One of the bunnydogs came scampering up to meet me. He flubbered his lips and goggled at me with big silly eyes. "Hi, Bozo. Did you leave me any dinner?"
Bozo made gobbling noises and fell into step beside me. He picked up a stick and carried it like I was carrying my gun.
I sighed and slung my rifle over my shoulder; I came around the corner of the garage and-
-nearly tripped over Ray's body. His head had been blown open. A pool of dark red blood stained the ground.
Army reflexes took over and I was back behind the corner, with my back to the wall and my rifle cocked and ready, before I had even finished registering the fact that Ray was lying on the ground dead. Bozo imitated me, flinging himself back too.
I listened to the noises. Partying?
The sounds were motorcycles, and men hooting and whooping. I could hear children screaming. And women too.
I peeked cautiously around the corner. Just a quick glance. Bozo started to peek too, I kicked him back.
No one was in sight.
A longer look. A dead bunnyman. Some scattered clothing. A motorcycle roared past, circled and headed back. The rider was laughing.
I pulled back. I took a deep breath. There wasn't time to go back for Falstaff. I was going to have to do something now.
I needed to know more about what was happening.
I edged around the garage and up to the next corner. Bozo followed along behind me, tiptoeing in exaggerated parody. "Keep it up," I muttered. "That's how people get elected president."
Bozo stopped and gave me a hurt, sulky look. I didn't care. Where was Orrie? Where was Orson? They wouldn't have let the camp be overrun.
Were they dead?
I could hear the motorcycles louder now. And the screams were more definite. And the laughter. And the crying.
I peeked around the next corner of the garage. Just the quickest glance, and then pulled back again.
Just enough to catch a fast glimpse of the bikes, roaring and circling around a small huddle of frightened women and children. I kicked Bozo away and took another peek.
I thought so. There were only a few of the Tribe members in that huddle. Where was everybody else?
There were a few dead bodies on the ground, mostly men. I recognized Jinko's body, and Gregory-Ann's as well. Well, that explained how the bikers had found us.
Bikers. Big and ugly and dangerous. The gangs had been roaring up and down the coast for months. The army had ignored them; they weren't worth the trouble. The official position was: Let the worms take care of them.
Now, I saw how stupid that policy had been.
The bikers must have been here a while. Most of the girls had been stripped naked; they were trying to cover themselves with their hands or they stood shamefacedly hanging their heads and made no attempt to cover themselves.
I wondered how many of them had already been raped. Damn me for being so cautious.
All right, I'd make up for it now. I had two advantages.
I had the element of surprise.
And I had an AM-280 and plenty of ammunition. Mr. Mayhem. I didn't have the helmet, but I didn't need it here. This was going to be point and shoot.
But I'd have to be fast; there were at least twenty of them and there was only one of me.
I wasn't going to give myself time to think about it.
I stepped around the garage and started firing toward the oncoming edge of the circling bikes. Bozo ran out behind me and made gobbling noises, pointing his stick. Three of the bikers went down almost immediately, and it was a couple of seconds before any of the others realized what was going on. Two bikers skidded into the toppled ones and went crashing and tumbling. They were dirty, hairy, broad-chested animals.
Two more bikers came around the far edge, saw me, and charged. Their bikes were armed with missile launchers. I didn't wait to give them a target. Bozo was bouncing up and down, but he followed after as I ran back to the first corner of the garage and waited until they came skidding around-knocked one off his bike and took the other's head off; then whirled around to fire at the three who were coming at me from around the other side of the garage. The gun buzzed and burped and the belly of one of them erupted in red. One of the others skidded sideways and crashed; I hadn't shot him, he'd just lost control. The third guy was trying to turn around-I got him in the back.
Dropped and rolled and came up firing; took down the one who had just come around the corner of the garage behind me-whirled again and went after the one who'd skidded out of control. Got him before he could get up. Bozo was already bouncing up and down on one of the fallen bikes.
And then there was silence.
No, not quite. There was the sound of motorcycle engines running unattended. There were six bikes lying on their sides in the dirt.
The thought crossed my mind. Grab a bike. Get the one with the missiles. Counterattack. I started for the bike Bozo was pretending to ride
It blew up.
Knocked me flat on my ass. Skidding backward, I had a quick glimpse of orange flame, a wall of heat, a tower of greasy smoke. It had been booby-trapped.
It flung little pieces of Bozo the bunnydog in all directions. The dirt was still pattering down around me.
That could have been me. My head was still ringing. Never mind. There were still bikers.
No, I didn't know how many there were; but if there were any still alive, I had to take care of them now.
Headed around the other side of the garage at a run--came skidding around the corner ready to fire.
And stopped.
My help wasn't needed.
Valerie was just slicing open the throat of the last biker.
She stood there, naked and grinning and covered with his blood. She looked triumphant.
There was a young lady quite tearful.
Of sucking a cock, she was fearful.
In a moment of dread,
she just turned her head.
And, boy! Did she get an earful!
18
Aftermath
"People do not hire lawyers because they want justice. People hire lawyers because they want revenge."
-SOLOMON SHORT
I sent Loolie up to the gully to bring Falstaff down immediately. We didn't know if there were more of these bikers or if these were all there were. We couldn't take chances.
I sent the other children out looking for everybody else. Apparently, Jason had been posting a lot of people on perimeter patrols to guard against just this kind of attack. It hadn't worked.
But at least most of the younger children had been moved out of the camp. Every day, Jason had moved a few more people into emergency hiding places. I knew where one of them was. There were some overgrown fields on the other side of the swimming pool; at the far end had been three large billboards. We'd knocked them down to make a quick lean-to; it looked like a pile of rubble, but it was actually a fairly well-stocked shelter. I sent children scattering to all of the others as well, to call everybody back.
Valerie took charge then. Yes, Valerie. When I looked at her questioningly, she simply said, "I don't have time for the drama now."
She was amazing.
She put some of the girls to work searching the bodies and gathering up all the weapons; but nobody was to go near the bikes. We didn't know if any of the others had been booby-trapped. After that, she had them start dragging the dead bodies off to one side. The bikers-well, they were food. Ray and Ted and Gregory-Ann and Jinko and Danny and Billy-well, they were food too; but we would honor them first and we would use their bodies to feed the new babies.
Falstaff was back by then and Valerie and I set him circling in a close patrol. He wanted to eat first, but Valerie insisted that he patrol. He went off with a sulky rumble.
With Falstaff's return, most of the bunnydogs and bunnymen also began to come out of hiding. Nobody knew where Jason or Orrie had gone to. Jessie and Jan were absent too. Also Orson and Mr. President and Libby. And Frankenstein a
nd Marcie. Most of the bigger men had gone with them too.
All right. We'd make it work without them. Valerie called a circle.
A Circle of Screamers, she called it.
She said, "We don't have time for a proper grieving, so let's everybody do as much anger and grief and rage and upset as we can. Let's see how much noise we can make. Everybody now. Nobody gets left out!"
And we did.
We howled, we stamped, we raged. Valerie had been raped and she wanted revenge. Three of the other girls were howling for the same revenge as well. It made me embarrassed to be a man. I felt as if I had been raped too. I screamed with them. The children screamed and shrieked. I roared. Falstaff roared. The circle roared. We grabbed hold of all our emotions and shoved them out through our eyes and ears and throats and did it until we had no strength to do anything more-
-and then we held onto each other and we hugged. And we cried. And we kissed each other and laughed and petted each other's hair and reassured each other that it was all over and we were going to be all right again.
And then Valerie stopped us, brought us back down.
"All right; that's a good start. Now, we've got work to do. I know we didn't get all our screaming out yet, but we will when Jason gets back. Let's finish cleaning everything up and let's give ourselves a little dinner as well. All right?"
Valerie started dinner preparations and put everybody to work and we managed to get all the children cleaned and fed, bathed, and tucked into bed by ten.
And still Jason hadn't returned. Valerie and I looked at each other. Could something have happened to him?
No.
That was unthinkable.
Falstaff came back, his stomach rumbling and we let him eat several of the bikers. His farts were probably going to be awesome for the next few days.
Jason and Jessie and all the others, including Orrie and Orson, showed up after midnight. They looked exhausted.
They listened patiently as Valerie and I explained what had happened, and what we had done afterward.
Jason blew up then.
He was furious that we had brought back everybody from the emergency hiding places.
"You stupid, damned fool! I decentralized this camp for a purpose. I didn't want everybody here, exposed like bait! What do you think would have happened if the rest of the biker family had come in?"
"The rest of them-?" Jason nodded.
My stomach clenched. My heart dropped to my feet.
"This gang had over a hundred members. You had thirty of the worst ones here, but the rest of them were based down at Little Creek. They were going to come up here later tonight. They wanted this camp."
"Were? Past tense?"
Jason turned away from me, shaking his head. "It was a nasty, dirty job, Jim. You don't want to know. There were too many of them. We couldn't take any guests."
Jessie added, "There were fifty women and children and twenty warriors. We took them all down. The warriors first. Then the others. They forced us to. They wouldn't surrender."
"If we had failed," Jason said, "you would have had everyone and everything all in one place and totally defenseless." There was real anger in his voice.
I felt just as betrayed. "So, you really didn't trust me. Otherwise, you would have included me in your planning."
"I did include you," Jason said. "I put you in the right place for the right job."
"Yeah, you put me off in the far corner of nowhere, a place where I couldn't get into any trouble." I was fuming. "You should be thanking me, you asshole. I saved lives here. I did good here."
"You didn't follow instructions, Jim. I was depending on you to follow instructions. There was a purpose to my plan."
We were at the center of a circle. I didn't care. I said, "Jason, when I was in the Special Forces Warrant Agency, nobody ever gave me an order that I couldn't ask for the explanation behind it. That was a rule. My job wasn't to follow orders; it was to take responsibility for the result. There's a difference. Now, are you telling me that all you want me to do is follow orders, or do you want me to take responsibility."
"Don't hand me that jargon, Jim! I made it up!" He caught his breath. "Of course, I want you to take responsibility. But you don't realize what you did here, do you? You endangered lives. Do you also take responsibility for that?"
I threw my gun down at his feet and started to walk away. Frankenstein grabbed me by one arm and turned me around to face Jason. "I should have walked away from here when I had my chance," I said. "I thought I was part of this Tribe."
Abruptly, Jason's face changed. "Jim," he said quietly, "you never asked."
"I thought it was obvious."
"But, you have to ask. That's the rule." Jason's eyes were incredibly blue and patient.
I didn't know what to say to that.
"Guests don't get responsibility, Jim. They're guests. Hosts get responsibility. Is that what you want? Is that what you're demanding? To be a host? Because if that's what you want, the answer is yes. We've all been waiting for you to ask for it."
He waited for my reply.
I took a breath, I looked at my feet, I looked at the gun, I shrugged my arms away from Frankenstein's hands. I looked at my anger. I was stupid. Jason was right. I hadn't followed orders. And I did want responsibility. And I did want to be treated with respect and love. Yes, I did want to be an equal partner.
I was just afraid to ask for it.
"Why?" Jason asked. "Why not?"
"Because . . ." I looked up at him again. "I was afraid you'd say no."
"Oh, you poor stupid fool. Who hurt you so badly that you walk around through life believing you're not entitled to be loved?" He stepped over to me and wrapped me up in his big I'riendly arms and held me as hard as he could. Jessie wrapped her arms around us then, and Frankenstein, and everybody else as well.
"Jim," he held my face in his hands. "Around here, the answer is always yes. We never turn anybody away. We love you. We love you for your courage and strength and for everything you did right today. We even love you for what you did wrong, because we know why you did it. You did it because you care. I know you understand what I'm saying, Jim. I can see the tears running down your cheeks."
"Jason." I managed to gulp it out.
"Yes, Jim?"
"May I join the Tribe?"
"Yes, Jim. I'd like that." And he kissed me. They all kissed me.
It was one of the happiest moments of my life.
A mathematician named Boris
had a wife with a wondrous clitoris.
He charged a small fee
for his colleagues to see
that it was made in the shape of a torus.
19
The Survival Process
"Truth never tranquilizes. The defining property of truth is its ability to disturb."
-SOLOMON SHORT
I lost count of the days.
It didn't matter anymore. I no longer marked time by what day it was, but by how the room was set up.
Every day, the chairs and the dais were arranged in a totally new pattern. We never saw the same arrangement twice.
One day, there might be a wide aisle down the center and the chairs all turned facing each other as if ready for a parade. The next day, all the chairs might be facing the blank wall toward the east. On the following day, there might be no dais at all and the chairs would be laid out in concentric circles around a wide arena. And the next day again, the arrangement would be different again.
At first, it had been confusing. I wasn't sure what the purpose was of rearranging the chairs every day; but after a while I had stopped being startled by the changes and begun being curious to see how many different variations they could run on the theme of chairs and a dais.
Today the room was set up with a high platform where the dais had been. It looked like a runway for a striptease show. The chairs were set up on both sides of the platform; they were divided into three sections on each side.
/> The platform looked a little too high and a little too uncomfortable. All that was missing was the gallows.
I sat down in the middle section of chairs and tried to get comfortable. Two women came in together. One of them asked me to move over one seat so they could sit together. I did it without thinking.
Something felt weird in the room, but I couldn't figure out what.
Foreman came in, exactly on time, as always. Today, he was wearing a white suit. He looked almost cheerful as he climbed the steps up to the platform and looked us over. His eyes were shining.
"Good morning," he said. "Today- all day, for as long as it takes-we are going to do a process called The Survival Process. The purpose of this process is for you to discover what survival really is-and what your investment in survival is." He grinned again. That was an ominous sign. I was beginning to recognize that Foreman's grins were always dangerous. "Survival," he said, "is not what you think.
"Let me say that again. Survival is not what you think. It is what you do. That's all you need to know about survival. Survival is what you do. But it's probably going to take some of you a while to get that, so that's why we do The Survival Process."
He circled along the edge of the platform, looking us over. "Now, I need two volunteers. No, put your hands down. We have to do this differently. If you are willing to do The Survival Process, please stand up."
He waited. There was a shuffling of shoes and chairs. A third of the trainees in the room had risen to their feet. It looked like a forest of brown jumpsuits.
Foreman shook his head unhappily. His voice became harder. "Every single one of you should have stood up." He lifted his hands and showed his palms as more people began to rise from their chairs. "No, no! Stop! Do not stand up because I told you that's what you should have done! That's being a robot! You are not robots! Or are you? Wait a minute; let's find out. All the robots, go to the back of the room and see the Course Manager! Go tell her that you're a robot and need to be lubed and oiled." He waited.
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