“Well, it all happened so fast, you know?” said Zero. “I never did hear what started it or even what it really was! I mean, they all said it was some kinda plague virus, but, other than that…”
“Well, it is indeed the plague virus,” nodded Justin. “Yersinia pestis, to use the Latin name, and number 1257 by strain.”
“So why did it kill everyone? Why didn’t the usual vaccines take care of it?”
“Ah, well that’s the thing,” Justin said. “Strain 1257 is particularly dangerous for three main reasons. One, it is an extremely virulent pathogen; almost 99.99 percent of those who catch it will succumb. Two, it is very hearty, in that, even in a deceased host body, it will remain alive and infectious for as long as a month. And three, it’s deadly because it is mutative. That is, it rearranges its DNA whenever it’s presented with a host which it cannot infect.”
“Ah, I see,” said Zero, nodding. “So it’s a mutagenic thing… makes sense. But how did it start? My bet’s always been on some kinda terrorism—you know, Muslim extremists or Maoists or whatever.”
Justin shook his head. “As far as we could determine, it was entirely natural. Of course, we’d always feared that some new super bug, some kind of specially mutated strain of a pre-existing virus or bacteria, would be released, either accidentally or in an act of aggression. After all, during the late 20th century, all kinds of these things were created, thanks to genetic engineering. Hell, the CIA had one of the largest germ banks in the world, and the Russians and Chinese were close seconds in the field of biological warfare. But no, there was no terrorist attack, no accident in some secret lab. All that happened was that Nature itself, as it always does, produced a new and better breed of microscopic killer. And our fast-paced, globally-connected world did the rest.”
“Well I’ll be damned,” Zero said. “I woulda swore it was terrorism. But, like I said, it doesn’t much matter anymore, does it? It’s gone now, and we’re left to pick up the pieces of what’s left. Hell, at least it didn’t turn people into zombies, right?”
“I’m sorry, zombies?” said Justin. “I don’t—”
“Never mind, Doc. The thing is, it’s over, right? It’s done its worst.”
“Wrong,” said Justin sternly, sitting forward. “No, that’s not right at all. As I said, this strain of plague virus mutates. When one strain has done its worst and used up all of its available hosts, it changes into a new strain. In fact, before we left the labs in New Atlanta, we’d identified three new versions. We were up to strain 1260. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, OK,” said Baron Zero, frowning. “I got that. And that’s some pretty bad news, alright. Gonna have to think about that one. But what about the Old Man? What are you gonna do with him? Why’s he so important? That’s the part I don’t get.”
“Well, it seems that Mr. Lampert once survived an outbreak of the original strain of the plague. Somehow, probably completely by accident, he came in contact with, and then survived, the original, un-mutated version of this particular form of Yersinia pestis. If we can get him to proper lab facilities, we may be able to use this original strain, whose DNA is still borne in his blood, to make a vaccine.”
“Huh, OK,” nodded Zero thoughtfully. “But, uh, don’t get me wrong, but why not just take a blood sample? It’d, like, save you a lot of trouble, wouldn’t it?”
“No good,” said Justin. “To produce any sort of quantity of vaccine, we need a much larger supply than just a sample. No, we need Mr. Lampert, alive and as well as we can keep him.”
“OK, I get it,” said the other. He seemed to ponder for a while. Then: “And you wanna get him all the way to Cali? Dang, that’s not gonna be easy! You’ve got the bangers, the survie cults, just plain whack jobs out there, roaming around, all kinds of obstacles.”
“Yes,” nodded Justin grimly. “Like the Brothers of St. Alferd.”
“Oh, you met them, huh?” said Zero. “Well, believe it or not, they’re not the worst of ‘em. There are some other guys, up near the Big Waste, that make the Brothers look like Boy Scouts.”
“The Big Waste?” echoed Justin. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of that. And I’m not sure I want to.”
“No?” said Zero. “Gee, I thought everyone knew about that. Anyway, it’s called different things. The official, like Federal, title for it was the Greater Southwest Danger Zone. Some folks call it the Rad Zone. Or the Great Nowhere. But, whatever you call it, it’s a huge chunk of land, thousands of square miles—but wait, I’ve got an old atlas here.”
Producing this, he spread it open on the cluttered desk, revealing a U.S. road map much altered by the addition of new markings and boundary lines. Fascinated, Justin leaned forward and read the new, hand-lettered legendry: New England Free State, Florida Nation, Lone Star Republic, California Confederacy, Chicago Gang Conference, Greater Washegon Nation. And there, where Zero was pointing, a big section of the U.S. Southwest, including most of Nevada, labeled Great Waste and marked with an ominous radiation symbol.
“But,” blinked Justin, “what happened?”
“Nuke accident,” Zero said laconically. “When the grid went down and the Air Force boys all deserted and headed home, there was nobody to mind the store. No one knows for sure what really happened, but personally I think some dumb-ass survie probably got in there and messed around with it and—Blammo! Of course, it might’ve just gone bad on its own. Or maybe it was rigged by the flyboys when they left. All we know for sure is that something really big and really dirty was detonated. I’d guess maybe a big Neutron device or maybe a couple of MIRVs. Not that it matters. At any rate, this whole area here is bad. I went up there with a G-counter last year and turned back at about… here, when the counter went red, big time. Nowadays, nobody with a brain in his head goes anywhere near it. But the really scary things are the muties that come crawling out once in a while.”
“Muties?” asked Justin, frowning. “Some sort of mutation? Human mutation?”
“Who knows? It’s just what we call ‘em. But they sure look like mutants, whatever they are. Extra arms, sometimes like tentacles or flippers, generally misshapen to the point of monstrosity, basically feral and savage, like wild animals. Ugh! Thank God there don’t seem to be that many of them!”
“But that’s appalling!” said Justin. “Those poor people!”
“Huh,” said Zero, grimacing slightly. “Yeah, you say that now, but you’ve never seen one! Just hope you never do. And as far as their still being people? I’m not so sure about that.”
“Well, that’s…” Justin blinked, “that’s quite interesting. I wasn’t aware that such a thing had even happened.”
“Yeah. And the hell of it?” Zero said. “It’s probably just one of who knows how many things like this that have happened. With no real press or mass media, we’re all pretty much in the dark, aren’t we?”
“Yes, of course,” said Justin, stalling, wondering just how to phrase what he was about to ask. “And that’s all very interesting. But, now that you’ve heard my story, about our mission and all, do you think you can help? That is, I don’t want to sound ungrateful; you’ve already provided us with so much! But you seem to know a great deal about this area, even about what’s left of the United States. You have all these electronics and resources and manpower… isn’t there something you could do to help our mission?”
Zero arched his brow and sat back in his chair. For a long moment he stared off into space and stroked his scraggly-bearded chin. From somewhere below the room they were in there came a loud clanging, banging noise, but he didn’t seem to notice. Finally he removed the green glasses, polished them on his flannel shirt, put them back on, and sighed.