Smitty shook his head. “The whole country’s gone crazy.” Cermak shrugged. “They’ve got to eat.”
Carl said wearily, “It’s the same thing as back home: no power, no lights, no communications, no transport. The country was run on electricity and now that’s gone.”
To the northeast, and far off to the south, Brian could see pillars of smoke. From somewhere toward the southwest came the sound of continuous gunfire, clearly audible now that the shots from the nearby town had died away. Where-ever there was any sign of people, there was trouble in one form or another. The convulsion was coming to a climax, and Brian knew the motivation. As Cermak had said, people had to eat.
The next day, from a low hill, they looked off to the south on a moderately large shopping center. From the tall dead electric sign over the center, snipers were picking off the attackers who crept toward them through the flat fields nearby. Cars had been rolled off the roads leading to the center and burned. At the center itself, the cars in the parking" lot had been pushed into a tight circle around the buildings, and the air let out of the tires so that no one could crawl underneath. From behind the cars, the defenders had a clear field of fire at anyone trying to cross the wide sweep of parking lot, where the only cover was the isolated light poles, dominated by the huge electric sign overhead. Plainly enough, the people outside couldn’t get at the food without killing the defenders, while the people inside couldn’t keep the food without killing whoever tried to force his way in. Meanwhile, the people inside would have no reliable way to get water. It looked bad enough in the daytime, but what neither Brian nor the others could visualize was what happened on a dark night when no one could tell friend from foe, and hungry men and women crept desperately across the parking lot, knives and guns in hand, toward the buildings.
As they looked at the building, it began to come home to them.
Smitty cleared his throat. “Let’s move on.”
One afternoon, tired, hungry and sick of the endless burning, looting and killing, Brian and the others lay down to rest in a clump of trees near a narrow blacktopped road by a stream. It was still broad daylight, and after they had rested they hoped to go on several miles more before nightfall.
They had scarcely begun to settle down when there was the bang of guns close by.
Chapter 9
Brian sprang to his feet and worked his way carefully through the trees. In a moment he was peering out at a stream where several farmers were guiding two teams of rearing horses as they drew wagons through the water toward a narrow black topped road. From a patch of brush atop a nearby embankment there came the flash of guns.
After what he had seen in the last few weeks, the situation was crystal clear at a glance. Brian took a quick look at the farmers, their honest, hard-working faces twisted in despair, then he dropped behind a thick log and slammed roaring shot after shot into the brush. As he stripped a fresh clip into the magazine, he shouted, “Carl! Smitty! Steve! Hurry up and we can get the lot of them!”
There was a wild scramble in the brush and three men were desperately pumping their bicycles in a mad race to get away down the road. Guns and belts of bullets were strewn over the road in their haste. Brian sent a final shot close above their heads. There was an additional clatter on the blacktop, and they streaked off at an even higher speed.
In the stream, the horses splashed and plunged, but with the end of the gunfire, the farmers managed to lead them up the low bank to the road.
Cermak was at Brian’s elbow.
“What was that?”
“Ambush,” said Brian. “They were hidden in the brush along the road down there.”
“Ah,” said Cermak, “kill the farmers and take the horses.”
Brian took a careful look around, then walked down toward the farmers.
There were, he saw, four of them. Two were ripping up shirts to bandage a man who was wounded. The other farmer, a burly man of about sixty, smiled broadly and walked over to Brian with out-thrust hand.
“Friend, I’ll never be happier to see anybody if I live to be a hundred! That gun of yours was the sweetest music I’ve ever heard.”
Brian gripped his hand. “For the last week we’ve been shot at from about every farmhouse we’ve passed. Now I see the reason.”
The farmer nodded. “It’s gotten so a man can’t turn his back without getting a bullet in it. You can’t live unless there’s enough of you to stand guard day and night.” He shook his head. “That’s why people shoot at strangers. My name’s Ed Barnaby. You and your friends move in with me till you’re rested up, and maybe you’ll think better of us.”
Cermak and the others came down and the wagons made their way along the road. With the addition of the guns and ammunition left behind by the ambushers, they made a formidable party.
Ed Bamaby explained that they’d taken the wagons to get grain left behind at the farm of his friend, Dave Schmidt, who had moved in with him.
“You see,” he said as they traveled slowly through the gathering dusk, “we’ve got plenty of room. It’s a big house, and there’s just me, my wife, my three boys and two girls; and now my neighbor Dave Schmidt and his family. That sounds like a lot, but when you see the house, you’ll see there’s plenty of room.”
The house was a dazzling white in the moonlight, standing among tall trees that arched above its steep, black-painted metal roof. It stood three full stories high, with tall windows, and a porch that ran around two sides on the ground and second floors. A two-story, L-shaped addition, apparently added as an afterthought, was itself as large as an ordinary house.
“My Granddad wanted lots of room,” Ed Bamaby said with a broad, appreciative grin. “He had fourteen children, ten of them boys.”
Brian slept that night in a room with delicately flowered, silvery wallpaper, on a soft bed with crisp clean sheets and light warm covers. The next day they had pancakes and sausages for breakfast, and Ed Bamaby showed them the springhouse, dairy barn, chicken coop, smokehouse, hog pen, stable, icehouse, pond, and a small blacksmith shop.
“Grandfather,” said Bamaby, “believed in being self-sufficient. I think we can make out all right, so long, that is, as we can keep from being shot dead or burned alive. Grandfather could probably have handled that problem, too, but I’m not so sure Dave Schmidt and me have the right idea. If we’d known what we were doing, we’d never have got caught in that stream bed the way we did. Now, I’ve watched you boys, and it seems to me you know how to handle yourselves. If you’d care to rest a little before going on west, we’d be glad to board you, if you’d guard the place for us.”
Brian and the others liked the idea. While Barnaby and his people worked in the fields, Brian, Carl, Smitty and Steve Cermak made sure no one raided the farm. They studied the layout of the buildings and showed Barnaby the places where it was easiest to get in. Barnaby had two of his sons drive in several lines of fence posts, and Brian and Carl put up barbed wire. They cut down one of the trees, and several bushes that obscured the view from the house. Now, from the cover of the big building, those inside could fire on anyone who tried to tamper with the fences. Then they built a small, sturdy platform around the trap door opening on the roof of the house, and they had a view out over the barn and outbuildings, where one man or woman could serve as a lookout while the others worked.
They’d been there a week when they began to feel well rested and ready to move on.
“I hate to see you go,” said Barnaby as they were eating a big dinner. “We’ve been getting our work done for the first time since this trouble started. We’ve been getting our sleep, too. I used to jump awake two or three times a night thinking I’d heard somebody out in the barn. I hope you won’t leave unless you’ve got to.”
The others eagerly joined in, offering to help stand guard at night, and then a shrill whistle, the prearranged signal for trouble, interrupted the meal.
Carl, who’d been on watch on the roof, came down the stairs fast.
&
nbsp; Ed Barnaby said, “What is it? Should we get our guns?”
“Yes, but stay hidden and don’t shoot unless the other side shoots first I There are hundreds of them!”
While the others took up their positions inside the house, Brian and Ed Barnaby, each carrying their guns, went out on the porch.
Dozens of armed men, their guns at the ready, stood at the line of fence posts that stretched across the front lawn. The barbed wire lay in lengths on the grass, each strand cut off where it had been stapled to the posts. The men
waiting by the fence posts watched the house and buildings alertly. At the center of the lawn stood a man with a whistle raised to his lips, watching the house and waiting.
Back of this line men trudged past on the road, in a long column, four abreast. The men carried guns, and, watching closely, Brian began to notice significant details.
Every twelve men, there was a break in the column. The men at the head of each file were armed with semi-automatic weapons—often M1 rifles or carbines. The second men carried rifles, usually Springfields or American Enfields. The third men carried shotguns. After that, there was a miscellany of sporting rifles, shotguns, and foreign weapons, until at the end of the line, the third men from the end carried shotguns, the second men from the end carried rifles, often Springfields or Enfields, and the last men carried semi-automatic weapons.
Now, as they marched past, Brian could see that at the head and tail of each section another man walked at the head of the files on the left side of the column.
Barnaby murmured, “Look businesslike, don’t they?”
“There’s a break every so often when they go by. What’s that for?” Brian wondered.
“They’re formed in units. Apparently there are four twelve-men squads, the squad leaders marching in front, the assistant squad leaders in the rear. The four squads make up a platoon, with the platoon leaders marching on the far side of the columns.”
“What’s this coming now?” '
Down the road came four men abreast, carrying heavier guns than any they’d seen till now. Behind them came four men carrying light loads of ammunition, and behind them four more men heavily loaded with ammunition.
“Those,” said Brian, “are automatic rifles. Whoever’s running this has it all organized.”
Next came four men pulling a small light cart carrying a water-cooled thirty-caliber machine gun, and four more men pulling another light cart loaded with ammunition. Behind that came a man leading a saddle horse, and beside him a tall, dreamy-looking man wearing on his dark-brown hair a thin band of silver ornamented with slightly raised crests that flashed and glittered in the sunlight. As Brian watched in astonishment, this man raised his right hand; there was a barked command and a single blast on a trumpet. The column came to an abrupt halt. Another shouted command followed, the armed men turned to face the farm buildings, the officers came through the intervals of the line, and the tall man with the band of silver flashing on his head stepped to the horse and swung into the saddle.
For an instant Brian expected the whole line to come forward in a rush, but then the high, clear, carrying voice of the man in the saddle reached out, its tone reasonable, appealing.
“Farmers, just a word before we march on. If the crops are to be planted in good season, they have to be planted now. But no man can work in the fields and stand guard with a gun at the same time. If we’re to avoid starvation later, we have to get rid of these killers and arsonists now!"
“We all know that for weeks you’ve had to fight off these human rats. You’ve been held back and slowed down because you had to struggle with the vermin. That’s over with. Now you can put away your guns and plow and plant to your heart’s content. The Day of the Rat is over.” He beamed and swept his hand to indicate the men around him, then he raised his clenched fist. “Right here is the Cat!”
There was an involuntary murmur of approval from the house, and then a roaring cheer from the men in the road.
The farmers were out on the porch, talking excitedly, and the armed men on the road had broken formation and were on the lawn opening boxes of dry rations and taking mugs of steaming coffee and cocoa from men who carried trays from a wagon in the road.
Schmidt, the neighbor who lived with Barney, said excitedly, “Sounds like they mean business.”
Barnaby looked at the guns and grinned. “They’re equipped to do business 1” He glanced at Brian. “What do you think?”
The best Brian could manage was to say, “It could be.”
Brian was looking at the flashing silver circlet on the tall man’s head.
Carl had come out on the porch, to be followed by a dubious-looking Smitty and an expressionless Cermak. Carl glanced around, noting the way the men were spreading out in the shade under the trees, then went back in the house.
Cermak glanced at Brian, and said dryly, “What do you think of that guy, Brian?”
“What he said was all right. But what’s that crown for?”
Smitty was watching the corner of the house where the porch ran around the other side. “I don’t know if you noticed, but one of those people just came up onto the porch with a sheet of paper and a stapler. It looks to me like he tacked up some kind of notice.”
Brian saw the man go down the steps. “Let’s take a look.”
They walked around the corner, to find, stapled to the wall, a large oblong of heavy white paper bearing in small black print a long series of paragraphs. Brian’s eye skimmed rapidly over large sections of print as he read the more outstanding points:
NOTICE
Owing to the disastrous failure of electric power throughout this region, be it resolved:
1) That this country, and those districts contiguous to it, shall unite for common defense and be known hereafter as the Districts United.
2) That the inhabitants of these Districts United shall act toward the creation of conditions in which unlawful elements shall be eliminated.
Toward these desirable ends, the following measures are hereby set in motion:
1) Since outside criminal elements are carrying out their practices of killing, arson, robbery, and bushwhacking, a new crime has come into existence, which shall hereinafter be known as “karb,” from the initial letters of the criminal acts referred to. Therefore, a Defense Force is hereby created. This Defense Force shall eliminate all criminals practicing karb, by hanging, shooting, decapitation, or whatever other method.
2) To facilitate swift and purposeful action in eliminating karb, a commander of the Defense Force is appointed, who shall be known hereafter as the Districts United Karb Eliminator, or, from the initial letters of the words, D.U.K.E., which may be shortened to DUKE or Duke.
3) The duties of the D.U.K.E. shall be to care for and control the Defense Force, restrict and eliminate karb, and endeavor to create those conditions in which work can be carried on without unlawful interruption.
4) Toward this end, the following rules are hereby put into effect . . .
There followed a long list. By order of the D.U.K.E., any foreclosure of mortgages or other sale or exchange of farm properties was suspended. By order of the DUKE, all money taxes on land were revoked. By order of the Duke, all money taxes on income or property were revoked. There then followed a list of taxes payable in storable foods of various kinds, in firewood and in hay, grain, and livestock. To avoid the wrong persons being shot or hanged, and to make things easier for the flying squads of karb-eliminators, no one might travel without a permit from the Duke’s local representative. At the end was a paragraph to the effect that any grievance or complaint could be taken to the Duke. “Nice,” said Cermak dryly. “The Duke is everything.” Smitty said, “Look how the notice is signed.”
Brian and Cermak studied the imperious scrawl at the bottom of the paper. The signature itself was impossible to decipher but below it were the printed words, “Charles, Duke of the Districts United.”
“He’s got the thing organized, justified, a
nd explained,” Smitty said, “so if you read it sentence by sentence it seems almost reasonable. And, of course, the Duke himself forbids mortgage foreclosures and taxes, and will punish karb and right wrongs. The food taxes are put in sort of anonymously —just some unavoidable thing that had to be done.”
“What he’s setting up is a feudal system,” Brian commented. “The farmers are tied to their land, and pay part of their crops in return for protection. The ruler controls the armed force, makes the laws himself, and administers justice. Same thing as in the Middle Ages*”
Cermak shook his head. “They say the government is still holding out in the northwest—in Montana and Oregon. I think we should head there the first chance we get.” “Yes,” said Brian. “And we’d better move fast. It won’t be long till they have the lid nailed down tight.”
Smitty glanced at several of the Duke’s men who were heavily bandaged. “Evidently there are a few people around who don’t like being boxed up.”
Brian studied them. “It might be worthwhile to know what happened.” He moved down the steps, past several of the Duke’s men who were joking with the girls of the family, and crossed the lawn to the group of bandaged men. He bumped one of them with his elbow, turned to say “Excuse me,” then blinked as if in surprise.
“You must have run into trouble.”
The man’s head was heavily and neatly bandaged, and his left arm was in a sling. But he grinned. “Run into a gang of scientists.”
Brian said, “Scientists can’t fight, can they?”
One of the other men, his right hand covered by bandages, gave a groan. There were about half a dozen of them, all badly beaten up, and they all glanced at each other. One took a bite out of a loaf of bread sliced lengthwise, a chunk of meat in the middle. Around this mouthful, he said, “I never knowed they could fight, myself. But they learned us a lesson.”
Another said, “They hit us with everything. To begin with, they weren’t on foot or on horseback. They were driving trucks.”
The Day the Machines Stopped Page 9
