“The Governor,” answered Santiago wearily. “Or should I say, Governor Jackson Smith Armstrong? But yeah, I know. And you’re right, it’s his world; we just live in it.”
They sat in silence for a little while. Lumler listened to the water gurgle past. A small swarm of fireflies had appeared and were blinking in and out of the bushes.
“Hey,” said Santiago, after a long pause, “you remember that dude they called the Hunter? Little guy with all the guns?”
“Sure. What about him?”
“Well, I sorta ran into him the other night.”
“No shit. And?”
“Well, it was kinda weird,” said Santiago, and scratched his head. “I was down by the West Gate, doing some follow-up on some patients, and this guy just sorta pops up out of nowhere and asks for med supplies. Well, demands ‘em would be more like it. He was pretty, I don’t know, intense, I guess you’d say. You know the kind? Where you look in their eyes and something looks back that just says leave me the fuck alone? Yeah. But anyway, he’s got this like, list of stuff he wants. I didn’t have ‘em on me at the time, so we go back to the clinic. All the way there, I try talkin’ to him, you know, but he won’t do more than grunt. So we go to the clinic and I give him the stuff he wants, since he’s got this letter signed by the Governor that says I have to, and then he leaves.”
“Huhn,” said Lumler. “So what’s so weird about that? This Hunter guy’s headin’ out into the wasteland. Matter o’ fact, he took off, just yesterday. An’ out in the waste? Well, there ain’t too many clinics out there. No more Walgreens or CVS, neither.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Santiago. “But here’s what was weird: Most of the stuff he wanted was like, stuff you’d need for an invalid, you know? Or a real old person. Bedpan, adult undergarments, oxygen. I mean, he wanted a lot of basic First Aid type things, too, but why all the nursing home gear?”
Lumler shrugged. “How should I know?”
“Well, you said before that this Hunter guy was bein’ sent out to hijack some doctors, right? So why’s he need stuff for taking care of an invalid?”
“I got no idea,” said Lumler wanly. “An’ besides, it’s none o’ my business. Yours, neither, far as that goes.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Made me curious though.”
For a while they sat and watched the fireflies, but, after a few minutes they inexplicably quit blinking and the bushes went dark.
“You ever think about him?” Santiago eventually asked. “The Great Man?”
“Who, the Governor? Hell, no. Ain’t healthy.”
“Well, I do,” said Santiago. “I mean, where did he come from? What was he Before? Most of us who lived through the Sick are more than happy to talk about Before. What we were, who we knew, what we’d done. So why not the Governor? His whole past is one big question mark. But why? What’s he got to hide?”
“Never really thought about it,” Lumler replied honestly. “But he ain’t the only one who don’t talk about their life Before, you know. Lots of people don’t wanna talk about it, for lots of reasons. Don’t mean he’s got anything to hide. An’, come to that, a lotta people changed their names. You think that guy that runs the Big Time is really named Luscious Lorenzo? Or what about the lady who sells those pies and cakes? Over on Lexington? Think her name’s really Sweet Angela Wheatcakes?”
Santiago laughed. “Yeah, or that crazy dude who sweeps everything, Broomstick Bob. Kinda doubt he was born with that one. But as far as the Governor’s concerned, it’s different. It’s like the name—the name he picked, most likely—just seems kinda inappropriate. Know what I mean? Like it just doesn’t suit him, you know? I mean, he’s all kinda short and pudgy. “Jackson Armstrong” conjures up some kinda body-builder or a pro athlete or something. Not some short, fat little dude with apple cheeks and curly blond hair, or am I wrong?”
Lumler laughed quietly. “No, man, you’re right,” he said. “Matter of fact, last time me an’ the Chief had to meet with him, I thought the same damn thing! Dude looks like, oh I dunno, like a school principal or an accountant or somethin’, but then who knows, anyway? Names don’t mean much no more. And anyhow, it could be his real name, for all we know.”
“Yeah, but I doubt it,” said Santiago. With a little groan, he stood up and dusted off his rear end. “Well, I should get going. No rest for the wicked.”
“Hunh, yeah,” said Lumler, also standing. “Who said that, anyway?”
“What, the “no rest” thing? I have no idea.”
“Well, whatever,” said Lumler. “See you next week? Usual time at the Jolly?”
“You’re on,” grinned Santiago, his teeth white in the gloom. “See you then.”
Suddenly, from somewhere across the river, a great fusillade of gunfire erupted. The reports were frantic, overlapping, and punctuated by a dull, booming explosion. Lines of tracer bullets shot up into the sky over the walled city and the faint sounds of screams and shouts mixed into the swelling chorus. The Army was busy; another night, another deformo attack. For a long moment the two men listened to the muted din and stared at the light show.
“Sounds like another bad one,” Santiago sighed. “Well, keep your head down.”
“Always do, my friend,” said Lumler seriously. “And you just watch yer ass.”
In another five minutes, the park was empty. The water rolled past, the fireflies came back out, and the night breeze, redolent of cordite smoke and burning diesel fuel, wafted gently through the bushes and over the flat space of sand where there once had been a playground.
Chapter Twenty
The Kid had an easy few days after his run-in with the Rippers; the weather was warm and mild and he had plenty of food, not to mention two new pelts. On the first day, after the middle-of-the-night tussle with the Rippers, he started awake later than usual and quickly surveyed his surroundings for trouble, but there was nothing, just the burble of the stream and the calls of birds in the trees. With a deep sigh of something like happiness, he lay back down and allowed himself the ultimate luxury, another hour of sleep.
Two days later, largely idle, he was lolling on a warm afternoon and thinking of heading out to look for some more Hopper meat when the worst sound in the world came to his ears, the distant but unmistakable noise of a Howler on the prowl. Instantly, he froze and tried to determine what direction to be afraid of, but the noise was too diffuse for that; he’d have to get out of the cave to figure it out. But this was a Howler, not some measly Ripper, and that meant that he had exactly two choices: to hide or to flee. A Howler was not something he could fight.
He grabbed his weapon and crawled out of the cave. The noise came again, a terrible, high-pitched moaning that made him cringe, and this time it was definitely closer. The Kid debated with himself for a moment, but there wasn’t much choice; he would have to run. Maybe he’d be able to come back, but for right now, he had to get away. For another moment, he considered taking what was left of the Hopper or a part of the Ripper with him, to eat later on, but then demurred; Howlers could smell blood from a long way off.
And then he was off, dashing through the weeds and trees like a deer, pausing only once in a while to make sure that the Howler was not right behind him. After a long ways, he finally stopped, near the edge of the trees, and waited. This was the limit of his world; beyond the trees was a huge, wide-open space that he’d only gazed at in wonder. He listened for a time, but heard no more howling. Nonetheless, just to be safe, he climbed up the biggest tree he could find and, careful to hide in the thickest leaves, crouched on a limb to wait.