“That,” said Justin softly, “was an accident.”
“Well, yeah, but changing a tire? That’s pretty basic, Doc. I mean, back in my day, not a whole lotta people died every year from not knowing how to use a fucking car jack, OK? And what about that other dude, Chong or whatever?”
“Chang,” muttered Justin darkly. “His name was Jerry Chang.”
“Uh huh. And what happened to him?”
“You know full well what happened. And that was also an accident. In a way.”
“Oh sure,” snorted the Old Man. “He accidentally chased after that Freaker girl in St Louis. He accidentally let himself get led around by his dick, the poor, stupid dope.”
“I’d really rather not talk about it,” said Justin, shifting uncomfortably in the hard plastic, bolted-to-the-bulkhead chair. “To be honest, if it was not an accident, well, then it was perhaps a lack of experience. How could Jerry have known that the girl was luring him into a trap?”
“How?” Lampert rolled his eyes. “By not being a brainless pussy-hound, that’s how. I mean, damn, that’s one of the oldest tricks in the book! And that’s my point. You poor bastards are all left-brainers. Eggheads. You got no fucking common sense.”
Justin didn’t know what to say to that and tried to sit quietly and wait.
“Yeah, it’s been one helluva trip,” wheezed the Old Man. “Garcia, Chang, those two sorry fuckers outside of Chicago… Shit, how many of you were there when you first started out from Atlanta, anyway?”
Justin swallowed a hard knot in his throat and blinked.
“New Atlanta,” he said, “and there were twenty-six of us in all.”
“And we’re down to what, now that Poole and what’s-his-face and the others are gone?”
“Counting Dr. Poole and Dr. Gonzalez,” said Justin pointedly, “and the others, there are fifteen of us. Plus you, of course.”
“Yeah, lucky me. Your little guinea pig. And you really thought you’d somehow get all the way across the country? To San Francisco? Man oh man. What about self-defense? Didn’t ya think about protecting yourselves from all the gangs and cults and shit? Jesus H. Christ, do ya even have guns?”
“A few,” said Justin. “And yes, we were prepared to defend ourselves, at least against animals and the occasional MUP sufferer. Not whole gangs, of course. We had hoped to avoid those.”
“MUP? What’s that?”
“Massive Upheaval Psychosis,” explained Justin. “A common enough mental illness after the Fall, involving terrible despair, psychotic reactions to—”
“Yeah, whatever,” interrupted Lampert rudely. “Loony is loony. Spare me. The point is, you smart guys obviously didn’t think ahead too much, and now you’re payin’ for it. But you’re gonna keep goin’ huh?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Uh huh,” Lampert eyed Justin fishily. “So, you plan on givin’ me the world-record longest piggy-back ride?”
“If necessary,” said Justin, trying to sound resolute. “The fate of many lives is at stake.”
“So you keep sayin’. But answer me this: won’t this plague eventually burn itself out, so to speak? Like the Black Death did, back in the Middle Ages?”
“No,” said Justin firmly. “it will mutate and return. Sir, this virus is unprecedented. It’s virulence is beyond… well, let’s just say that if we can develop a vaccine, we can, with some luck, preserve those who remain.”
The Old Man nodded skeptically and stared at Justin until the younger man fidgeted uncomfortably under the penetrating gaze. What was it about Lampert’s eyes that made him feel so nervous? Superficially they were no different than anyone’s and, if their tests were correct, even a bit astigmatic. So why should they be so sharp, so piercing? Sometimes it felt like Lampert was staring right through him, through the walls of the MedCenter, maybe even through the Earth itself. It was unnerving.
After a few minutes, though, as Justin was thinking of excusing himself, the Old Man let off staring and slumped back again. Justin waited for a time and then something he’d been meaning to ask the Old Man occurred to him and he cleared his throat.
“Mr. Lampert?” he said, making sure the Old Man was still awake. “What did you do for a living? Back in your day? If you don’t mind my asking, that is.”
“I, sir,” said Lampert grandly, sitting up a bit, “was a salesman. And damned proud of it.”
“What did you sell?”
“Oh, you name it! Food, of all kinds, from meat to vegetables to ice dream. Cars, for a quite a while, until the bottom fell out in the early 2000’s. Fucking Detroit. Appliances, that was a good one, and then there was a whole raft of gadgets and gizmos and shit. Hell, I don’t even remember ‘em all. But always sales. Shit, I coulda sold fridges to Eskimos, Doc. You name it, I could sell it.”
“I see,” nodded Justin.
“See what?” demanded the Old Man. “You don’t think sales is a worthwhile career, or what? ‘Cause it provided me and my family with—”
“No, no,” said Justin hastily, gently cutting him off. “That was not what I meant, sir. Not at all.”
“Then what?”
“Oh, it’s just that,” said Justin, selecting his words with care, “I’d been wondering what your former career was, mainly because you seem to be a very perceptive person, especially when it comes to other people.”
“A benefit of age, Doc,” said Lampert. “And one o’ the very few, at that. And yeah, I suppose sales made me a bit better judge of character, but mostly? Just plain old age.”
“And you had a family?”
“Yeah,” Lampert said sourly. “Wife and a kid.”
“Oh, I see. And they are?”
“Dead,” replied Lampert. “Just like everybody else. Anyway, I don’t wanna talk about that.”
“Of course. Forgive me,” said Justin, wondering. Was that a softening in the piercing glare? Was this some kind of chink in the Old Man’s pessimistic armor? A soft spot? He let it go for the moment but filed it away for future reference. “Is there anything else? Something more you wanted to talk about?”
“Aw, I guess not,” said the Old Man, shaking his head. “You don’t get me anyway, Doc. I need to talk to somebody my own age, you know? But then, at a hundred and two, that don’t seem too fuckin’ likely, does it?”
“No, I suppose not.”
Justin waited a while, thinking that maybe Lampert still had something to add, but the Old Man just slumped down into himself and turned his face to the wall. After another five minutes had passed, snores came from the desiccated body and Justin rose and quietly left the chamber.
What a terrible pessimist! he thought. What a mean old crank of a sorehead! And how utterly heartless and callous, talking about Garcia and Chang that way. Well, there was one thing the Old Man was right about: Age had made him bitter and cynical. Other than that? Well, the whole discussion fell more into the realm of philosophy than was comfortable for Justin and he’d never been terribly keen on philosophy. Too vague, too subjective. Now give him some test tubes and a microscope, something you could actually see and qualify… He sighed and shook his head, putting Lampert from his mind for the time being. He walked to the front of the vehicle and rapped on the metal door to the ComCenter.
“Yo!” came a voice from within.
“It’s me, Erin,” called Justin irritably, “Dr. Kaes. Open up.”
There was a rattle, the door slid open, and Erin Swails, their technical expert, stared out. Behind her the small chamber was very dark, lit only by computer displays. Miss Swails looked tired, undoubtedly from constantly monitoring bandwidths, and a bit haggard from their meager diet, like everyone, but otherwise alert and able.