After that, he got up and checked on his faithful mount, a modified Yamaha 1200SX. A big motorcycle, converted to run on hydrogen, fossil fuels, or, in a pinch, solar power, it was a sleek, speedy machine, good on either roads or open land, and, when he needed it to be, easily concealable in whatever cover was at hand. After a caressing touch, thinking of all of the times this machine had saved his life, he covered it with its special camo-cover and bade it a silent goodnight.
The tools of his trade seen to, he relaxed a little, leaning back against the curve of the rotting concrete culvert, and did his best to shove the anger he felt down into himself; soon enough, maybe with the next bangers he ran into, he’d have need of all the aggression he could muster.
Chapter Four
This week on Historical Crime Busters, Mahatma Ghandi will try to solve the murder of a street prostitute and Hermann Goering faces off against a serial killer. Don’t miss the excitement!
Justin was contemplating a very unappetizing meal of soy paste, Tabasco sauce, and warm tepid water when there was a shout from atop the vehicle. Someone on lookout was always stationed up there, the highest spot around, and at the moment it happened to be Mike Gervazien, a grad student from Virginia, who suddenly began shouting like a carnival barker:
“Hey, everybody!” he hollered, stamping on the roof. “Someone’s coming! Hey, hey! There’s somebody coming! Get out here! Hey!”
Tumbling frantically from the vehicle, they followed Gervazien’s pointing and saw, still some ways off, a group of forms, specks on the horizon, really, ahead of a plume of dust. Justin squinted into the noonday sun but the forms were too small to make out and he went back into the MedCenter for some trinoculars. Unfortunately, they were in the clean room.
“What’s goin’ on, Doc?” asked Lampert, the second Justin entered the room. “Did Triple A finally show up?”
“I don’t know what that is,” said Justin, distracted and fearful. “Mr. Lampert, please, just stay calm and don’t worry, alright?”
“Oh, OK,” the Old Man snorted. “I mean, what’s to worry about, right?”
Justin grabbed the trinocs, climbed back down into the searing sunshine and then joined Gervazien up on the roof of the converted RV. The tiny forms were a little closer now. Adjusting the trinoculars for bright sunlight, he raised them and focused in.
At first Justin wasn’t sure what he was seeing, but then the trinocs compensated for the glare. The approaching group came into even better focus and he could make out details in people’s faces and bodies. And then he almost dropped the trinocs from his shaking hands.
Maybe two dozen strong, riding in old, cut-down cars and motorcycles, the group looked like some kind of latter-day Huns, bedecked in furs and leather and bristling with pointy-looking things like spears and pitchforks, and what looked like guns. Lots of them. Worst of all, though, was the man who was apparently lashed into the front seat of the lead car, their own Dr. Leo Poole. Bloodied and apparently unconscious, the Director of the CDC flopped like a rag doll as the old sedan came jolting along. Of Dr. Gonzalez and the others, there was no sign.
His heart dropping into his boots, Justin dithered for a moment. Around him, down on the ground, the other team members were milling around nervously. What should they do? Justin tried to think, but the rising tide of adrenaline in his system didn’t make it easy. From what he could see, though, it seemed as if they had only two choices: fight or surrender. The first option wasn’t all that feasible when he considered that they had only two guns, a chainsaw, and some medical instruments with which to defend themselves, not to mention that none of them were much good at fighting. And if they did put up a fight, what would happen to the Old Man? At his side, Gervazien finally put the question to his nominal superior.
“What do we do, Dr. Kaes?” he asked, his voice high and strangled. “Huh? What’re we gonna do?”
Justin blinked and gave a small shrug. “We give up,” he said flatly. “We surrender.”
“What?!” yelped Gervazien, along with several of the others in earshot. “Surrender to them? They’re survies! They’ll take all of our things, all of our vehicles! And what about Mr. Lampert?”
“I am aware of all that,” Justin said, doing his best to keep his voice calm, “but we wouldn’t stand a chance against this gang. Our first responsibility is to keep Mr. Lampert safe, and if we try to fight, there would seem to be a good chance of his being injured or killed. If we surrender? Well, there would still be a chance that we can save him and get him to San Francisco, somehow.”
The others, all now gathered around the MedCenter, emitted various groans and oaths, but they obviously also saw the wisdom of his words. Their mission was clear, to get Lampert to California, and that had to come first, even before their own survival. No one was pleased with the prospect of giving themselves up to a heartless gang of survie thugs, of course, but they also could recognize that they were all but out of options.
Closer and closer came the cars and bikes, the cloud of dust behind them an ominous haze of orange and brown, until finally they slowed and came to a stop about a hundred yards from the CDC vehicles. Unsure of specific makes or models though he was, Justin saw that most of the vehicles were old, probably 20th-century gasburners.
“Stay calm, everyone,” he called to the others. “Just take it easy.”
Out of the lead car stepped three remarkable people who, after a few words with the larger group, came ambling over to Justin and the others. The first person was a man, about 6’6 or so, very thin, dressed in mismatched leathers, sporting a startling red Mohawk hairdo, lots of tattoos, and a long thin face like a bird of prey. The second was a short, somewhat pudgy African-American man in faded military cammo, with a shaved head that seemed to merge with his neck, hard eyes, and a presence not unlike a large chunk of rock. The third individual was a woman, average of height and slim, dressed in a curve-revealing orange bodysuit of some kind, with short black hair, big dark eyes, and the killer looks of a fashion model. Moving in a wedge, with the tall skinny guy ahead, they strolled forward and stopped about fifty feet away. Then the tall guy grinned and waved at them.
“Hey, ya’ll!” he said, showing yellowed teeth. “We’s the Bloodclaws. I’m Sharp, and this here is Mellowman and Teresa.”
“Um… hello,” Justin nodded. “My name is Dr. Kaes and we’re from the US Center for Disease Control in New Atlanta.”
“Heh, you too, huh?” said Sharp. “How many you dudes is there out here, anyhows?”
“We, uh,” struggled Justin, “that is, I see that you, uh, have our friend there, in your car…”
“Eh, him?” Sharp shrugged. “Yeah, see, we found him an’ a buncha other whitecoats, couple days ago. Had a fancy truck, buncha medical gear. Nothing much good for anything.”
“You found them?” said Justin, eyeing Poole’s unmoving form in the car. “But what happened? And where are the others?”
“They’s all croaked it,” said the short man. “Drove offa cliff in they fancy truck.”
“What?” said Justin, reeling. “Dead? All of them?”
“Yeh, all but this here dude,” said Sharp, jerking his head at the car. “‘Course, they didn’t all buy it rightaways, far as we could tell. Looked like a couple of ‘em crawled, like, outta the wreckaging. One of ‘em made it quite a ways, in fact. This here dude was still in the truck when we found him, hey? Gotta busted leg, looks like, and he needs some F and W, but he should live, I’d bet.”