Within a month, Denver was on the air twenty-four hours a day. Gradually, the government was putting its pieces back together. And a lot of information was finally coming to light.
The first of the plagues-they knew now there had been several -had appeared as isolated disturbances in the heart of Africa. Within a few weeks, it had spread to Asia and India and was beginning its westward sweep across the world. The second plague came so hard on its heels that it seemed like part of the same wave, but it had started somewhere in Brazil, I think, and swept north through Central America-so fast, in fact, that many cities succumbed before they even had a chance to identify it. By the time of the third plague, governments were toppling and almost every major city was in a state of martial law. Almost all travel worldwide was at a standstill. You could be shot for trying to get to a hospital. The fourth and fifth plagues hit us like tidal waves, decimating the survivors of the first three. There was a sixth plague too-but by then the population density was so low, it couldn't spread.
Some areas had been lucky and had remained completely unaffected, mostly isolated out-of-the-way places. A lot of ships just stayed at sea, particularly Navy vessels, once the admiralty recognized the need to preserve at least one military arm relatively intact. Then there were remote islands and mountaintop settlements, religious retreats, survival communities, our entire Nuclear Deterrent Brigade (wherever they were), the two lunar colonies, the L5 construction project (but they lost the ground base), the submarine communities of Atlantis and Nemo and quite a few places where someone had the foresight to go down and blow up the bridge.
But even after the vaccines were in mass production and the plagues had abated (somewhat), there were still problems. In fact, that was when the real problems began. In many parts of the world, there was no food, the distribution systems having broken down completely. And typhus and cholera attacked the weakened survivors. There was little hospital care available anywhere in the world; the hospitals had been the first institutions to go under. (Any doctor who had survived was automatically suspect of dereliction of duty.) Many large cities had become uninhabitable because of fires and mass breakdown of services. Moscow, for instance, was lost to a nuclear meltdown.
It was the end of the world-and it just kept on happening. So many people were dying of exposure, starvation, anomie, suicide, shock and a thousand other things that people didn't usually die of but which had suddenly become fatal, that it seemed we were caught up in a larger plague with no name at all-except its name was despair. The waves of it rolled around the world and kept on rolling and rolling and rolling....
Before the plagues had broken out, there had been almost six billion human beings on the Earth. By the end of it, nobody knew how many were left. The United States government didn't even try to take the next national census. If anybody in authority had any idea how many people had survived, they weren't saying. It was almost as if they were afraid to make it real. But we heard on the short wave one night that there had to be at least a hundred million dead in this country alone. Whole cities had simply ceased to exist.
We couldn't comprehend that, but there were all those reports on the radio and pictures on the TV. Large areas of the countryside were returning to wilderness. There were ruins everywhere. Burned-out houses were commonplace-frightened neighbors had tried to halt the spread of the disease by burning the homes of the dying, sometimes not even waiting until the dying were dead. Everywhere there were abandoned cars, broken windows, faded billboards, uncut lawns and more than a few mummified corpses. "If you come upon one," said the voice from Denver, "exhale quickly, don't inhale, hold your breath, don't touch anything and back away-practice it till it becomes a reflex. Then place yourself in quarantine-there may be a chance for you, maybe-and call a decontamination squad. If you're in a place where there are no decontamination units, set a fire. And pray you've been fast enough."
We stayed up in the mountains through spring. And listened to the radio.
Denver reported that it looked like the plagues were beginning to die out. There were less than a thousand outbreaks a week worldwide, but people were still dying. There were famines now -there were crops that hadn't been planted-and mass suicides too. If the plague without a name had been despair before, then now it was madness. People slipped into and out of it so easily it was recognized as a fact of life-a complaint so common that no one was untouched, so universal it became transparent. Like air, we couldn't see it anymore, but nonetheless we were enveloped in it every moment of existence.
The news reported only the most shocking or disturbing cases, the ones too big to ignore. We listened, wondered and sometimes cried. But there was just too much hurt to handle. Most of it we buried. And some of it we didn't-we just avoided it the best we could. Somehow we managed not to care too much. Somehow we managed to survive.
I was afraid that we would never be able to come down from the mountain-but we did, eventually. In April, Dad and I took the station wagon and ventured slowly down the hill and across the stream. If anyone was watching us, we didn't see them. We paused once to wave a white flag, but there was no answering "Halloooh."
It was as if we'd been traveling to another star for a hundred years and had only just returned. We felt like alien explorerswe felt as if we didn't belong here anymore. Everything was both familiar and different. The world looked deserted and empty. And it was uncannily quiet. But there were burned-out buildings everywhere-scorched monuments to the dead. Each one was testimony-a body had been found here.
We had to wend our way carefully around abandoned vehicles and fallen trees. I began to get uneasy. We saw nothing for miles until we came to a pack of dogs trotting down the highway. They started barking when they saw us. They chased the car for almost a kilometer. My unease gave way to fear.
Later we saw cattle wandering free; they looked thin and sickly. We saw a dazed young woman walking up the road. We tried to stop her, warn her about the dogs, but she just kept on walking past us as if we weren't there. After that we saw a naked boy hiding in the trees, but he turned and ran when we called to him. "Too soon?" I asked.
Dad shook his head. "Not soon enough. There's work to be done, Jim." And his face tightened in pain.
We stopped to fill our gas tank-there was an official-looking sign on the station, proclaiming that it had been nationalized for the duration of the emergency and whatever fuel and supplies still remained were freely available to all registered survivors.
"But aren't they afraid someone will steal it?"
"Why bother?" Dad said. "There's more than enough for everyone now."
I thought about that. The plagues had been fast. A thousand frightened people had scrambled aboard a super-jumbo in New York, and by the time the plane was over St. Louis, half of them were dead and the other half were dying. Only the flight crew, in their locked cabin, survived-but they were dead too, because there was no airport in the country that would let them land. And even if they could have landed, there was no way to get that flight crew out of the plane except through the passenger cabin. That happened three times. The one plane that did land was burned immediately as it rolled to a stop. The other two flight crews took the faster way out. After that all the airports were shut down.
Dad was saying, "It's all still here, Jim-almost everything. There wasn't time for a panic. That's how fast it happened." He shook his head sadly. "It's as if the human race has gone away and isn't coming back. There isn't any reason to steal anymore, no need to hoard-only to preserve. " He smiled sourly. "For the first time in the history of the human race, there's more than enough of everything for everybody. We've all been made suddenly wealthy." He sounded very sad.
Eventually, we came to a town. Two men with rifles met us at a roadblock. They were very polite about it, but we would not be allowed to pass until we had been cleared through decontamination. Their guns were very convincing.
It was an uncomfortable fifteen minutes. We stood by the car, our hands held away fro
m our sides, until the decontamination team arrived. They pulled up in a white van with a large red cross on each side. We stripped naked and two helmeted figures in white safety-suits sprayed us with foam-our station wagon too, inside and out. I was glad it was a warm day. They took blood samples from each of us and disappeared back into their truck; they were gone for a long time. I began to shiver, even in the afternoon sun.
Finally the door opened and they came out again, still masked. Dad and I looked at each other worriedly. They came up to us, each one carrying a pressure injector. The shorter one grabbed my arm and held the nozzle against the skin. Something went sssst and my arm felt suddenly cold and wet. I flexed my fingers experimentally.
"Relax, you'll be all right," she said, pulling off her hood-they were women! And they were grinning.
"They're clean!" shouted the gray-haired one; she turned to Dad. "Congratulations." Dad handled it with remarkable aplomb. He bowed.
I was already reaching for my jeans. The guards laid their guns aside and ran up to shake our hands. "Welcome to Redfield. Is either one of you a teacher? Or a sewage engineer? Do you know anything about fusion systems? We're trying to get the northwest power-net up again. Can you handle a stereo cam?"
I rubbed my arm; it was starting to sting. "Hey-what's this mark?"
"Coded tattoo," said the one who had vaccinated me. She was very pretty. "Proves you're clean-and immune. Stay away from anyone who doesn't have one. You might pick up spores and not know it."
"But we've got family!"
"How many? I'll give you extra vac-pacs to take with you-and coveralls. And foam! Oh, damn! I don't have enough! You'll have to stop at the med-station. Listen to me-you can't come in direct contact with your own people again until they've been vaccinated too. Even though you're immune, you can still carry spores-you could be very dangerous to anyone who isn't inoculated. Do you understand?"
I nodded. Dad looked worried, but he nodded too. "Good."
We went first to the med-station, formerly a drugstore across the street from the two-story city hall. The teenager in charge gave us complete decontamination and vaccination kits, and very thorough instructions on how to use them. She gave us extra vac-pacs for our neighbors on the mountain too.
Then she sent us to the Reclamation Office to register. "First floor, city hall," she pointed. "It's not exactly mandatory," she said, "but it'll be better for you if you do."
I asked Dad about that as we crossed the street. He shook his head. "Later, Jim-right now, we play by the rules."
The "office" was a desk with a terminal on it. It asked you questions, you answered. When you were through, it spat out a registration card at you. Dad thought for a moment, then registered only himself and me. No mention of Mom or Maggie or the boys. "There'll be time enough later, if it's necessary," he said. "Let's see if we can pick up some supplies. I really miscalculated on the toilet paper."
That was the strangest shopping trip I'd ever been on. Money wasn't any good anymore. Neither was barter. There was a wizened little old man at the checkout counter of the mall, a few other people moving in and out of the shops. He was shaking his head in slow rhythmic beats, and he couldn't focus his eyes on anything for long. He told us that the mall was under the authority of the local Reclamation Office-Dad and I exchanged a look -and we were free to claim what we needed. "When you leave, stop by here and show me your card. I punch it in. That's all."
"But how do we pay for it?"
"If you're lucky, you won't have to." He giggled.
Dad pulled me away. "Come on, Jim. Get a cart. I think I understand."
"Well, I don't! It sounds like legalized looting!"
"Shh, keep your voice down. Now, think about it. What good is money if you can walk into any empty house or store and walk out with handfuls of it--0r whatever else you find? A year ago, there were enough goods in this country for three hundred and fifty million Americans-not to mention goods produced for export. Look around, Jim-how many people are left? Do you want to take a guess at the percentage that survived? I don't-I don't want to scare myself. But it's fairly obvious, isn't it, that in circumstances like this even barter is unnecessary. These people here have worked out an answer to the immediate problem of survival. The goods are here. The people need them. We can worry about the bookkeeping later. If there is a later. For many of them there may not be-at least not without this kind of help. It all makes sense-sort of."
"But if they're giving things away, then why the registration cards?"
"To give a semblance of control, maybe. To give us the feeling there's still some authority in the world. You notice how industrious some of these people seem? Maybe it's to keep themselves going-because if they stop for even a moment and realize-" He caught himself. "Come on, get that cart."
We picked up toilet paper, a couple of radiophones, some cartons of canned goods and freeze-dried foods, a new first-aid kit, some vitamins, some candy for the kids, a newspaper, rifle shells and so on. The only things we couldn't afford were the fresh meats and vegetables. Those had to be paid for-in United Nations Federal Kilo-Calorie notes, caseys for short.
"Aha-yes. The nickel drops."
"What?"
"What's the only thing in short supply today, Jim?"
"People."
"Trained skills. That's what they're trading here. Ability. Labor. That's the new money-standard. Or it will be." He looked almost happy. "Jim"-he grabbed my shoulders abruptly-"it's over. These people are organizing for survival, for a future. There's work to do and they're doing it. They have hope." His grip was tight. "We can come down from the mountain now. We're needed. All of us. Your mom's a nurse. Maggie can teach. ... " His eyes were suddenly wet. "We made it, Jimmy. We made it through to the other side!"
But he was wrong. We hadn't even seen the worst of it yet.
NINE
THE PLAGUES weren't over.
But this time we were better prepared. We had vaccines, and the lower population density and all the precautions still in effect from the first calamitous waves slowed the spread of the new plagues to a containable crawl.
The one that hit us was supposed to be one that you could recover from, although it might leave you blind or sterile-or permanently deranged. It had been around since the beginning -it just hadn't been noticed until the others were contained. Not controlled, just contained.
We lost the boys to it-Tim and Mark-and we almost lost Dad too. Afterward, he was a different man. He never fully recovered. Haggard and gray, he was almost a zombie. He didn't smile anymore. He'd lost a lot of weight and most of his hair, and suddenly he looked old. It was as if the mere act of surviving had taken all of his strength; he didn't have any left for living. A lot of people were like that.
And I don't think Maggie ever forgave him for the death of her sons. It had been his decision to bring us down from the mountain by July, but he couldn't have known. No one did. We all thought it was over.
The last time I saw him was when he left for San Francisco.
They'd "drafted" him-well, not quite drafted, but the effect was the same. Someone was needed to manage the reorganization of the Western Region Data Banks, and Dad was one of the few free programmers left. Most of those who'd survived had already nested themselves into security positions; programmers were valuable-without them, the machines would stop. But Dad was still a free agent, and therefore subject to the control of the Labor Requisition Board. He'd been right to be cautious about registering. When we came down from the mountain, his orders were waiting for him. He appealed,but it was rejected. The national welfare came first.
I drove Dad down to the train station that last day. Mom couldn't get away from the clinic-she'd made her goodbyes the night before. Maggie wouldn't come. Dad looked very thin. He carried only a single small suitcase. He didn't say much while we waited for the train to arrive. We were the only ones on the platform.
"Dad? Are you all right? You know, if you're ill-"
He didn't loo
k at me. "I'm all right," he snapped. And then he said it again in a quieter tone. "I'm all right." He still wasn't looking at me, he was still staring down the track, but he reached over and put his hand on my shoulder.
"Do you need to sit down?"
He shook his head. "I'm afraid I might not be able to get back up." He said, "I'm tired of this, Jim. I'm so tired. . . ."
"Dad, you don't have to go. You have rights. You can claim the shock of-"
"Yes, I do," he said. And the way he said it left no room for argument. He dropped his hand from my shoulder. "You know about the guilt, Jim-survivor's guilt? I can't help it. There were people who deserved to live. Why didn't I die instead?"
"You did what you had to!"
"Just the same," he spoke haltingly, "I feel ... a responsibility now ... to do something, to make amends. If not to the rest of the world, then to ... the babies. Tim and Mark."
"Dad"-this time I put my hand on his shoulder-"listen to me."
He turned to me. "And I can't stand the look in her eyes anymore!"
"Maggie?"
"Your mother."
"She doesn't blame you!"
"No, I don't think she does. And she has every good reason to. But it's not the blame, Jim-it's the pity. I can't stand that." He faltered, then said, "Maybe it'll be better this way." He stooped to lower his suitcase to the ground. Very slowly, he put his hands on my shoulders and pulled me close for a last hug. He felt even thinner in my arms than he looked.
"Take care of them," he said. "And yourself."
He pulled back and looked at me, searching my face for one last sign of hope-and that was when I saw how old he had become. Thin and gray and old. I couldn't help it. I felt sorry for him too. He saw it. He had been looking for my love, and instead he saw my pity. I knew he could tell, because he smiled with a false heartiness that felt like a wall slamming into place. He clapped me on the shoulder and then turned quickly away.
The train took him south to San Francisco and we never saw him again.
A Matter for Men watc-1 Page 6
