by Jack Yeovil
“I voted for North, and I’m proud of it,” Yorke said. “It was important to keep the Right Wingers out of the White House.”
Quincannon laughed. Yorke thought he might be missing the joke. His Premier tasted bitter. Maybe Dr Nick was right, and he should switch to mild-tasting Snouts.
“Remember the others, boy. Two terms’ worth of Barry Goldwater, one and a half of Spiro Agnew, and a single for that lousy actor. If they were executin’ any of them for havin’ a brain, they’d be fryin’ an innocent man. Now we’ve got a busted officer with sweaty palms and a used-weapons dealer’s eyes. All he can do is kiss ass for the multinats and go on freakin’ teevee gameshows so’s he can lower taxes nobody pays anyway. I’ve a feeling Jack Kennedy might have done something for this goddamned country. And Marilyn started the rot. Without her, things would’ve been… maybe not better, but different.”
II
8 June 1995
The noonday sun was a circle of white hot iron, burning a hole in the blue canopy of the sky. Heat fell on his face like driving rain, hammering his frozen-open eyes. Slowly, his brain cooked.
Brother Claude Bukowski Hooper would die soon. He hoped. The Knock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots had downed him on the blacktop, then driven over him a bunch of times. Instead of knees, he had treadmarks.
Black scraps circled on high. Carrion birds, waiting for the spark to go so they could get their grits. Something with dark ragged wings dipped across his field of vision, flapping towards Brother Lennart.
As he breathed, Brother Claude felt the ends of snapped bones stabbing inside. He was too broken, crushed or squashed to fix. He’d hoped they’d zotz him outright, but here he was left in merciless sun, congealing into roadkill.
His fluid self seeped through sun-cracks in the road. The hardtop vibrated minimally. A ve-hickle, many klicks off. His nervous system fused with the Interstate. After death, perhaps he would see out of cats’ eyes. Everybody knows, in a second life, we all come back sooner or later, the Josephite hymn went, as anything from a pussycat to a man-eating alligator… His senses would spread throughout the country, north to Alaska, Down Mexico Way.
If only Brother Claude could sleep now…
Loss of blood would probably get him, or else suffocation. It was almost impossible to draw breath into his collapsed windsacks. That was how Jesus died on the cross. As a kid, snoozing through scripture shows on the educational teevee that was all the cable Mama could afford, he hadn’t thought much about what being crucified was like.
The Romans pierced Our Lord’s hands and feet, just as the ’bots had zero-zilched Brother Claude’s arms and legs. The idea was: exhaustion set in and you just sort of collapsed inside, lungs constricted flat by your ribs. He hadn’t learned that from educational teevee—“yes, Davey,” a fundamentalist cartoon dog might tell an audience surrogate, “it took three days for Our Pal Jesus to die in hideous agony”—but from his tour with the Knights of the White Magnolia. Whenever the Knights found a houngan, they crucified the conjure man and watched him fade to black. After a while, it got mighty tedious.
Elder Seth said that as thou sowed, so should thou reap. Brother Claude had never exactly crucified anyone, but he’d stood about uselessly like the sportsfans who voted for Barabbas while gentlefolk were nail-gunned to garage walls.
Fancy-shmancy bio-implants and replacement doodads of the sort manufactured and licensed by the almighty GenTech Corporation could do zero for him, even if he could have afforded that kind of repair work. Not that he approved of mad scientist stuff.
The Knock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots were cyborgs. Ashamed of their remaining humanity, they wore black all-over suits with cut-away patches to show off sparkling plastic or metal. Some must be more machine than flesh.
The ’bots had a roadblock in the middle of nowhere. A digital display sign on their largest RV read stop, pay toll. The resettlers’ convoy had no way around, and little enough goods to hand over. So little that the ’bots were irritated enough to cut out a couple of the Brethren and enjoy a bout of mindless ultra-violence.
As he stomped Brother Lennart with seven-league feet, the hulking panzerboy they called Pinocchiocchio sang “I’ve Got No Strings to Hold Me Up or Tie Me Down”. He did a puppet-like dance of strange grace, reminding Brother Claude of the British series—Thunderbirds, Stingray, The Forsyte Saga—that filled out the educational channels.
Something winged was tugging Brother Claude’s boot, rolling the foot both ways. He couldn’t feel anything that far down, and he couldn’t lift his head to shoo the ugly bird away.
Before they drove on, one of the ’bots had knelt tenderly by him and spilled a little water into his mouth. He tasted his own blood in the drink.
“Are you alright, bro?” The kneeling water-dispenser asked, concern dripping from every syllable.
Brother Claude had tried to smile, tried to make the woman (if woman she was) feel better. She wore a black tutu, fluffed out to show long, shinily PVC-skinned legs.
“Snazz,” she said, black against the sun. As she stood, the ’bot hummed to herself:
“When a gal’s an empty kettle,
She should be on her mettle
Yet I’m torn apaaaa-art…”
Brother Claude remembered The Wizard of Oz. His MRA Troop had been shown the film, a scratchy video dupe from some striated celluloid print, blown up and projected on an off-white sheet. Tatum O’Neal as Dorothy, Lee Majors as the Tin Man, Frank Zappa as the Wizard.
Satisfied, the ’bot kicked him again, jamming the point of her pump into his ribs, breaking a few more bones.
“Just because I’m presumin’
That I could be sorta human
If I only had a heart…”
Her leotard was cut away over her chest like a fetish suit. Her breasts were hard, clear, plastic bumps. Inside were wheels and pistons. An LED clock flashed numbers. Tiny gears moved like insect-legs. A rounded glasspex stomach sloshed with acids that processed whatever the cyborg needed to keep walking. Batteries?
The ’bots drove away, leaving the stink of their exhaust in the air. Elder Seth said a few words over Brother Lennart, and repeated them for Brother Claude. He had thought it best not to interrupt his own funeral service with unseemly groans. The survivors moved on.
He understood the concept of sacrifice. By his death, the Path of Joseph would be seeded.
He didn’t envy the ’bot. It was better to die clean than live on with half your guts replaced by vacuum cleaner parts and computer terminals.
Nobody had chanced along the Interstate since the convoy followed its yellow brick road. Brother Claude wasn’t surprised. Only a damfool would venture this far sandside. A fool, or a pilgrim…
He was twisted in the middle, face up but skewed at the hips, groin pressed to the asphalt. He couldn’t feel anything below his ribs. Considering what he could feel from the rest of him, that was a mercy. He realised he was deaf. One of his eyes was shut, sealed by a rind of dried blood.
Brother Claude, born in the Phoenix NoGo, had lived outside Policed Zones all his short life, and always had to follow someone. His daddy took off early—Mama Hooper tried to make out he was some high mucky-muck in Japcorp, but Claude knew better the types she slung out with and so he found other daddies.
During the Moral Re-Armament Drive of the early ’80s, the ten-year-old Claude enlisted in President Heston’s Youth Corps. Big Chuck looked like a Prezz ought to: a mile wide at the shoulders with a jaw like a horseshoe and acres of medal-heavy chest. When Pioneer Hooper was cashiered for breaking a kid’s nose in a dispute about the superiority of Battlestar Galactica over Charlie’s Angels, he transferred allegiance to Burtram Fassett, Imperial Grand Wizard of the Knights of the White Magnolia. The IGW told the pledge that he, as a white heterosexual male, was a Prince of the Earth, and that it was the young recruit’s duty to stick killing steel into the human vermin who dared rise up against nature’s aristocrats.
If he was a Prince of the
Earth, he’d tried not to wonder, how come his mama couldn’t afford the Playboy Channel?
Then he was a soldier in the War. Not any of the overseas Wars, like the ones in Cuba or Nicaragua: the War between the Knights and the Voodoo Brotherhood, when the Knights tried to clear nigras out of Arizona. That’d been a gold-plated bust. He’d had noble ideas about racial purity and Aryan jihad drummed into his graymass, then it turned out the Knights were financed by raghead troublemakers from the Pan-Islamic Congress.
His life was trickling out before his eyes, or at least ticking through his graymass. Brother Claude guessed that was a bad sign.
When T-H-R broke up the Knights and Fassett decamped for pastures greener, Claude drifted a spell. Didier Brousset, head houngan of the Voodoo Bros, put a bounty on the pizzles of ex-Knights, so it wasn’t healthy to keep your white hood and red-cross robes. Claude was on the streets of the Phoenix NoGo, running. Ducking away from a couple of rattlesnake necktie Bros, he found himself in a meeting hall. A man was speaking. He wore a damfool black suit and a pilgrim hat, like many of his audience. He wore mirrorshades, also like many of his audience. And he had the Truth in his voice.
Claude had come upon the Word of Joseph and found himself a final daddy in Elder Seth. The Elder purred a sermon, not shouting like the teevee preachies Mama Hooper watched whenever she wasn’t pumping the bunk with squiffed strangers. In him burned a fire of faith that spread wherever he went. Claude was not the only convert made in that hall that night. He had to jostle through a crowd to sign up.
Brother Claude had been Saved, he thought: he didn’t miss recaff or co-cola or the Devil’s music or carnal relations or fast foods or pockets or any of the things he was required to abjure. He wore his pegged black coat and round black hat with pride.
“We need men like thee,” Elder Seth said. “The Brethren must have young blood. These are the last days.”
Elder Seth believed the heartlands were not lost. The Des could be reseeded, resettled, reclaimed. Most everybody outside the Brethren said Elder Seth was a damfool but the Elder had a way of convincing people. Claude joined up with the Brethren’s Resettlement Programme. He sang the hymns—“The Battle Cry of Freedom”. “Tis the Gift to Be Simple”, “The Path of Joseph”, “Stairway to Heaven”—and enlisted as shotgun on the first convoy out of Phoenix for Salt Lake City; 850 klicks of lawless road and burning desert lay before the resettlers.
If he’d actually been given a shotgun, maybe he wouldn’t be where he was, but Elder Seth frowned on needless violence. “Our weapons shall be our faith and fervour,” he announced, while Gentiles shook their heads.
Brother Claude had no idea where he was dying. He wondered if they had reached the former state of Utah. He had the idea that they’d crossed the state line. This was his first time outside his native Arizona. And his last. According to Elder Seth, this wasn’t even the United States of America. He was dying on the chosen ground.
As the convoy put out of Phoenix, crowds had cheered. Plenty of bignames from the PZ came out, shielded by armed goons—natch—and Elder Seth made a speech to the multitudes. It had been a speech of hope and promise. The big public screen played a message from President North, fumbling his way through best wishes. The Prezz’s speech boiled down to “Good luck guys, but don’t blame me if you don’t make it”. Then the gates of the city were opened, brushing away NoGo derelicts who were camping outside, and—after minimal escorting to get them through the Filter—the resettlers were on their way and on their own.
And here he was, bleeding himself empty on the Interstate. Flies buzzed and he imagined tall, dark figures standing over him. They had faces he could recognise—President Chuck was there, and ole IGW Fassett, and Elder Seth, and the woman-like gadget who had given him water—but no real shape. Elder Seth talked a lot about angels, and spirits he called the Dark Ones.
These must be the Dark Ones.
Where, Brother Claude wondered, were the others now? Elder Seth, and Brother Bailie, and Brother Wiggs, and Sister Consuela, and Brother Akins, and Sister Ciccone, and the Dorsey Twins? If he twisted his head a degree or so, he could see Brother Lennart, a black rag-doll with a bloody head. The carrion birds were closing in. And other things had loped out of the desert.
As gangcults went, the Knock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots weren’t so bad. Compared with the Maniax, the Clean or The Bible Belt, they were easy-goers. After all, they’d only killed a few of the resettlers.
Including Brother Claude Bukowski Hooper.
A Dark One stood over him, black shadow-robes whipped by an unfelt wind. A bearded man, with goat-horns stuck out of his long tangle of hair. He stretched out his arms and worms dripped from the palms of his hands. Brother Claude didn’t recognise the apparition.
The road vibrated. Several ve-hickles, getting close. If Claude held on…
Something gave in his neck and his head rolled. His cheek pressed to the hot, gritty road, and his field of vision changed.
Beyond the asphalt was desert. In the distance were mountains. Nothing else. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, hadn’t been for decades.
The sun still shone, reflecting like a new hundred-dollar coin in the pool of blood that was spreading across the road.
Blood on the road.
That reminded him of something Elder Seth had said. Something important.
Blood…
… on the road…
Blood…
A fly landed on Brother Claude’s eyelash. He didn’t blink.
III
8 June 1995
The citizens were dead. There were two in the road, both dressed the same, both dead the same. As usual, they’d been overkilled. Trooper Leona Tyree assumed a parade had run over them.
“No wonder the population’s declining,” she said to Burnside.
For the first time in the recorded history of the world, according to ZeeBeeCee’s Newstrivia, violence was a bigger killer than disease or starvation.
“This one lived longer than the other,” Trooper Washington Burnside observed, frown crinkling his recaff-toned forehead, “the poor bastard.”
He stood up, brushing road-dirt off the knees of his regulation blue pants. After a couple of days on patrol, the yellow side-stripes were almost obscured.
Tyree scanned the startled faces, trying to puzzle out the look in the eyes. She always wondered about corpses. What had it been like at the end? Sometimes, she thought she thought too much. Maybe that was what held her back.
“The cruiser’s coming,” Burnside said.
Like Tyree, he wore gunbelt and suspenders, heavy gauntlets, a yellow neckerchief and knee-high boots. With his microcircuit-packed skidlid off, he could have been US Cav, 1875 vintage.
And the desert here had always been the same. There’d never been wheatfields in this part of Utah.
But it was 1995 all right. You could tell by the treadmarks on the deadfellas. And the armoured US Road Cav cruiser bearing down on them. The ve-hickle was shaped like an elongated armadillo, nose to the ground. Its gray carapace was coated with non-reflective paint.
“Here’s the Quince.”
The cruiser eased to a halt. Sergeant Quincannon pulled himself out, hauling a shotgun with him. For a fat old guy, he was in good shape. His ruddy complexion came from high blood pressure, Irish ancestors and Shochaiku Double-Blend Malt, but he never gave less than 150 percent on patrol. In his off-hours, he was another guy altogether. Now, the Quince was purposeful. This was a situation and he was going by the book.
Tyree considered the possibility that the deadfellas were ambush bait. It was unlikely: there was no cover within easy distance of the hardtop. Besides, this wasn’t a convoy route to anywhere. Still, she’d scoped the Des for possible foxholes. A man could hide in the sand, but stashing a ve-hickle was another proposition.
Tyree gave the no trouble sign and the Quince stowed his laser-sight pump action back in the car. Yorke stayed at the wheel. He got squeamish in the vicinity of dea
dfellas. Not a useful character trait in the Road Cav, but he was stuck with it.
Quincannon strode up. He had the Cav walk down pat: sort of an easy lope, with lots of shoulder action, belly pulled in. It was just the right side of a swagger.
“What’s the situation?” he asked.
“Unidentified casualties, sir,” Tyree replied. “We came upon them as they are. There were birds but I shooed them off with a miniscreamer.”
“This deadfella’s been gone less’n an hour,” put in Burnside. “The other bit the cold one three—four ticks earlier.”
“Careless driving costs lives.”
“This wasn’t careless. Whoever roadkilled these hombres made freakin’ sure they did a snazz job.”
Quincannon wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. A minute out of his air conditioning and he was sweating. Flies swarmed on the corpses. Soon the atmosphere in these parts wasn’t going to be too pleasant.
“What do you reckon, sir? Maniax?”
The Maniax were supposed to be off the big board in the Western States, but there were enough rogue chapters of the gangcult rolling around pissed to do a pretty sight of damage before their file closed.
“Could be, Leona. Or Gaschuggers, KKK, Razorbacks, Masked Raiders, Psychopomps, Hole-in-the-Wall Gang, DAR, Voodoo Bros, any one of a dozen others. Hell, the Mescalero Apache ain’t been no trouble for a hundred years, but this is their country too. Killin’ people is the Great American Sport. Always has been.”
The Quince got like that sometimes, mouthy and hardbitten. Tyree put up with it because the sergeant was a top op. After Howling Paul McAuley, probably the best all-round op in the Cav. If she wanted to advance herself off her cyke into a cruiser and then up the chain of command, she’d need his recommendation.
She’d been a trooper a month or so too long as it was. Put a tunic on her and she’d make a dandy lieutenant. Then captain, colonel. It could happen. Her mother had told her it was important to have ambition.
