Alas, Babylon

by Pat Frank

  Randy turned to Helen. "Take care of him. Feed him up," he said, a command.

  Walking beside him toward the Admiral's house, Lib found it difficult to keep pace. She had never seen Randy look and speak and act like this before. She held his arm, and yet she felt he had moved away from her. He did not seem anxious to talk, confide in her, or ask her opinion, as he usually did. He had moved into man's august world of battle and violence, from which she was barred. She held tighter to his arm. She was afraid.

  The admiral, freshly shaven and pink-faced, was in his den, touching whale oil to the recoil mechanism of an automatic shotgun. "I was wondering," he said to Randy, "whether you would be around here or I should come to you. How's Dan?"

  "He'll be all right. We lost the car and the medicines and the last of the bourbon but we didn't lose our doc­tor. The most important thing we lost were his glasses. He's very nearsighted."

  "You forgot something," the Admiral said, hardly looking up from his work. "We not only have lost trans­port but communications. We no longer have a way to recharge batteries. This battery I have now-" he nod­ded at the radio - "is good for perhaps another eight to ten hours. After that-" he looked up - "nothing. Si­lence. What do you plan to do?"

  "I plan to kill them. But I don't know how to find them. I came to talk to you about it."

  Lib said, "May I interrupt? Don't look at me that way, Randy. I'm not trying to interfere in your business. I just wanted to say I brought the Admiral's coffee. While you're talking, I thought I'd boil water and make a cup for him."

  The Admiral said, absently, "Kettle's in the fire­place."

  She went into the living room. It was silly, but some­times the Admiral irritated her. The Admiral made her feel like a messboy.

  Sam Hazzard laid the automatic sixteen gently on the desk. "Ever since I heard about it, I've been thinking," he said "You have to go get them. They won't come to you. Not only that, they may be a hundred miles from here by now."

  "I think they're right around here," Randy said. "One of the gang was a local drugstore cowboy, now toting two real guns. And they don't have enough gas to get far. I think they'll try to score a few more times before they move on. Even when they're gone, others will come. We have the problem whether it's this partic­ular gang or another gang. I'm going to try to form a provisional company."

  "Vigilantes?"

  "No. A company under martial law. So far as I know I'm the only active Army Reserve officer in town so I guess it's up to me."

  "Then what do you do?"

  Lib came in and set a cup beside each of them. She found a clear space at the far end of the room-length desk, boosted herself up, and attempted to appear inconspicuous.

  "Suppose I organized a patrol on foot? Set up road­blocks?" Randy suggested.

  "The highwaymen are mobile, you're not," the Ad­miral said. "If they see an armed patrol, or a roadblock, they'll simply keep out of your way."

  Randy said, "Well, we can't just sit here and wait for them."

  "All this I've been thinking," The Admiral said. "Also I was thinking of the Q-ships we used in the first World War."

  Lib started to speak but decided it would be unwise. It was Randy who said, "I remember, vaguely, reading about Q-ships but I don't remember much about it. En­lighten me, Sam."

  "Q-ships were usually auxiliary schooners or worn­out tramps, targets on which a German submarine cap­tain wouldn't be likely to waste a torpedo but would prefer to sink with gunfire. Concealed a pretty hefty battery behind screens that looked like deck loads. Drill was to prowl submarine alley unescorted and helpless-­looking. The sub sees her and surfaces. Sometimes the Q-ship had a panic party that took to the boats. Best part of the act. Soon as the sub opened fire with its deck gun the Q-ship ran up the flag and unmasked the battery. Blammy! It was quite effective."

  "Very ingenious. But what has it got to do with high­waymen?"

  "Nothing at all, unless you can put a four-wheeled Q-ship on the roads around Fort Repose."

  Randy shrugged. "We're not mobile. Plenty of cars we could use - for instance, yours, Sam - but gasoline is practically nonexistent. We might have to cruise around for days before they tackled us. I might be able to req­uisition a gallon or two here and there but then the word would get around and they'd be watching for us."

  Lib had to speak. "Could I make a suggestion? I think Rita Hernandez and her brother must have gaso­line. They're the big traders in town, aren't they?"

  Randy had tried to wipe Rita out of his mind. They were even, they were quits. He wanted. nothing from Rita any more. He said, "It's true that if anybody's holding gas, it's Rita."

  "Not only that," Lib said, "but they have that gro­cery truck. Can you imagine anything more enticing to highwaymen than a grocery truck? They won't really think it's filled with groceries, of course, but psychologi­cally it would be irresistible."

  Sam Hazzard smiled with his eyes, as if light from within penetrated the opaque gray. "There you have it, Randyl Nice staff work, my girl!"

  "Also," she said, "I think it would be a good idea if I drove. They'd be sure to think it was easy pickings with a woman driving."

  "You will like the devil drive!" Randy said. "You will stay at home and guard the house, you and Ben Franklin." And the two men went on talking and plan­ning, as if they already possessed the truck with full tank, and she was left out of it again. At least, she thought, if it really worked, she had contributed some­thing.

  The Admiral emphasized that whatever was done must be done quietly. Randy decided he could not go to the Hernandez house until after dark. It was not impos­sible that the highwaymen were holed up in Pistolville, or had contacts there. If Pistolville saw him drive off in Rita's truck, the news would be all over town within a few hours. Finally, the Admiral asked the crucial ques­tion - would Rita cooperate? Was she discreet?

  "Rita wants to hold what she has," Randy said. "Rita wants to live. She is realistic."

  There was one more thing he must do before he left the Admiral. He sat at the typewriter and pecked out the orders.

  ORDER NO. l - TOWN OF FORT REPOSE

  1. In accordance with the proclamation of Mrs. Jose­phine Vanbruuker-Brown, Acting President of the United States, and the declaration of Martial Law, I am assuming command of the Town of Fort Repose and its environs.

  2. All Army, Navy, and Air Force reservists and all members of the National Guard, together with any others with military experience who will volunteer, will meet at the bandstand at 1200 hours, Wednesday, 20 April. I propose to form a composite company to protect this town.

  ORDER NO. 2

  1. Two cases of typhoid have been diagnosed in the Sun­bury family, upper River Road

  . It must be assumed that both the Timucuan and St. Johns are polluted.

  2. All water will be boiled before drinking. Do not eat fruits or greens that have been washed in unboiled water.

  ORDER NO. 3

  1. Dr. Daniel Gunn, our only physician, has been beaten and robbed by highwaymen.

  2. The penalty for robbery or pillage, or for harboring highwaymen, or for failure to make known information concerning their whereabouts or movements, is death by hanging.

  All these orders he signed, "Randolph Rowzee Bragg, 1st. Lt. AUS (Reserve) (02658988)."

  Lib reading over his shoulder, said, "Why wait until Wednesday to form your company?"

  "I want the highwaymen to think that they have plenty of time," Randy said. "I want them to laugh at us."

  There were a number of ways by which Randy could have traveled the three miles to Marines Park, and then the two additional miles to the Hernandez house on the outer fringe of Pistolville. The Admiral had offered to take him as far as the town dock in his outboard cruiser, now converted to sail. But Sam Hazzard had not as yet added additional keel to the boat, so it would sideslip badly on a tack. Sam could get him to Marines Park all right, but on the return trip might be unable to make headway against current and wi
nd and be left stranded. Randy could have borrowed Alice Cooksey's bicycle, but decided that this might make him conspicu­ous in Pistolville. He could have ridden Balaam, the mule, but if he succeeded in persuading Rita to let him have the truck and gasoline, how would Balaam get home? Balaam didn't fit in a panel truck. Besides, he was not sure that Balaam should ever be risked away from the Henrys' fields and barn. The only mule in Ti­mucuan County was beyond price. In the end, he de­cided to walk.

  He set out after dark. Lib escorted him as far as the bend in the road. She had tacked his notices firmly to a square of plywood which he was to nail to the band­stand pillar. Thus, she had explained, they would not be lost or overlooked among the offers to trade fishhooks or lighter flints, and the pleas for kerosene or kettles. Across the top of the board she had printed, "OFFICIAL BULLETINS."

  Randy wore stained dungarees, old brown fishing sneakers, and a floppy black hat borrowed from Two­Tone. His pistol was concealed in a deep pocket. When walking Pistolville at night, he wanted to look as if he belonged there.

  When he told Lib it was time to turn back, she kissed him. "How long will it take you, darling?" she asked.

  "Depends on whether I get the truck. Counting the stop at the park to nail up the orders, I should get there in less than two hours. After that, I don't know. De­pends on Rita."

  "If you're not home by midnight," she said, "I'll come after you. With a shotgun." She sounded half­-serious. In the past few weeks she had been more tender to him, embarrassingly solicitous of his safety, more jeal­ous of his time. She was possessive, which was natural. They were lovers, when there was time, and place and privacy, and respite from fatigue and hunger and the dangers and responsibilities of the day.

  He walked on alone under the oak arch excluding starlight, secure in night's black velvet cloak yet walking silently, eyes, ears, and even nose alert. So he had learned, in the dark hammocks as a boy hunting game, in the dark mountains as a man hunting man. Before The Day, except in hunting or in war, a five- or ten­-mile walk would have been unthinkable. Now it was routine for all of them except Dan and after Dan got out of bed it would become routine for him too. But all their shoes were wearing out. In another month or two Ben Franklin and Peyton would be without shoes en­tirely. Not only were the children walking (or running) everywhere but their feet inconsiderately continued to grow, straining canvas and leather. Randy told himself that he must discover whether Eli Blaustein still held shoes. He knew what Blaustein wanted - meat.

  Marines Park was empty. As he nailed up his order board an animal scuttled out from under the bandstand. At first he thought it a possum but when he caught its silhouette against the starlit river he saw it was an arma­dillo.

  Walking through the business section, he wondered whether armadillos were good eating. Before The Day he had heard someone say that there were several hun­dred thousand armadillos in Florida. This was strange, because before the first boom there had been no arm­adillos at all. Randy's father had related the story. Some real estate promoter on the East Coast had imported two from Texas for a roadside zoo. Knowing nothing of the habits of armadillos, the real estate man had penned them behind chicken wire. When darkness fell, the armadillos instantly burrowed out, and within a few years armadillos were undermining golf greens and dumping over citrus trees from St. Augustine to Palm Beach. They had spread everywhere, having no natural enemies in the state except automobiles. Since the automobile had been all but exterminated by the hydrogen bomb, the armadillo population was certain to multiply. Soon there would be more armadillos than people in Florida.

  It was Saturday night, but in the business blocks of Yulee and St. Johns no light showed nor did he see a human being. In the residential area perhaps half the houses showed a light, but rarely from more than one room. He had not seen a moving vehicle since leaving home, and not until he reached the pine shanties and patchwork bungalows of Pistolville did he see a person. These people were shadows, swiftly fading behind a half-opened door or bobbing from house to house. It was night, and Fort Repose was in fear.

  He was relieved when he saw lights in the Hernandez house. Anything could have happened since he and Dan had stopped there. Pete could have died and Rita could have decamped; or she could have been killed, the house pillaged, and everything she was holding, including the truck and gasoline, stolen.

  He knocked on the door.

  "Who is it?" Rita's voice said. He knew she would have the shotgun up and ready.

  "Randy."

  She opened the door. She was holding a shotgun, as he guessed. She stared at his costume. "Come in. Looking for a handout?"

  "In a sense, yes."

  "What happened? Your two women run you off?"

  As she laid down the gun the burn still showed on her ring finger. He said, "How's Pete?"

  "Weaker. How's Doctor Gunn?"

  "You heard about it, then?"

  "Sure. I hear all the bad news in a hurry nowadays. We call it lip radio."

  The word had come to town, Randy guessed, via Alice Cooksey, earlier in the day. Just as Alice brought the town news to River Road

  , so each day she carried the news from River Road

  to town. Once spoken in the library, the news would spread through Fort Repose, street to street and house to house. He said, "You know Doctor Gunn lost his bag with all his instruments and what drugs he had left, and his glasses. So, if we can, we have to get those highwaymen and that's why I came to you, Rita."

  "They're not Pistolville people," she said. "These Pis­tolville crackers hardly have got gumption enough to rob each other. Now I heard them described and one of them - the young one with two guns - was probably Leroy Settle, a punk who lived on the other side of town. His mother still lives there, I think. Maybe if you stake out his house you'll get a shot at him."

  "I don't want him in particular," Randy said. "I want them all. I want them and everybody like them." And he told her what his plan was, exactly, and why he must have the grocery truck and the gasoline, if she had any. He knew he must trust her entirely or not at all.

  She listened him out and said nothing.

  "If you are left alone here, Rita," he said, "With all the canned food and other stuff you've got, you're bound to become a target. When they've cleaned out what's on the roads, they'll start on the houses."

  "I'm way ahead of you." Her eyes met his steadily. She was evaluating him, and all the chances, all the odds. She made her decision. "I think you can get away with it, Randy."

  "You're holding gas, then?"

  "Certainly I'm holding gas. Fifteen gallons under the back steps. You can have it, and the truck. Anything you don't use I expect back."

  He rose. "What're you going to tell people when they see your truck is gone?"

  "I'm going to tell them it was stolen. I'm going to tell them it was loaded with choice trade goods and that while I was in the bedroom, attending to Pete, some­body jimmied the ignition and stole it. And to make it sound good , I'm going to let off a blast with this gun when you whip out of the driveway. The news will get around fast, don't worry. It'll get to the highwaymen and they'll be looking for the truck. That should help, shouldn't it?"

  "It should make it perfect."

  "Go out the back way. Load the cans in the back of the truck, quietly. There's enough gas in the tank to take you out River Road

  . I'll salute you when you hit the street."

  He said, "You're a smart girl, Rita."

  "Am I?" She held out her left hand to show the black circle left by the radioactive diamond ring. "I've got a wedding band. I was married to an H-bomb. Will it ever go away, Randy?"

  "Sure," he said, hoping it would. "Dan will look at it again when he's better."

  He walked through the hallway and kitchen and out into the darkness. He found the three five-gallon cans under the back steps, opened the truck's rear doors, and silently loaded the gasoline. He got in and stepped on the starter. The engine turned over, protesting. Rita ha
d been careless, he guessed, and had forgotten to fill the battery with distilled water, for it was close to dead. He tried again and the engine caught. He nursed the choke until it ran smoothly, backed out of the Hernandez car­port, turned sharply in the yard, shifted gears, and roared out on the street. He glimpsed Rita's silhouette in the doorway, the gun rising to her shoulder, and for an awful instant thought she was aiming at him. Red flame leaped out of the muzzle. At the first corner he cut away from Augustine Road

  and followed rutted dirt streets until he was clear of Pistolville. He saw no other cars, in motion, on the way home.

  It was past eleven when he drove the truck into the garage and closed the doors so no casual passerby or visitor would see it. The lights were out in Florence's house and in his own house only a single light burned, in his office window. That would be Lib, waiting up for him. He had urged the women to get to bed at their usual hour or earlier, for they planned to go to the Easter sunrise services in Marines Park.

  This was good. It was good that they should all be there, so that no one would guess of unusual activity out on River Road

  . From a less practical standpoint he felt good about it too. He was, as a matter of fact, surprised at their anticipation and enthusiasm. Many things had happened in the past few days and yet their conversa­tion always come back to the Easter services. People hadn't been like that before The Day. He could not imagine any of them voluntarily getting up before dawn and then walking three miles on empty stomachs to watch the sun come up, sing hymns, and listen to ser­mons however short. He wished he could walk with them. He couldn't. It was necessary that he remain there to complete his plans with Sam Hazzard and also to work on the truck. Walking toward the house, he wondered at this change in people and concluded that man was a naturally gregarious creature and they were all starved for companionship and the sight of new faces. Marines Park would be their church, their thea­ter, their assembly hall. Man absorbed strength from the touch of his neighbor's elbow. It was these reasons, perhaps, that accounted for the success of the old-time Chautauquas. It could be that and something more - ­the discovery that faith had not died under the bombs and missiles.