Alas, Babylon Part 14

As he pressed the starter Dan said, "Why did you give her the whiskey?"

"I feel sorry for her." That wasn't the only reason. If he had owed her anything before, he did no longer. They were quits. They were square. "Is she going to be all right?" he asked.

"I think so, unless a malignancy develops from the burn on her finger. Improbable but possible. Yes, she should be all right so far as radiation goes. The dose she absorbed was localized. But after her brother dies she'll be alone. Then she won't be all right." "She'll find a man," Randy said. "She always has."

Porky Logan's house stood at the end of Augustine Road, in a grove that rose up a hillside at the back of the house. It was a two-story brick, the largest house in Pistolville, so it was said. Porky's sister and niece had been caring for him, but he lived alone. His wife and two children had departed Pistolville ten years before.

They found Porky on the second floor. He was sitting up in bed, unshaven chin resting upon blotched bare chest. Between his knees was a beer case filled with jewelry. His hands were buried to the forearm in this treasure. Dan said, "Porky!"

Porky didn't raise his head. Porky was dead.

Dan stepped to the bed, pushed Porky's body back against the pillows, and pried an eyelid open. Dan said, "Let's get him out of here. That's a furnace he's got in his lap."

Randy tried not to breathe going down the steps. It was not only the smell of Porky's room that hurried him.

Dan said, "We've got to keep people out of this house until we can get Porky and that hot stuff underground. How do we do it?"

"What about a sign? We could paint a sign."

They found an unopened can of yellow paint and a brush in Porky's garage. Dan used the brush on the front door. In block letters he wrote: "DANGER! KEEP OUT! RADIATION!"

"You'd better put something else on there," Randy said. "There are a lot of people around here who still don't know what radiation means."

"Do you really think so?"

"I'm positive of it. They've never seen it, or felt it. They hear about it, but I don't think they believe it. They didn't believe it could kill them before The Day-if they thought of it at all-and I don't think they believe it now. You'd better add something they understand, like Poison." and reached under the bed and s.n.a.t.c.hed the boot. All she said as she went through the door was, 'I hope you croak, you sneaky b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I'm going back to Apalachicola'."

Fascinated, Randy asked, "How does she expect to get to Apalachicola?"

"I keep-kept the Plymouth in the shed. It was nearly full with gas, what was in the drum I had to service the outboards. I hope she wrecks."

Dan picked up his bag. His huge shoulders sagged. His face was unhappy behind the red beard. "Do you still have that ointment I gave you?"

"Yes." Bill turned his head toward the table.

"Keep using it on your hands. It may give you relief."

"It may, but this will." Bill tilted the rum bottle and drank until he gagged.

Riding back on River Road, Randy said, "Will Cullen live?" "I doubt it. I don't have the drugs or antibiotics or blood transfusions for him." He reached down and patted his bag. "Not much left in here, Randy. I have to make decisions, now. I have drugs only for those worth saving."

"What about the woman?"

"I don't think she'll die of radiation sickness. I don't think she'll keep that hot gold and silver and platinum long enough. She'll either swap for booze or, being stupid, try one of the main highways."

"I think the highwaymen will get her if she's headed for Apalachicola," Randy said.

It was strange that the term highwaymen had revived in its true and literal sense. These were not the romantic and reputedly chivalrous highwaymen of Britain's post roads in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. These new highwaymen were ruthless and evil men who lately had been choking the thin trickle of communications and trade between towns and villages. Mostly, according to word that filtered into Fort Repose, they operated So under "RADIATION," Dan printed "POISON." He said, "One other. Bill Cullen."

Bigmouth Bill was as they had left him, except that he held a bottle of cheap rum in his misshapen hands, and had been hitting it. Randy hovered at the door, so he could listen but not be submerged in the odors.

Dan said, "Bill, we've found out what's making you sick. You're absorbing radiation from the jewelry Porky traded for the whiskey. Porky's jewelry is hot. It's radioactive. Where is it?"

Bill laughed wildly. He began to curse, methodically and without imagination, as Randy had heard troops curse in the MLR in Korea. The pace of his obscenities quickened, he choked, frothed, and pulled at the rum bottle. "Jewelry!" he yelled, his yellow eyeb.a.l.l.s rolling. "Jewelry! Diamonds, emeralds, pearls, tinkly little bracelets, all hot, all radioactive. 'That's rich!"

"Where is it, Bill?" Dan's voice was sharper.

"Ask her. Ask the dough-faced b.i.t.c.h! She has 'em, has the whole bootful."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been hiding the stuff, figuring that if she got her hands on it she'd swap it all for a bottle of vireo. The jewels in one boot, the rum in the other. Believe it or not, this is the last of my stock." He sucked at the bottle.

"Go on," Dan said.

"I kept the boots, these boots here-" he gestured at a pair of hunting boots-"hid under the bed. It was safe, okay. You see, my woman she never cleaned anything, especially she never cleaned under the bed. Well, when she went out for a while I thought I'd take a look at the loot. You know, it was nice to hold it in your hands and dream about what you were going to do with it when things got back to normal. But she was watching through the window. She's been trying to catch me and just a while ago she did. She walked in, grinning. I thought she was going to tell me the war was over or something. She walked in and reached under the bed and s.n.a.t.c.hed the boot. All she said as she went through the door was, 'I hope you croak, you sneaky b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I'm going back to Apalachicola'."

Fascinated, Randy asked, "How does she expect to get to Apalachicola?"

"I keep-kept the Plymouth in the shed. It was nearly full with gas, what was in the drum I had to service the outboards. I hope she wrecks."

Dan picked up his bag. His huge shoulders sagged. His face was unhappy behind the red beard. "Do you still have that ointment I gave you?"

"Yes." Bill turned his head toward the table.

"Keep using it on your hands. It may give you relief."

"It may, but this will." Bill tilted the rum bottle and drank until he gagged.

Riding back on River Road, Randy said, "Will Cullen live?" "I doubt it. I don't have the drugs or antibiotics or blood transfusions for him." He reached down and patted his bag. "Not much left in here, Randy. I have to make decisions, now. I have drugs only for those worth saving."

"What about the woman?"

"I don't think she'll die of radiation sickness. I don't think she'll keep that hot gold and silver and platinum long enough. She'll either swap for booze or, being stupid, try one of the main highways."

"I think the highwaymen will get her if she's headed for Apalachicola," Randy said.

It was strange that the term highwaymen had revived in its true and literal sense. These were not the romantic and reputedly chivalrous highwaymen of Britain's post roads in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. These new highwaymen were ruthless and evil men who lately had been choking the thin trickle of communications and trade between towns and villages. Mostly, according to word that filtered into Fort Repose, they operated on the main highways like the Turnpike and Routes 1, 441, 17, and 50. So they were called highwaymen.

They pa.s.sed the empty McGovern place. It was already lushly overgrown. "You know," Dan said, "in a few more months the jungle will take over."

Chapter 9

They buried Porky Logan Friday morning. It was a ticklish and exhausting procedure. Randy had to draw his gun to get it done. First, it was necessary to obtain the cooperation of Bubba Offenhaus. That was difficult enough. Bubba's funeral parlor was locked and empty and he was no longer seen in town. Since he was Deputy Director of Civil Defense as well as undertaker, a public appearance exposed him to all sorts of requests and problems which frightened him and about which he could do nothing. So Bubba and Kitty Offenhaus could only be found in their big new house, a rare combination of modern and cla.s.sic, constructed largely of tinted gla.s.s between antebellum Greek columns.

When Randy found Bubba sitting on his terrace he looked like a balloon out of which air had been let. His trousers sagged front and rear and folds of skin drooped around his mouth. Dan explained about Porky. Bubba was unimpressed. "Let them bury him in Pistolville," he said. "Plant him in his own back yard." "It can't be done that way," Dan said. "Porky's a menace and the jewelry is deadly. Bubba, what we've got to have is a lead lined coffin. We'll bury his loot with him."

"You know very well I've only got one in stock," Bubba said. "As a matter of fact it's the only casket I've got left and probably the only casket in Timucuan County. It's the deluxe model with hammered bronze handles and s.h.i.+eld which can be suitably engraved, and reinforced bronze corners. Guaranteed for eternity and I'm d.a.m.ned if I'm going to give it up for Porky Logan." "Who are you saving it for," Randy asked, "yourself?"

"I don't see any point in you becoming insulting, Randy. That casket cost me eight hundred and forty-five dollars F.O.B. and it retails for fifteen hundred plus tax. Who's going to pay for it? As a matter of fact, who's going to reimburse me for all the other caskets, and everything else, that I've contributed since The Day?" "I'm sure the government will," Dan said, "one day."

"Do you think the government's going to restore Repose-in-Peace Park? Do you think it'll pay for all those choice plots I've handed out, free? Like fun. I suppose you want to bury Porky in Repose-in-Peace?"

"That's the general idea," Dan said.

"And you expect me to use my hea.r.s.e to cart the cadaver?" "Somebody has to do it, Bubba, and you're not only the man with the hea.r.s.e but you're in Civil Defense."

Bubba groaned. The most stupid thing he had ever done was accept the Civil Defense job. At the time it had seemed quite an honor. His appointment was mentioned in the Orlando and Tampa papers, and he rated a whole page, with picture, in the Southeast Mortician. It was undoubtedly a bigger thing than holding office in the Lions or Chamber of Commerce. His status had increased, even with his wife. Kitty was Old Southern Family, which he had been raised in South Chicago. She had never wholly forgiven him for this, or for his profession. Secretly, he had considered Civil Defense a boondoggle, like handouts to foreign countries and spending millions on moon rockets and such. He had never imagined there would be a war. It was true that after The Day he and Kitty had been able to get supplies in San Marco that he wouldn't have been able to get if he hadn't been in Civil Defense. For one thing, he had been able to get gasoline out of the county garage. But the tanks had long been dry, all other official supplies exhausted. He said, "I've only got one hea.r.s.e that will run and only a couple of gallons of gas in it. I'm saving it for an emergency."

'This is an emergency," Dan said. "You'll have to use it now."

Bubba thought of another obstacle. "It'll take eight men to tote that lead-lined casket with Porky in it even if he's lost weight like I have."

Randy spoke. "We'll get them. Plenty of strong men hanging around Marines Park."

In the park they mounted the bandstand. Randy shouted, "Hey, everybody! Come over here!" The traders drifted over, wondering.

Bubba made a little speech. Bubba was accustomed to speaking at service club luncheons and civic meetings, but this audience, although many of the faces were familiar, was not the same. It was neither attentive nor courteous. He spoke of community spirit and cooperation and togetherness. He reminded them that they had sent Porky Logan to the state legislature and he knew Porky must have been a friend to many there. Now he asked for volunteers to help bury Porky. No hands went up. A few of the traders snickered.

Bubba shrugged and looked at Dan Gunn. Dan said, "This is in your own interest. If we leave the dead unburied we're inviting an epidemic. In addition, in this case we must get rid of radioactive material that can be dangerous to anyone who finds it."

Somebody yelled, "Bubba's the undertaker, ain't he? Well, let him undertake it."

Some of the men laughed. Randy saw that they were bored and would soon turn away. It was necessary that he act. He stepped in front of Dan, lifted the flap of his holster, and drew out the .45. Holding it casually, so that it was a menace to no one in particular, and yet to each of them separately, he pulled back the hammer. His left forefinger jabbed at the faces of five men, big men. "You, Rusty, and you, Tom, and you there, you have just volunteered as pall-bearers."

They looked at him amazed. For a long time, no one had ordered them to do anything. For a long time, there had not even been a boss on a job. n.o.body moved. Some of the traders carried handguns in hip pockets or holsters. Others had leaned shotguns or rifles against benches or the bandstand railing. Randy watched for a movement. He was going to shoot the first man who reached for a weapon. This was the decision he had made. Regardless of the consequences he was going to do it. Having made the decision, and being certain he would carry it out, he felt easy about it. He realized they must know this. He stepped down from the bandstand, his eyes holding his five volunteers. He said, "All right, let's get going."

The five men followed him and he holstered his pistol.

So they buried Porky Logan. With him they buried the contaminated loot in Porky's carton and out of the Hernandez house. Also into the coffin went the fire tongs with which Dan Gunn had handled the jewelry. When the grave was filled and mounded somebody said, "Hadn't there ought to be a prayer for the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d?"

They all looked at Randy. Randy said, "G.o.d rest his soul." He added, knowing that it would be pa.s.sed along, "And G.o.d help anybody who digs him up to get the stuff It'll kill them like it killed Porky."

He turned and walked slowly, head down, to the car, thinking. Authority had disintegrated in Fort Repose. The Mayor, Alexander Getty, who was also chairman of the town council, was barricaded in his house, besieged by imaginary and irrational fears that the Russians had invaded and were intent on his capture, torture, and the rape of his wife and daughter. The Chief of Police was dead. The two other policemen had abandoned unpaid public duty to scramble for their families. The fire and sanitation departments, equipment immobilized, no longer existed. Bubba Offenhaus was frightened, bewildered, and incapable of either decision or action. So Randy had shoved his gun into this vacuum. He had a.s.sumed leaders.h.i.+p and he was not sure why. It was enough trouble keeping the colony on River Road alive and well. He felt a loneliness not unfamiliar. It was like leading a platoon out of the MLR to occupy some isolated outpost. Command, whether of a platoon or a town, was a lonely state.

When they returned to River Road at noon Randy's boat shoes were stiff with caked clay of the graveyard. He was knocking them clear of clods, on the front steps, when he was attracted by movement in the foliage behind Florence Wechek's house. Alice Cooksey and Florence were standing under a tall cabbage palm, steadying a ladder. At the top of the ladder, head and shoulders hidden by fronds, was Lib. He wondered why she must be up there. He wished she would stay on the ground. She took too many chances. She could get hurt. With medical supplies dwindling-Dan had already been forced to use most of their reserve-they all had to be careful. Everyone had ch.o.r.es and if one was hurt it meant added burdens, including nursing, on the others. A simple fracture could be compound disaster.

Bill McGovern, Malachai, and Two-Tone Henry came around the corner of the house. Bill was wearing gray flannels raggedly cut off above the knees, tennis shoes, and nothing else. His right hand grasped a bouquet of wrenches. Grease smeared his bald head and fine white beard. He no longer looked like a Caesar, but like an unkempt Jove armed with thunderbolts. Before he could speak Randy demanded: "Bill, what's your daughter doing up that palm?"

"She won't say," Bill said. "She and Alice and Florence are cooking up some sort of a surprise for us. Maybe she's found a bird's nest. I wouldn't know."

Randy said, "What's the delegation?"

Bill said, "It's Two-Tone's idea. Two-Tone, you talk."

Two-Tone said, "Mister Randy, you know my sugar cane will be tall and sweet and Pop's corn will be up in June."

"So?"

"Corn and sugar cane means corn whiskey. I mean we can make 's.h.i.+ne if you says it's okay. Pop and Mister Bill here, they say it's up to you. I suggests it only on one account. We can trade 's.h.i.+ne."

"Naturally you wouldn't drink any, would you, Two-Tone?" "Oh, no sir!"

Randy understood that they required something from him beyond permission. Yet if they could manufacture corn whiskey it would be like finding coffee beans. Whiskey was a negotiable money crop. In this humid climate both corn and sugar cane would deteriorate rapidly. Corn whiskey was different. The longer you kept it the more valuable it became. Furthermore, only a few bottles of bourbon and Scotch remained, and the bourbon was strictly medicinal, Dan's anesthetic. Two-Tone, the no-good genius! Cannily, all Randy said was, "If you have Preacher's permission, it's all right with me. It's Preacher's corn." Bill said, "I've already contributed my Imperial."

"You've what?"

"Contributed the guts of my Imperial. You see, to make the still we have to have a lot of copper tubing. We have to bend condensing coils, and you have to have tubing between the boiler and condenser and so forth."

"What you're getting at," Randy said slowly, "is that you want me to contribute the gas lines out of my Bonneville." "That's right. The lines out of my car won't give us enough length. And we have to have your lawn roller. You see, first we've got to build a mill to crush the cane. We have to get the juice and boil it down to mola.s.ses before we can make whiskey, or for that matter use it as syrup. Balaam, the mule, will walk a circle, a lever harnessed to his back to turn the roller on concrete slabs. That's the mill. That's the way they did it a couple of hundred years ago. I've seen pictures."

Randy knew it would work. He said, sadly, "Okay. Go into the garage. But I don't want to watch." It had been a beautiful car. He remembered Mark's casual prediction that it wouldn't be worth a d.a.m.n to him. Mark had been wrong. Some of it was useful.

Lunch was fish, with half a lime. Orange juice, all you could drink. A square of honeycomb. Dan and Helen were at the table. The others had already finished. Helen always waited for him, Randy noticed. She was so solicitous it was sometimes embarra.s.sing.

Dan looked at his plate and said, "A fine, thinning diet. If everybody in the country had been on this diet before The Day the cardiac death rate would have been cut in half."

"So what good would it have done them?" Randy said. He speared his honey and munched it, rolling his eyes. "We've got to do more trading with Jim Hickey. We've got to find something Jim needs." Randy remembered what Jim had said about half his broods going foul since The Day and how Jim suspected radiation was responsible. He told Dan and Helen what Hickey had said.

Dan stared at his plate, troubled. He cut into his honeycomb and tasted it. "Delicious," he said, but his mind was elsewhere. At last he looked up and spoke gravely. "We shouldn't be surprised. Who can tell how much cesium 137 showered down on The Day? How much was carried into the upper atmosphere and has been filtering down since? The geneticists warned us of damage to future generations. Well, Hickey's bees are in a future generation."

Helen looked scared. Randy realized that this was a more serious matter to women than to men, although frightening enough to anybody. She said, "Does that mean-will it affect humans?"

"Certainly some human genetic damage can be expected," Dan said. "What will happen to the birth rate is anybody's guess. And yet, this is only nature's way of protecting the race. Nature is proving Darwin's law of natural selection. The defective bee, unable to cope with its environment, is rejected by nature before birth. I think this will be true of man. It is said that nature is cruel. I don't think so. Nature is just, and even merciful. By natural selection, nature will attempt to undo what man has done." "You make it sound comforting," Helen said.

"Only an opinion, based on almost no evidence. In six or seven months I'll know more. But to evaluate everything may take a thousand years. So let's not worry about it. Right now I've got other worries, like tires. The tires on the Model-A are smooth, Randy, and I've got to make a couple of calls out in the country. Got any suggestions?"

"I've been thinking of tires," Randy said. "The tires on Florence's old Chevy will fit the Model-A. Two of them are almost new. Let's go over and make the change."

It was the custom of Randy and Dan to meet in the apartment at six each evening, listen for the clear channel station which would be heard at this hour if at all, and, if they were tired and the rigors of the day warranted, share a drink. At six on that Friday evening, Dan had not returned from his calls, so Randy sat at his bar alone with the little transistor portable. Life was ebbing from its last set of batteries. He feared the day when it would no longer pick up even the strongest signal, or give any sound whatsoever, and the day could not be far distant. So, what strength was left in the batteries he carefully rationed. Sam Hazzard's all-wave receiver, operating on recharged automobile batteries, was really their only reliable source of information. He clicked on the radio, was relieved to hear static, and tried the Conelrad frequencies.

Immediately he heard a familiar voice, thin and gravelly although he turned the volume full. ". . . against smallpox." Randy knew he had missed the first item of news. Then he heard: There have been isolated reports of disorders and outlawry from several of the Contaminated Zones. As a result, Mrs.

Vanbruuker-Brown, Acting President, in her capacity as Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces, has authorized all Reserve officers and National Guard officers, not in contact with their commanders or headquarters, to take independent action to preserve public safety in those areas where Civil Defense has broken down or where organized military units do not exist. These officers will act in accordance with their best judgment, under the proclamation of martial law. When possible, they will wear the uniform when exercising authority. I repeat this new . . ."

The signal hummed and faded. Randy clicked off the set. Even as he began to a.s.similiate the significance of what he had heard he was aware that Helen was standing on the other side of the counter. In her hands she held a pair of scissors, comb, and a silver hand mirror. She was smiling. "Did you hear that?" he asked.

"Yes. Today's your haircut day, Randy. Today's Friday." Helen trimmed his hair and Bill McGovern's fringe each Friday, and barbered Dan and Ben Franklin Sat.u.r.days.

"You know I'm in the Reserve," Randy said. "I'm legal." "What do you mean?"