Alas, Babylon

“This is very strange,” Dan said. “I can’t believe it’s caused by delayed fallout. If it were, I’d have three hundred cases, not three. This is more like a radium or X-ray burn. All of them have burned hands in addition to the usual symptoms, nausea, headache, diarrhea, hair falling out.”

“When did it start?” Randy asked.

“Porky Logan was the first man hit. His sister caught me at the school three weeks ago and begged me to look at him.” “Wasn’t Porky somewhere in the southern part of the state on The Day? Couldn’t he have picked up radiation then?” “Porky was perfectly all right when he got back here and since then he hasn’t received any more exposure than the rest of us. And the other two have not left Fort Repose. Porky’s a mess. Every time I see him he’s drunk. But the radiation is killing him faster than the liquor.”

“Who else is sick?”

“Bigmouth Bill Cullen-we’ll stop at his fish camp on the way to town-and Pete Hernandez.”

“It couldn’t be sort of an epidemic, could it?” Randy asked. “No, it couldn’t. Radiation’s not a germ or a virus. You can eat or drink radioactive matter, like strontium 90 in milk. It can fall on you in rain. It can sift down on you in dust, or in particles you can’t see on a day that seems perfectly clear. You can track it into the house on your shoes, or pick it up by handling any metal or inorganic matter that has been exposed. But you can’t catch it by kissing a girl, unless, of course, she has gold teeth.”

At the bend of River Road they caught up with Alice Cooksey riding Florence’s Western Union bicycle. Alone of all the people in Fort Repose, Alice continued with her regular work. Every morning she left the Wecheck house at seven. Often, ignoring the unpredictable dangers of the road, she did not return until dark. Since The Day, the demand for her services had multiplied. They slowed when they overtook her, shouted a greeting, and waved. She waved back and pedaled on, a small, brave, and busy figure.

Watching the car chuff past, Alice reminded herself that this evening she must bring back new books for Ben Franklin and Peyton. It was a surprise, and a delight, to see children devour books. Without ever knowing it, they were receiving an education. Alice would never admit it aloud, but for the first time in her thirty years as librarian of Fort Repose she felt fulfilled, even important.

It had not been easy or remunerative to persist as librarian in Fort Repose. She recalled how every year for eight years the town council had turned down her a

In thirty years her book budget had been raised ten percent, but the cost of books had doubled. Her magazine budget was unchanged, but the cost of magazines had tripled. So while Fort Repose grew in population, book borrowings dwindled. There had been so many new distractions, drive-in theaters, dashing off to springs and beaches over the weekends, the mass hypnosis of the young every evening, and finally the craze for boating and water-skiing. Now all this was ended. All entertainment, all amusements, all escape, all information again centered in the library. The fact that the library had no air conditioning made no difference now. There were not enough chairs to accommodate her readers. They sat on the front steps, in the windows, on the floor with backs against walls or stacks. They read everything, even the classics. And the children came to her, when they were free of their chores, and she guided them. And there was useful research to do. Randy and Doctor Gu

At the town limits, Dan turned into Bill Cullen’s fish camp, cafe, and bar. The grounds were more dilapidated and filthier than ever. The liquor shelves were bare. The counters in the boathouse tackle shop were empty. Not a plug, fly, or hook remained. Bigmouth Bill had been cleaned out months before. His wife, strawhaired and barrel-shaped, stepped out of the living quarters. Randy sniffed. She didn’t smell of spiked wine this day. She simply smelled sour. Alone of all the people he had seen, she had gained weight since The Day. Randy guessed that she had cached sacks of grits and had been living on grits and fried fish. She said, “He’s in here, Doc.”

Dan didn’t go in immediately. “Does he seem any better?” he asked.

“He’s worse. His hands is leakin’ pus.”

“How do you feel? You haven’t had any of his symptoms, have you?”

“Me? I don’t feel no different. I’ve felt worse.” She giggled, showing her rotting teeth. “You ever had a hangover, Doc? That’s when I’ve felt worse. Right now I wish I felt worse so I could take a drink and feel better. You get it, Doc?” She came closer to Dan and lowered her voice. “He ain’t goin’ to die, is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“The old tightwad better not die on me now. He’s not leavin’ me nuthin’, Doc. He don’t even own this place free and clear. He ain’t never even made no will. He’s holdin’ out on me, Doc. I can tell. He had six cases stashed away after The Day. Claims he sold all six to Porky Logan. But he don’t show me no money. You know what, Doc? I think he’s got that six cases hid!”

Dan brushed past her and they entered the shack. Bill Cullen lay on a sagging iron bed, a stained sheet pulled up to his bare waist. In the bad light filtering through the venetian shade over the single window, he was at first unrecognizable to Randy. He was wasted, his eyes sunken, his eyeballs yellow. Tufts of hair were gone from one side of his head, exposing reddish scalp. His hands, resting across his stomach, were swollen, blackened, and cracked. He croaked, “Hello, Doc.” He saw Randy and said, “I’ll be damned-Randy.”

The stench was too much for Randy. He gagged, said, “Hello, Bill,” and backed out. He leaned over the dock railing, coughing and choking, until he could breathe deeply of the sweet wind from the river. When Dan came out they walked silently back to the car together. All Dan said was, “She was right. He’s worse. I’ll swear he’s had a fresh dose of radiation since I saw him last.”

They drove on to Marines Park. The park had become the barter center of Fort Repose. Dan said, “Do you want to go on with me to the schoolhouse?”

“No, thanks,” Randy said. He was glad he wasn’t a doctor. A doctor required special courage that Randy felt he did not possess.

“I’ll pick you up here in an hour. Then I’ll see Hernandez and Logan and then home.”

“Okay.” Randy got out of the car.

“Don’t swap for less than two pounds. Scotch is darn near as scarce as coffee.”

“I’ll make the best deal I can,” Randy promised. Dan drove off

Randy tucked the bottle under his arm and walked toward the bandstand, an octagon-shaped wooden structure, its platform elevated three feet above what had once been turf smooth as a gold green, now unkempt, infiltrated with weeds and booby trapped with sandspurs. A dozen men, legs dangling, sat on the platform and steps. Others moved about, the alert, humorless smile of the trader on their faces. Three bony horses were tethered to the bandstand railing. Like Randy, some of the men carried holsters at their belts. A few shotguns and an old-fashioned Winchester leaned against the planking. The armed men had come in from the countryside, a risk.