“Why, yes,” said Justin hesitantly, “in a manner of speaking. I’m an epidemiologist.”
“And that is?” said Cornell. “Epi-dee-mee-whatever?”
“Oh, uh, it’s the study of infectious diseases,” Justin said. “And their cures.”
“Ah-ha,” said Cornell noncommittally, jotting a long note. “Well, that’s it for me. If you’ll just wait here for a few minutes, Baron Zero should be along shortly. OK?”
They all nodded, more or less enthusiastically (expect for Lampert, who seemed to have gone back to sleep), and Cornell gave them all a big, somewhat enigmatic smile and departed, locking the door behind him.
They didn’t wait long, only a couple of minutes, before the old cathode-ray TV on the wall suddenly sprang to life, flickered, and resolved into a grainy, lo-res shot of a man, presumably Baron Zero, sitting behind a big, cluttered desk. Bushy-haired, heavy-browed, bespectacled, and of an age somewhere between forty and seventy, the man smiled, seeming to study each of them for a moment (Justin now spotted the tiny fiber optic camera mounted atop the TV) before flipping some sort of switch on the desk.
“Hello, there!” he said, still smiling. “And welcome! My name is Baron Zero, as you’ve probably guessed, and this is my place. Now, let’s see, I have Cornell’s notes here.” Adjusting his glasses, spidery archaic relics tinted a deep green color, he scanned the clipboard in his hand for a long moment before suddenly setting it down and peering out from the screen. “Which one of you,” he asked, “is Dr. Kaes?”
Hesitantly, Justin raised his hand. “Uh, that would be me,” he said.
“Ah, yes, good,” said Zero sitting forward. “And what is your specialty? I’m afraid Cornell had a hard time writing it down.”
“Epidemiology,” said Justin. “I—that is we, as in Ms. Cass, Ms. Swails and myself—are from the U.S. Center for Disease Control and Prevention in New Atlanta.”
“No shit?” said Zero, eyebrows arched. “The CDC? For real? Man, I’d of thought you guys were all done for by now. But here you are! Huh. But I guess that means you’re not a surgeon. Are you?”
“Well, no,” said Justin, “I’m not. But, if you don’t mind my asking, why do you need a surgeon? Does someone need medical attention?”
“Yeah,” said Zero, grimacing a little. “It’s not an emergency or anything. Let’s just say it’d be handy. Maybe you and I can have a little chat, later. OK?”
“By all means,” said Justin. “Anything we can do to help.”
“Good, good,” said Zero, going back to the clipboard. “Well, let’s see… so this would be Ms. Cass, the nurse, and Ms. Swails, the communications specialist. And then you must be Bowler and you Teresa.”
Each of these nodded or waved at the screen as their names were mentioned. Bowler waved and said “Howdy, Mr. Zero, sir.”
Then Zero peered down at the Old Man, who’d again slumped into his chair and seemed to be asleep.
“So this must be Mr. Lampert,” he said. “Um, is he awake?”
“Yeah, I’m awake,” said the Old Man caustically, raising his head a fraction and opening his eyes. “What’s it to ya?”
“Ah, well,” smiled Zero. “It’s not often I have visitors of such a venerable age! I’m honored, sir.”
“Why, ‘cause I’m old?” said Lampert. “Huh! That ain’t no big fuckin’ achievement, believe me.”
Baron Zero blinked at this, obviously taken aback. Justin smiled slightly, grateful that, for once, someone else was being subjected to the Old Man’s acid tongue. Finally Zero cleared his throat.
“Ah-huh, yes,” he said. “Well, you’re most welcome, at any rate. Now, as I said, you’re welcome here, all of you. But I have some rules and such, just to keep things nice and civil and happy. I guess it all depends, though, on how long you want to stay. If it’s just a day or two, well, you can just kinda hang out and then be on your way. If you want to stay longer, well, then we’ll have to talk about it. So there you are. For the present, though, I’m afraid you’re going to have to be quarantined. This will only be for a day or two—three at the most—and then you’ll be free to move around. How does all that sound to you?”
To Justin it sounded very reasonable and, while he had quite a few questions for their new host, he was willing to abide by any rules there were. Bowler and the others, similarly, shrugged or nodded acquiescence. Teresa, of course, was not so trusting or patient.
“I got questions,” she said, stepping forward.
“Yes?” said Zero amicably. “Teresa, right? What’s on your mind?”
“Number one,” she said, holding up a finger. “You got traders here? Sellers, buyers?”
“Well, yes,” said Zero. “There are always traders of one sort or another staying here. I don’t allow slavers, but other than that…”
“Henh,” Teresa grunted, obviously chagrined. “Well, OK, I guess. Bring on the quarrel-teen.”
Chapter Nineteen
This week on The Raughten Family, Paula gets a staph infection, while Obscene Gene and Blasphemous Bill go on a three-state rampage! Meanwhile, David’s boss sells him a new sex slave, but it turns out that… she’s a man! Hilarity and madcap action! Don’t miss an all-new episode of The Raughtens!
Sitting in a former playground on the south bank of the Kansas River, Sergeant Lumler waited for Santiago and watched a Procurement Crew at work. There were four of them, two men and two women, out on the slow river in an old aluminum rowboat. Two of them worked the oars against the current while the other two laboriously threw out and reeled in a big seining net. With each cast, a few fish—catfish and carp, mainly—flopped into the boat. Later, they would be brought to the local Distro Center, cleaned, and doled out to the hungry populace. Having begun work at sunrise, the crew would work till sundown, with next to no rest, and then get up and do it all over again tomorrow. And there were no weekends. All in all, not the easiest job assignment in New America. But then, given the week he’d had, Doug Lumler would have traded places with any one of them in a heartbeat.
Testily, he looked at his watch; why was Santiago never on time? But then he heard footsteps on the gravel path and the diminutive form of his friend appeared from the early evening shade.
“Yer late,” griped Lumler half-heartedly.
“Yeah, sorry,” said the other, walking up and taking a seat. Lumler thought he looked pale and tired. “Too many surgical cases. They had to call up the B-squad.”
“That right?” said Lumler. “So lots of battle casualties, huh?”
“Shitloads. Way more than you’d think. It’s getting pretty bad.”
“Yeah, I figured,” said Lumler stolidly. “The PF’s been losin’ men to the Army like crazy. Not that they expect us to do any less, of course, even short-handed, but you’d have to be deaf an’ blind to not know about it, anyway. Shit, that last big firefight, down by the old grain silos? Pretty fuckin’ hard to miss!”
“Yeah,” Santiago said, “but that doesn’t stop the Governor from trying, now does it? Have you seen the latest Patriot? All about “our victorious troops” and how we’re winning, hands down, and how we’ve suffered “a few” casualties. And the latest radio addresses? Man! Pure bullshit.”
“Like always,” said Lumler. “That ain’t nothing’ new. He’s just tryin’ to keep people’s spirits up. You know? I mean, why tell these people the real facts if they don’t wanna know about it anyway? Shit, I wish more people believed in that crap. Sure would make my life easier.”