A Savage Generation

by David Tallerman

With that, the mechanic goes off to scream at two younger guys working on the belly of a jacked-up black-and-white. When Ben listens, he can hear the Sickers within the ambulance, hammering against the ceiling and sides. “This is insane,” he mutters.

  Nando throws him a glare, as if to say, You have a better idea?

  No, Ben has no better ideas. He has no ideas at all.

  Fernando takes the driver’s seat. Carlita sits in the middle, with Kyle crushed next to her, and Ben struggles to wedge himself in at the end. Then, without a word, they’re off.

  Outside the garage, the city is a different place from the one Ben walked just hours before. It’s coming apart so quickly, like it was always primed to do so. Last night, there’d been a definite craziness in the air, but almost no one had been out, as though they were hoping en masse that perhaps the nightmare could yet blow over. Today, with any such hope gone, it seems that everyone has taken to the streets. Traffic clogs every road. Cars fill the sidewalks, jostling those limited to their own two feet. There are cops, and men in army uniforms, probably National Guard. It’s difficult to tell what they’re trying to achieve, if anything.

  And there are the Sickers. Whatever its actual presence, the effect of the sickness has been to escalate the general madness, so that each jostle or shouted insult is misread as a sign of infection. Maybe one in ten of those involved is actually infected, Ben guesses, but no one appears to care. The cops and guardsmen only step in when blood is shed, and frequently not even then.

  Nando has understood the situation far better than Ben himself. If he’d pulled off the robbery, he, Carlita, and Kyle would be out amid this chaos. It isn’t going to get better. It can’t be contained, not even by martial law. In all likelihood, the infection really is spreading invisibly through the boundless crowds. Ben doesn’t know much about diseases, but surely this isn’t the way to stamp one out.

  Fortunately, the modifications on the ambulance haven’t extended to removing the lights and siren. Fernando flicks a switch and the familiar wail sounds from outside. Even now, people retain a little of their social programming; they move aside grudgingly, often with screams of abuse, but they move.

  Fernando hits the first roadblock as they turn onto Twelfth Street. It consists of two black-and-whites parked crosswise, a harassed cop, and a soldier with an assault rifle. The soldier looks about sixteen, and Ben can read in his face how near he is to losing his shit altogether. That end of the street is packed with cars, all honking their horns, and any gaps are mortared with struggling bodies, their combined antagonism directed at the cop and soldier.

  It takes twenty minutes just to navigate as far as the roadblock, even with the siren screeching. When they finally get close, the cop scowls at Nando’s uniform, then at the flashing lights above, and yells, “Will you shut that thing off?”

  Nando turns off the lights and siren with an apologetic grin. When he’s maneuvered them into the narrow fissure between the parked police cars, he holds out his badge for the cop to see.

  The cop barely glances at it. “What’s in the back?”

  “Prisoners,” Nando says.

  “Prisoners?”

  “Sick.”

  The cop nods. “I can ask the kid there to put a few rounds through the side if you want. He’s getting awful twitchy; it might calm him down some. And better for you…better than hauling them alive.”

  Nando makes a show of considering. “Thanks, but he’d be as likely to shoot his own feet off.”

  “Yeah. There’s that. Well, good luck.” The cop sounds like he means it.

  Once they’re past, Carlita says softly, “Maybe you should have let him.”

  “And provoke a riot?” Nando replies. “Do you think that mob behind us needs anything to set them off?”

  She doesn’t argue.

  After that, the going gets easier. The official response seems to be a clear zone round the edge of the city, allowing a degree of control over the migration. Whether the purpose is to maintain a steady current of refugees or to strangle the flow altogether, Ben can’t say. Is the city in quarantine? As far as he knows, nowhere else is doing any better. Either way, within the buffer there’s almost no vehicle traffic, though still plenty of pedestrians. They begin to see military transports too, Hummers and at one point an Armored Personnel Carrier completely blocking a side street. From the roof, four soldiers aim their weapons in line with the APC’s turret, down into the road beyond.

  Ben starts to wonder what’s on the other side and then catches himself. Those kinds of questions will help nothing.

  Eventually, they make it to the edge of the city. Doing so has taken all morning and the early afternoon. Ben’s whole body aches from being motionless so long. Nando had the foresight to bring two bottles of water and a few packs of cookies, and everyone except him has eaten a pitiful lunch. No one, not even Kyle, has been talking.

  The army’s presence is more concentrated around the entrance to the freeway. They even have a tank, which sits close to the on-ramp with no discernible purpose, its cannon menacing the city. There are soldiers everywhere, some of them making efforts to steer the civilian traffic, most just milling. They’re allowing those on foot out in ones and twos, letting them walk along the verges and the central reservation. The ambulance is the only non-military vehicle to be seen, and draws stares from the troops and the waiting lines.

  It’s as they join the ramp that Ben is struck by an epiphany. The soldiers have no plan at all. They aren’t following orders, or if they are, they’re orders vague enough to circumvent any later apportioning of blame. There are pedestrians but no vehicles because, in the absence of anything better, the troops on the ground have settled for an arbitrary compromise.

  It’s insane. What will happen if the soldiers get sick? Or, not if but when.

  A sergeant stops them and asks what they’re moving, though it must be obvious from the hammering coming from the rear. When Fernando tells him, he says, “Go as far as the first exit. They’ll give you further instructions there. Keep your speed down below twenty or you may be fired upon.”

  There’s something unreal about leaving the city, all eight lanes devoid of traffic but bordered by the interminable queue of those on foot. More even than the havoc he witnessed that morning, the vacant highway brings home how utterly everything is breaking down. Ben wants to share his revelation with Fernando, until he sees in his face that he’s reached the same conclusion by himself. Then Ben thinks about the sergeant’s words. What do they need instructions for?

  The soldiers aren’t just going to let them drive out. In the absence of a plan, they’ll settle for the illusion of one. They’ll herd people like sheep simply to feel as if they’re doing something.

  Nando does as instructed, holding their speed at barely fifteen miles an hour. It’s hard to determine who’d be doing the threatened shooting, since there’s no one to be seen except the refugees, who, having made it this far, are now spreading aimlessly. Snipers, maybe; it makes sense that there would be snipers posted.

  Even crawling at fifteen, it doesn’t take them long to come upon the junction. Access roads lead off to left and right, the one on the opposite side curling to meet the overpass there. The refugees are being directed by a party of troops onto the overpass, perhaps to keep the outbound lanes clear for military traffic. On this side, there’s only another armored personnel carrier blocking the leftmost lane, and around it, half a dozen soldiers. In front of the APC is an arrow sign pointing left and a set of blinking amber lights.

  “Nando,” Ben snaps.

  “I know.”

  “If we go where they say, they won’t just let us leave.”

  “I know.”

  Nando drifts over to the right-hand lane, without accelerating. All of the soldiers are looking at them. When they’re almost within spitting distance, Nando gives a nod, and a gesture half w
ave and half salute. One of the soldiers returns it.

  None of them take their eyes off the ambulance as it pulls alongside, and then as it slides past. None of them makes any move to stop it. Whatever mandate the soldiers have been given, their orders apparently don’t stretch to such a situation.

  Nando begins to pick up speed. The APC is diminishing in the side mirror; there’s nothing but open highway ahead of them. And just like that, Ben realizes, they’re free.

  Chapter Four

  Doyle has to think this through. He has to think it through before Plan John does.

  But that’s impossible. Plan John is smarter than him, or at any rate more devious. And even that doesn’t matter, not really. What’s important is that he enjoys this. Plan John will be figuring out right now how he can screw Doyle Johnson, not because there’s real enmity between them but because that’s how his mind works, and because this is a game to him and Plan John isn’t the kind of man who loses.

  “He has to stay here,” Doyle says.

  Aaronovich, as absorbed in her own thoughts as he has been, looks up. “What?”

  “Austin. He needs to stay here.”

  She couldn’t appear more shocked if he’d slapped her. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “There’s nowhere else.”

  “There has to be. I’m not taking care of your boy. I’m a doctor, not a nursemaid. Anyway, where do you imagine he’ll sleep?”

  “You have the infirmary downstairs,” Doyle says. “It has a lock, a good lock. It’s intended to be a bolt-hole.”

  “How do you know about that?” Aaronovich asks, with apparently genuine surprise.

  “I know a lot of things. Am I wrong?”

  “No,” she admits. “It’s designed to be locked down in case of a riot. But the point is not whether he’d be safe here, it’s that he’s your son and you have to take responsibility for him.”

  “I am taking responsibility.” Doyle is careful not to let impatience into his tone. “And I need to be sure he’s somewhere safe until it’s clear which way this is going to go.”

  “Look,” Aaronovich says – and he can see that she, too, is endeavoring to be reasonable – “I can’t have a teenage boy living here. It’s completely inappropriate. You need to hear me on this, Johnson.”

  There’s a note to her voice, practically of desperation, that almost persuades him. In any other circumstances, he would give in. But now, just now, this is the only choice. To expose Austin to the other guards, let alone the inmates, is to expose him to Plan John, which would be to allow him to become a pawn in Plan John’s schemes, and that isn’t an option.

  “I’m sorry,” Doyle says. “This is how it has to be…for a few days, until I think of something better.” And even as he speaks, he remembers how he said similar words to his ex-wife, not an hour before.

  When Aaronovich doesn’t answer straight away, he registers that, instead of him, she’s watching a spot behind his left shoulder. Doyle turns, to see Austin standing in the doorway.

  “Hello, Austin,” Aaronovich says.

  “How much did you hear?” Doyle asks.

  “Enough,” Austin replies.

  “Okay. Then you know you’re going to live with the doctor for a little while.”

  “You don’t want me to stay with you?” There’s no emotion in the inquiry. It’s phrased entirely as a test, one Doyle has failed.

  “I want you to be where you’re safe. So does the doctor.” Doyle turns on Aaronovich. “Isn’t that true?”

  She holds his eyes, and hers are fierce. Then she says, “Of course.”

  “All right.” Doyle doesn’t dare look at either of them. He feels wretched, and angry too, bent out of shape by frustration. He’ll need to vent that soon, and it shouldn’t be here. “I’m going to talk to Howard. Before this gets out of hand.”

  But it’s already out of hand, Doyle thinks. The question is which way it falls out, and who gets hurt first.

  * * *

  Outside, the heat is growing punishing. The group working out in the weights pile have surrendered, and are lounging about on the benches. Glancing behind him, Doyle sees that another of the guards, Houseman, has set himself up on the flat roof of the administrative wing. He’s acquired a folding chair from somewhere and is lolling, a can of beer in hand.

  There are only four of them left now. Four guards to twenty-three prisoners; those aren’t great odds. Contreras is on the verge of a medical retirement, while Foster gave up any pretense of not working for Plan John long ago. That leaves Doyle and Houseman, and looking at him, sprawled up there with his beer perched on his gut, Doyle feels he knows everything he could ever need to know about the man.

  Doyle presses on toward the Big House: the building, mostly fallen into disuse, which held most of White Cliff’s communal facilities in its original, long-abandoned design. The Big House makes him think of a faded Southern mansion, though there’s nothing about the place, except perhaps the balcony that Plan John favors, that particularly warrants the comparison. There are three entrances: the double doors that open onto the yard, a second at the farther end near to the stores, and the one that Doyle chooses, which should be locked and isn’t.

  The corridors within are monotonous and gloomy. Doyle can’t help but hurry through them. He only pauses when he reaches the bottom of the staircase that leads up to Plan John’s apartment, which was until recently the warden’s apartment. There he takes a deep breath, briefly grateful that the migraine that dogged him all day yesterday has finally cleared. Then he climbs the stairs, marches down the short corridor at their summit, and hammers upon the door at the end.

  There are footsteps from the other side. “Who’s there?”

  “CO Johnson,” Doyle replies, trying to make the title sound like it means something.

  He hears the rattle of locks. The man who opens the door is definitely not Plan John; Doyle recognizes the imposing figure of Baptiste. Plan John chooses his bodyguards apparently at random, and always in pairs.

  Doyle nods a greeting and says, “How’s it going, Baptiste?”

  “Can’t complain,” Baptiste rumbles. “’Cept it’s damn hot.”

  “Yeah, it is that.”

  “Going to have to frisk you, Johnson.”

  “Baptiste….”

  “Rules are rules.”

  “Hell.” Doyle spins round and slams his palms against the wall.

  Baptiste pats Doyle down carefully, though with no great skill. There are a dozen places Doyle could have hidden a blade that he’d have missed. But then, that’s the virtue of Plan John’s rotating security; on another day it might be Landser or Oxendine or Soto that opened the door.

  Satisfied, Baptiste leads the way into the space that Plan John refers to as his office. Near where a second door gives onto Plan John’s private bathroom and bedroom, a heavy desk cordons the far corner. Apart from that, the only furnishings are a few metal chairs and a table opposite the desk. Nguyen, sitting at the table, looks up when Doyle enters and, seeing who it is, goes back to the magazine unfolded before him.

  Plan John himself is sitting behind his desk. “Ah, Mr. Johnson. It’s so rare I get the better class of visitors.” To Nguyen and Baptiste he says, “Gentlemen, please wait outside.”

  Nguyen scowls at Doyle as he goes by. Doyle hears the door close and feels momentary panic, panic to be trapped in there with Plan John. The man is massive, and it’s hard to figure out what’s fat, what’s muscle. He carries himself with such confidence, like a prizefighter. There’s no way to judge what he might be physically capable of.

  Plan John lays rubbery forearms on the glass-paneled surface of his desk and says, “Why don’t you pull up a chair, Mr. Johnson?”

  Doyle walks to the middle of the room, but no farther. “I don’t want to take that much of your time.”

 
“No? All right then. Shall I start us off? You’re here to discuss the issue of your son.”

  “It needs discussing,” Doyle agrees.

  “You know I can make things easy for you or I can make them difficult. You understand how difficult I can make things, the many and varied ways in which I could do so. Which civilizes the matter for both of us, since I won’t need to do anything as crass as make threats.”

  “No,” Doyle says. “You don’t need to threaten me.”

  “Nor would I wish to. Threats are for violent, stupid people. I’m a businessman, and I make business arrangements. Like this place, like my presence here: all business.”

  Doyle should let it go, but he can’t. “Is that right?”

  Plan John smiles. “Oh, not my incarceration in itself. I’ve made my share of mistakes, I admit. But things worked out in the end, and I choose to believe that’s what’s important. Freedom is overrated, especially these days. Security, on the other hand—”

  “Which is what I came to talk about,” Doyle cuts him off.

  Plan John’s smile widens, revealing more teeth, until it’s barely a smile at all. “Excellent. I’ve always felt we’d gotten off on the wrong footing.”

  Doyle has heard enough from the other guards, and in overheard conversations between the cons, to know how Plan John’s meetings go. Plan John pushes hard or in just the right way, and people break. Here is the moment when that push begins. Give an inch and it will be inexorable.

  “I’m not going to work for you, Howard,” Doyle says.

  Plan John’s smile freezes. “Is that so?”

  “That’s what I came to tell you. I’m not Foster. I’m not Houseman. I won’t work for you. But I won’t screw with you either. I’m not kidding myself that you don’t run this place, at least for as long as it takes the world out there to put itself back together. So you do what you need to do, however you need to do it, as long as you don’t expect me to help.”

  “That sounds a lot like the arrangement we currently have,” Plan John observes. He seems perfectly unflustered.