ARMAGEDDON, INC.
BY
LLOYD BIGGLE, JR
EDITED BY
KENNETH LLOYD BIGGLE
COPYRIGHT 2012 BY
KENNETH BIGGLE
AND
DONNA EMERSON
Dr. Frederic Ramsey had lost so much weight that the stiff, chill autumn
wind seemed likely to blow him away. The skin of his bald head stretched
tautly over his skull and added to his cadaverous appearance. A passerby
taken unawares might have mistaken him for a walking corpse. He wore a ragged sweat shirt so old that only a few letters survived of whatever sarcastic message it had once displayed. There were patches on the patches of his blue jeans. Somewhere along the way he had been generously spattered with mud.
He carried a small suitcase and a battered satchel of the type that
doctors had once called their "Black Bag."
His surroundings looked as ruined as he did. Most buildings lacked
roofs; many were missing walls. Where debris had crumbled into the street, a bulldozer had cleared a passage for motor traffic. Ramsey used it wherever the sidewalk was blocked. There was no danger because there was no motor traffic.
The ruins were decades old, but the litter Ramsey encountered was recent, consisting mainly of discarded liquor bottles, many of them broken. The absence of fast-food throwaways was unmistakable evidence that no one was eating fast food--probably because no fast food establishment could operate profitably in that slum.
A dog bounded through a hole in the side of an abandoned building and
confronted him, growling savagely. It looked starved. Ramsey ignored it, and after watching him pass, the dog followed after him hopefully.
A few humans were in sight, looking down on him from gaping holes that
once had been windows. They stared at him briefly and then transferred their gazes elsewhere. Only the dog seemed interested in him. Ramsey paused briefly to watch a spy-plane pass overhead with a high-pitched whine. Then he walked on.
As he approached an intersection, a beggar squatting on the crumbling
sidewalk protectively moved the rusted tin can that served as a collection cup closer to him. Ramsey halted and stared down at him. The beggar cringed.
Ramsey grinned insolently, fished some coins from his pocket, and tossed them into and around the can.
The beggar, more startled than grateful, croaked, "Thanks."
Ramsey moved on, taking long strides. He was wondering why a beggar
would waste time on an intersection of streets lined with the rubble of
bombed-out and boarded-up buildings. There seemed to be no traffic of any
kind.
A few entrepreneurs had found quarters for shops amidst the destruction.
There was a food store, a liquor store (the only prosperous-looking
establishment), a cafe, several shoddy hotels, and several more war-shattered buildings that simply displayed a sign, "Rooms." Far up ahead was the most unlikely sign of all--one that read, "Bank," with a second sign, "Post
Office," that looked like an afterthought.
On a map, the community was shown as a shaded area that read, "War
damage." It was part of the Outland, and its people were called Outlanders--
which any true Outlander had to consider an insult. Only human debris would reside in such a slum, and human debris was always Inland debris--the
outcasts, the failures, and the misfits of a prosperous wartime society, not
to mention criminals and degenerates, who had escaped across the border. The bank was for their use so pension and compensation checks could be cashed.
Money, which had all but gone out of use in most Outland communities, was
essential to these renegade Ins who now were called Outs. The bank gave them money for their checks; the small stores, unhealthy-looking cafes, windowless taverns, and lodging houses took it from them.
The direction signal started up again, delivering incessant beeps to the
receiver in one of Ramsey's ears. It sounded for ten minutes every hour, and
this time the beeps had become painfully loud. Ramsey lengthened his stride.
He had only ten minutes to obtain a fix on it.
At a gap between buildings, Ramsey paused. Above a cemented walkway, someone had erected a sign: "ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE, CHECK YOUR MORALS AT THE DOOR." On the wall was a smaller sign, "Norm's Place," and an arrow.
Ramsey entered, wincing as the beeps became still louder.
Behind the boarded-up buildings was a broad alley. Beyond it were more
boarded-up buildings that fronted on the next street. The alley was
surprisingly clean and free from clutter. There were several worn and rickety card tables, each of them surrounded by four equally rickety chairs occupied by four rickety and worn men intent on games of cards. None of them looked up. A woman sat on one of the building's loading platforms, knitting. She watched Ramsey while continuing to knit.
Ramsey looked about him. Then he called to the woman, "Where is Norm's Place?"
The woman pointed at steps leading down to a basement. Ramsey called,
"Thanks," and descended the steps. At the bottom, he knocked on the closed door.
"Just walk in," the woman called.
Ramsey thanked her again and opened the door. He was very close,
now. The beeps screamed at him. Then they cut off abruptly. The ten minutes were up.
Two hanging kerosene lamps dimly outlined a large room. There were
tables of all kinds scattered about in it with an assortment of mismatched
chairs. Around the sides were overstuffed chairs and sofas that had needed
upholstering for years. In several of them, elderly men or women were
sleeping. At one side, a row of old tables formed a counter. Behind it,
Ramsey glimpsed a battered ice box that certainly had not seen ice for years,
an old kerosene cook stove, and a few improvised shelves loaded with odds and ends of food packages.
A small man dressed in an old suit, complete with vest and necktie,
stepped from behind the counter and came to meet Ramsey.
"I'm Norm," he said. "Help you?"
"I'm Doctor Frederic Ramsey. Does Dennis Foat live here?"
The little man nodded.
"He told me about this place," Ramsey said. "How is he?"
"Bad shape," the little man said. "Dying, I think."
Startled, Ramsey studied his face. It gave nothing away. The little man
had been asked a question; he had answered it. It was not a matter that
concerned him personally.
"Dennis has never had much luck," Ramsey said. "I'm dying myself--as you
probably noticed. I'm looking for a quiet place."
The little man scrutinized him narrowly. "Cancer?"
Ramsey nodded.
"We haven't got any nursing care here. But as long as you can look after
yourself--"
"If I can enjoy my few good days and be left alone on the bad ones,
that's all I ask."
"We aren't a charity, either. You pick the accommodation you can afford.
If you can't pay anything, a few places will let you flop for free, but that's
the only thing they have to recommend them."
"What do you charge for a bed?"
"I got two dorms, one for men and one for women. Dorm beds are twenty-five a night or one twenty-five a week. I've got a couple of semi-private rooms, four beds in a room. That's by the week only, one fifty. And I've got a few private rooms, also by the week, two hundred. Those rates include breakfast: coffe
e, toast, oatmeal."
"I'm still able to earn a little money," Ramsey said. "I'm a doctor.
Is there a place I can set up a clinic?"
"Sure. But I'll warn you--any patients you attract here aren't going to
make you rich. They're long on medical problems and short on cash. But set
up anywhere you like. We need a doctor. Use your room, or a corner of the
lounge. If you want more light, set it up outside. The weather's been decent all week."
"Show me a private room," Ramsey said.
The bare room the little man showed Ramsey--one cot with a thin mattress, two blankets, a handmade chest secured by a large hasp and padlock--was the most inhospitable place he had ever seen, but he signed the register, "Frederic R. Ramsey, M.D," and paid a week's rent.
Then he asked casually, "Is Dennis in?"
"Haven't seen him this morning. I don't think he's been out of his room.
He's in bad shape and spends most of his time in bed. I'll see."
He turned toward a stairway, and Ramsey, uninvited, followed him. On the second floor, they followed an unlighted hallway--as far as Ramsey knew there was no electricity in Outland, and obviously Norm's Place didn't waste
kerosene or candles in the daytime.
At the end of the hall, Norm knocked gently. Then he knocked again,
louder. There was no response, no sound from within.
"If he's that sick, he needs a doctor," Ramsey said and rained blows on
the door.
There was still no response.
He tried the door and found it locked. "I'm breaking the door in,"
Ramsey announced. "Give me a hand." He knew he couldn't manage it alone.
Norm said indignantly, "Look--you'll pay--"
"Of course," Ramsey rasped. "Let's get the door open."
The two of them hit the door together. Ramsey was weak; Norm was
reluctant. Nothing much happened. On the second try there was a
splintering of wood and the door flew open.
Foat, a young man not yet thirty, lay on the flimsy bed. His clothing,
which was far better than that of any other resident Ramsey had seen, was
stained with huge blotches of blood. His face was a network of cuts and
bruises with lines of dried blood everywhere. His scalp had been sliced open
and fractured by a powerful blow. One arm, which lay at an odd angle, was
obviously broken.
He was dead, of course.
Ramsey said dully, "When did it happen?"
"Night before last," Norm said. "He and his buddy--fellow named Mill
Rees--got in a fight at the tavern down the street. Not a smart thing to do--
some of those characters are mean. Both of them were carried back here."
"Where's Rees?" Ramsey asked.
"He was dead when they brought him in. Foat was alive, so we put him to
bed."
"Is that all? He was in that condition, and you put him to bed?"
"This ain't no nursing home. I mopped up some of the blood. Beyond
that, no one knew how to help him."
"What did you do with Rees's body?"
"What we always do with a body. Yesterday, some of the boys took it to
the dump."
"Don't you know deaths have to be reported to the proper authority? You
can get into serious trouble that way."
"Doc, there ain't no proper authority here. No one cares who dies, or
how, or what's done with him."
"This time, someone cares," Ramsey said. "An ambulance will come for
Foat and also for Rees's body. I want you to post a watch out by the street
to flag it down when it gets here, and I want you to find the men who took
Rees's body to the dump so they can show the ambulance crew where he is. I also want to talk with someone who saw the fight so I can find out exactly
what happened."
Norm hesitated. "I dunno. I don't think any of those men--"
"Find them," Ramsey said, "or you'll learn how severe authority can be,
even in this forgotten hole."
Norm left. Ramsey closed the shattered door and sat down to contemplate Foat's body. He shifted it slightly, removed a small case with a LCD screen from a rear pocket, and transferred it to his own pocket. Then he removed one sleeve of the light sweater Foat had been wearing and examined his left arm.
He took a scalpel from his black bag and incised a lump. An almond-shaped
object--the instrument that had been emitting the direction signal--had been
implanted in his arm. Ramsey found the control and turned it to "S," meaning "Steady." The beeps--inaudible except to a receiver like the one Ramsey wore in his ear--began again. He winced--they were even louder than before--and removed the receiver.
From his suitcase, Ramsey took a small box, opened it, pressed a button,
and announced, "Ramsey."
"Go ahead," the box rasped.
"Foat is dead--killed in a brawl of some kind. His body is here at
Norm's. Rees is dead, and his body was taken to the dump, Norm says. I'm
trying to find someone who can show us where it is and identify it. Send an
ambulance and crew with escort. I'll leave the signal on, and I'll have
someone on the road to intercept. Foat doesn't seem to have been robbed. He still had his Electroencephalograph. I'll go through his things while I'm
waiting."
"Right. Expect company."
Ramsey went through Foat's pockets and found nothing of interest. There was no desk or bureau in the room, nothing with drawers. Ramsey prowled about looking for a hiding place. Finally he pushed Foat's body aside and searched the bedding. Under the pillow he found a small notebook.
It's scribbles were unintelligible to him until he reached the last page
Foat had used. On it, he read, "Melna Rees, Fronville."
He used his communicator again. "Rees may have come from a place called Fronville. Find out where it is."
Having done what he could, he sat down to wait for his "company." When
he set out on this silly assignment, the last thing he expected was to
suddenly find himself a soldier in the front line of a war that had gone on
for generations, but it abruptly dawned on him that this is what had happened.
******
The war had lasted through most of the lifetime of Ramsey's father and
all of his own. His father, a doctor like himself, could remember when it was
a shooting war, with bombs and bullets. His father had spent the early years
of his career patching the wounded, repairing the maimed, and performing
autopsies on the dead. Now it was a war of spy-planes and germ warfare scares with the world still divided into two contending conglomerates, East and West, one an alliance and the other a coalition, and the public of both groups had long since forgotten which was which. They were Easts and Wests, with governments that called themselves democracies and claimed to be fighting for the freedom of all of Earth's peoples.
Decades before, some diplomatic genius had persuaded the combatants that it was in their mutual interest to stop shooting and bombing each other and attempting to turn the planet into a radioactive cinder and let the diplomats have a fair try at achieving a settlement. A complicated schedule of inspections by spy-planes and been worked out so each side could be assured that the other wasn't preparing more war while it talked peace. Inspections were to be continued as long as the peace talks lasted; but because neither side would yield a millimeter, the discussions had lasted for decades and probably would go on forever. The belligerents had long since been destroyed by bankruptcy, but they still thought they were maneuvering for advantage.
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