sold out of just about everything by closing time yesterday. When I tried to close up they wouldn't leave. They wouldn't pay, neither. They started hollerin' and laughin' and grabbin'. I locked myself in back here and that's how come I've got a little something left." Pete winked. "Bet I can get some price for these canned beans in a couple of weeks."

Randy sensed that Pete, perhaps because he had never had much of it, still coveted money. He said, "I'll give you a price for salt right now."

Pete's eyes flicked sideways. There was a cart in the corner. It was filled with sacks-sugar and salt. Pete said, "I've hardly got enough salt to keep things goin' at home. We're in the same boat you are, you know. Freezer full of meat. Maybe Rita will be salon' meat down too."

Randy brought out his wallet. Pete looked at it. Pete looked greedy. Randy said, "What'll you take for two ten-pound sacks of salt?"

"I ain't got much salt left."

"I'll give you ten dollars a pound for salt."

"That's two hundred dollars. Bein' it's you, okay." Randy gave him four fifties.

Pete felt the bills. "Ten bucks a pound for salt!" he said. "Ain't that something!"

Randy cradled the sacks under each arm. "Better go out the back way," Pete said. "Don't tell n.o.body where you got it. And Randy-"

"Yes?"

"Rita wonders when you're coming to see her. She's all the time talking about you. When Rita latches on to a guy she don't let go in a hurry. You know Rita."

Randy rejected the easy evasion of excuses. One of the things he hadn't liked about Rita was her possessiveness, and another was her brother. He was irritated because he had placed himself in the position of being forced to discuss personal matters with Pete. He said, "Rita and I are through."

"That's not what Rita says. Rita says that other girl-that Yankee blonde-won't look so good to you now. Rita says this war's going to level people as well as cities."

Randy knew it was purposeless to talk about Rita, or anything, with Pete Hernandez. He said, "So long, Pete," and left the market.

Beck's Hardware was still open, and Mr. Beck, looking tired and bewildered, presided over rows of empty shelves. On The Day itself everything that could be immediately useful, from flashlights and batteries to candles and kerosene lanterns, had vanished. In the continuing buying panic, almost everything else had disappeared. "Only reason I'm still here," Mr. Beck explained, "is because I've been coming here every weekday for twenty-two years and I don't know what else to do."

In the warehouse Beck found a dusty carton of Mason jars. "People don't go in much for home canning nowadays," Beck said. "I'd just about forgotten these."

"How much?" Randy asked.

Beck shook his head. "Nothing. That safe is full up to the top with money. That's all I've got left-money. Ain't that funny-nothing but money?" Mr. Beck laughed. "Know what, I could retire."

Randy drove on to the Medical Arts Building. Here, he had expected to find activity. He found none, but he did see Dan Gunn's car in the parking lot.

There were reddish brown stains on the sidewalk and the green concrete steps. The gla.s.s in the front door was shattered and the door itself swung open. The waiting room was ominously empty. There was no one at the reception desk. Randy possessed a country dweller's keen sense of smell. Now he smelled many alarming odors-disinfectant, ether, spilled drugs, spilled blood, stale urine. He called, "Dan! Hey, Dan!"

"I'm back here. Who's that?" Dan's voice emerged m.u.f.fled after echoing through a corridor.

"It's me-Randy."

"Come on back. I'm in my office."

In the corridor's gloom Randy stumbled over a pair of feet, and he stepped back, s.h.i.+vering. A body lay athwart the doorway of the examination room, legs in the corridor, torso in the room, face up, arms outstretched. The face was half blown away, but when put together with the uniform, it was recognizable as Cappy Foracre, Fort Repose's Chief of Police.

Randy hurried on. A fireproof door hung crazily from one hinge. It had been axed open. Behind the door was the laboratory and drug storage. The smell of chemicals that came from the laboratory was choking and overpowering. Within, Randy glimpsed a hillock of smashed jars and bottles. The clinic had been wrecked, insanely and deliberately.

He was relieved to find Dan Gunn standing in his office. Dan's face was more deeply shadowed with fatigue and a two-day growth of beard, his s.h.i.+rt was torn, and he looked dirty, but he apparently was unhurt. Two medical bags were open on his desk. He was examining and sorting vials and bottles. Randy said, "What happened?"

"A carload of addicts-hopheads-came through last night. About three this morning, rather. Jim Bloomfield was here, sleeping on the couch in his office. We'd split up the duty. He took one night, I took the next. You see, with no phones people don't know what else to do except rush to the clinic in an emergency. Anyway, the addicts-there were six of them, all armed--came in and woke Jim up. They wanted a fix. Poor old Jim was something of a puritan. If he'd given them a fix he might've got rid of them." Dan picked up a hypodermic syringe and slowly squeezed the plunger with his tremendous fingers. "I'd have given 'em a fix all right-three grains of morphine and that would've finished them." Dan dropped the syringe into one of the bags and shook his head. "That probably wouldn't have been smart either. Three grains would kill a normal man but it wouldn't faze an addict. Anyway, Jim told them to go to h.e.l.l. They beat him up. They emptied these bags and found what they were after. That wasn't enough. They took the fire ax and broke into the lab and drug storage. They cleaned us out of narcotics-everything, not only morphine but all the barbiturates and sodium amytal and pentothal and stimulants like benzedrine and dexedrine. What they didn't take they smashed."

"What about Cappy Foracre?" Randy asked.

"Some woman came in and heard the commotion and ran out and got Cappy. He was sleeping in the firehouse. Cappy and Bert Anders-you know, that kid a.s.sistant-came screaming over here. Literally screaming, with their siren going, the darn fools. So the hopheads were set for them. There was a battle. More like a fire fight, an ambush, I guess. Cappy caught a shotgun load in the face. Anders got one in the belly. Cappy was dead when I got here, about fifteen minutes later."

"And old Doc Bloomfield?" Randy asked.

Dan swayed and rested his palms on the desk. His head bent. When he spoke it was in a monotone. "I drove Anders and Jim Bloomfield to the hospital in San Marco. I couldn't operate here, you see. No anesthesia. Couldn't even sterilize my instruments. Everything septic. Young Anders was dead when I got there. Jim was still alive. I thought he was going to be all right. Beaten up, maybe a rib or two caved in, maybe concussion. Still, he was able to tell me, quite coherently, what had happened. Then he slipped away from me. I don't know why. He had lived a long time and after this thing happened maybe he didn't want to live any longer.

Maybe he didn't want to belong to the human race any more. He resigned. He died."

Randy said, "The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! Where did they come from? Where did they go?"

Dan Gunn s.h.i.+vered. The night had been chilly and it had warmed only slightly during the day and of course there was no heat in the building. He shook his head and slowly straightened, like a great storm-beset s.h.i.+p that has been wallowing in the trough of the sea but will not founder. "Where did they come from?" he said, slipping on his coat. "Maybe they broke out of a state hospital. But more likely they were hoods from St. Louis or Chicago driving to Miami or Tampa for the season. Probably they were addicts as well as pushers. The war caught them between sources of supply. So by last night they were wild for junk, and the quickest way to get it was to detour to some little town like this and raid the clinic. As to where they're going, I don't care so long as it's far from here."

Randy resolved never again to leave the house unless he was armed. "You should carry a gun, Dan. I am, from now on."

Dan said, "No! No, I'm not going to carry a gun. I've spent too many years learning how to save lives to start shooting people now. I'm not worried about punishment for the addicts. They carry a built-in torture chamber. Eventually-I'd say within a few weeks-no matter how many people they kill they'll find no drugs. After this big jag they're bound to have withdrawal sickness. They will die, horribly I hope."

Dan closed the two bags. "So ends the clinic in Fort Repose. Can you give me a lift to the hotel, Randy? I think my gas tank is y."

"I'll take you to your hotel only so you can pack," Randy said. "On River Road, we've got food, and good water, and wood fireplaces. At the hotel you don't have any of those things." He picked up one of the bags. "Now don't argue with me, Dan. Don't start talking about your duty. Without food and water and heat you can't do anything. You can't even sterilize a scalpel. You won't have strength enough to take care of anybody. You can't even take care of yourself."

When they entered the hotel Randy smelled it at once, but not until they reached the second floor did he positively identify the odor. Like songs, odors are catalysts of memory. Smelling the odors of the Riverside Inn, Randy recalled the sickly, pungent stench of the honey carts with their loads of human manure for the fields of Korea. Randy spoke of this to Dan, and Dan said, "I've tried to make them dig latrines in the garden. They won't do it. They have deluded themselves into believing that lights, water, maids, telephone, dining-room service, and transportation will all come back in a day or two. Most of them have little h.o.a.rds of canned foods, cookies, and candies. They eat it in their rooms, alone. Every morning they wake up saying that things will be back to normal by nightfall, and every night they fall into bed thinking that normalcy will be restored by morning. It's been too big a jolt for these poor people. They can't face reality."

Dan had been talking as he packed. As they left the hotel, laden with bags and books, Randy said, "What's going to happen to them?"

"I don't know. There's bound to be a great deal of sickness. I can't prevent it because they won't pay any attention to me. I can't stop an epidemic if it comes. I don't know what's going to happen to them."

Dan moved into the house on River Road that day. Thereafter he slept in the sleigh bed, the only bed in the house that could comfortably accommodate his frame, in Randy's apartment, while Randy occupied the couch in the living room.

That night, afterwards, was remembered as "the night of the steak orgy." Yet it was not for the rich taste of meat well hung that Randy remembered the night. He and the Admiral and Bill McGovern cooked the steaks outside, and then brought them into the living room. Fat wood burned in the big fireplace and a kettle steamed on hot bricks. At a few minutes before ten Randy clicked on his transistor radio, and they all listened. Lib McGovern was sitting on the rug next to him, her shoulder touching his arm. The room was warm, and comfortable, and somehow safe.

They heard the hum of a carrier wave, and then the voice of an announcer from the clear channel station somewhere deep in the heart of the country. "This is your Civil Defense Headquarters. I have an important announcement. Listen carefully. It will not be repeated again tonight. It will be repeated, circ.u.mstances permitting, at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning."

Randy felt Lib's long fingers circle his forearm, and grasp tight. Around the group before the fire, all the faces were anxious, the white faces in the front row, the Negro faces, eyes white and large, behind.

"A preliminary aerial survey of the country has been completed. By order of the Acting Chief Executive, Mrs. Vanbruuker-Brown, certain areas have been declared Con taminated Zones. It is forbidden for people to enter these zones. It is forbidden to bring any material of any kind, particularly metal or metal containers, out of these zones.

"Persons leaving the Contaminated Zones must first be examined at check points now being established. The location of these check points will be announced over your local Conelrad stations.

"The Contaminated Zones are: "The New England States."

Sam Hazzard, sitting in a prim cherry-wood rocker which, like Sam, had originated in New England, drew in his breath. The newscaster continued: "All of New York State south of the line Ticonderoga Sacketts Harbor.

"The state of Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Delaware, and Maryland.

"The District of Columbia.

"Ohio east of the line Sandusky-Chillicothe. Also in Ohio, the city of Columbus and its suburbs.

"In Michigan, Detroit and Dearborn and an area of fifty mile radius from these cities. Also in Michigan, the cities of Flint and Grand Rapids.

"In Virginia, the entire Potomac River Basin. The cities of Richmond and Norfolk and their suburbs.

"In South Carolina, the port of Charleston and all territory within a thirty-mile radius of Charleston.

"In Georgia, the cities of Atlanta, Savannah, Augusta, and their suburbs.

"The state of Florida."

Randy felt angry and insulted. He s.h.i.+fted his weight and started to get to his feet. "Not the whole state!" he said, at the same time realizing his protest was completely irrational.

"Sh-h!" Lib said, and pulled him back to the rug.

The voice went on, ticking off Mobile and Birmingham, New Orleans and Lake Charles.

It moved into Texas, obliterating Fort Worth and Dallas, and everything within a fifty-mile radius of these two cities, and Abilene, Houston, and Corpus Christi.

It moved northward again: "In Arkansas, Little Rock and its suburbs, plus an area of forty miles to the west of Little Rock."

Missouri, who through the whole evening had said nothing except in answer to questions, now said something. "How come they hit Little Rock?"

The Admiral said, "There's a big SAC base in Little Rock, or was."

The voice moved up to Oak Ridge, in Tennessee, and then spoke of Chicago, and everything around Chicago in northern Indiana, and crept up the western sh.o.r.e of Lake Michigan to Milwaukee, and Milwaukee's suburbs. Inexorably, it uttered the names of Kansas City, Wichita, and Topeka.