Amerika (25 page)

“American refugees,” Devin said. The words, the very idea, chilled him.

“A few will join the so-called Volunteers for America,” Clay said.

“The what?”

“I guess they started that while you were away. American workers volunteer to go work in Russian factories for five years. They get subsistence wages. Their families, back here, get a monthly payment.”

“What’s it like? Does anybody know?”

“Not really. They show movies of the happy American workers and their happy Russian comrades, but nobody really knows. It sounds pretty good—a way for a factory worker to use his skills. Nobody’s come back yet. Maybe they shoot them at the end. Time will tell.”

Devin stared out at the empty faces of idle men.

“We’ll be out of here in a minute,” Clayton said. “And they’ll still be here.”

The dying man had been a professor of philosophy and a Republican political activist; now he was an exile, and the death rattle was already gurgling in his throat.

“Unplug him,” Alan Drummond said.

The nurse hesitated. It was an order she had never received before.

“He’s gone,” Alan said wearily. “We need the machine for others.”

The nurse did as she was told, cut off the life-support system, and Alan Drummond took one long last look at the professor. They had been friends. Many nights at the exile camp had been brightened by this man’s intellect. But his intellect had not saved him from an SSU tank.

Alan stood in the Milford County Hospital’s

intensive-care unit, which was pitifully unprepared to handle the flood of patients who now crowded its wards and corridors. He looked up in surprise as Herb Lister, followed by two SSU soldiers, entered the room. “May I see you, please?” Lister said.

Alan loathed Lister, but understood his power. He followed him into the corridor, crowded now with wounded Exiles on makeshift cots.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“This is terrible,” Lister said. “This is a small county hospital, never intended to serve so many people.” “What the hell do you expect us to do?” Alan raged. “Put them out in the parking lot?”

“No, doctor, I have a realistic solution. You and your patients are being transferred to the People’s Acceptance Hospital in Omaha.”

“You’re crazy!” Alan shouted. “They’ll die on the way.”

“They’re dying here, doctor. Surely you agree this is a humane move, to help these innocent people.” “Innocent—you bastard. You stood by and let Gurt-man and his troops slaughter them and then you talk to me about humanity.”

“You medical types don’t often understand politics, doctor,” Herb Lister said coldly. “You have two hours to move them. Our volunteers will help.”

Alan looked out the door and saw the buses, the troops, the teenagers from the Lincoln Brigade. One of the teenagers marched up to them. “Just point the way, doctor,” he said brightly. “We’re here to serve.”

Alethea awoke at dawn, looked at Helmut asleep next to her, and carefully got out of bed. She slipped on a robe and stood at the foot of the bed, studying her lover’s face. In sleep, his long, handsome face was relaxed, the cruelty gone. There was an elegance, even a beauty to him.

For a moment his face seduced her. Without its accustomed hate and barbarism there seemed at least the hope that he could be different, could be gentle, loving.

And yet she knew better.

She backed away and her eyes fixed on Ms revolver, hanging in its holster, on the wall above his head. She looked from the one to the other, from his face to his gun, from the dream to the reality.

She stepped forward quickly, reached out, and touched the butt of the gun. She hesitated, barely breathing, then wrapped her strong fingers around the weapon and slipped it from its pouch. For an instant she froze, fearful of waking him, fearful of his wrath, then clutched it firmly in her hand.

Alethea stepped to the window, breathing deeply, and looked out at the rows of tanks and helicopters crouching under the glare of the mercury-vapor floodlights.

She turned back to her lover. His white shoulder, outside the sheet, looked vulnerable, almost frail. She raised the gun. It wobbled badly. She took a step forward, holding the gun with both hands, trying to steady it, aiming at his head, so dark and quiet against the black pillow.

The gun was still now, aimed; Alethea took a deep breath and held it; her finger started to tighten on the trigger.

His eyes opened. He smiled. It was an open, trusting, wonderful smile, the finest smile he had ever given her.

“Was I such a bad lover?” he asked.

The quip disarmed her; she loosened her grip on the trigger, but kept the weapon pointed at his head.

“Don’t move,” she said.

“I’m just going to sit up,” he said cautiously. He propped himself up against the headboard. “So you’re finally going to have your revenge. No doubt I deserve it. But have you ever killed a man? Particularly a naked

man?”

He tossed the sheet aside, exposing himself.

“There’s something about killing a man with his clothes on that neutralizes the process. Somehow the naked body, unprotected—ceasing to function, turning an odd color—is so much more real. Can you do that? Here I am, helpless. This man who has subjugated you, the monster who has made love to you and made you feel happier, more fulfilled, than ever before in your life.”

He reached slowly for a cigarette. He kept his eyes on her as he lit it. Her hands were starting to shake; the gun seemed to weigh a ton.

“Even last night, Alethea, were you thinking about killing me? Was that why it was so exciting? Did you have your revenge planned? Think of it—one squeeze of that trigger and a small piece of metal will cut off that lovemaking forever. Can you actually kill what has given you such pleasure—and pain?”

He smiled as she let the gun drop to her side; it was the old, arrogant smile now.

“I’m not a murderer,” she said softly.

Helmut relaxed a little. “No, you’re just weak. Pathetic.” He sprang out of bed and ripped the gun from her hand. She did not resist, did not even move.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do it,” she said.

He pointed the weapon at her. “I lack your scruples.”

She saw him slowly tightening his grip on the trigger, savoring the process. She did not move; she accepted her fate and thought it somehow just.

She stiffened as she heard the click of the firing pin on the empty chamber. Then her body went limp.

“I was wondering when the gun would tempt you,” he said.

He pulled the trigger again. This time the roar of the gun filled the room. The bullet smashed a mirror behind her. Alethea began to tremble as Helmut laughed heartily.

Someone pounded on the door. “Go away, I’m fine,” Helmut said. Then, to Alethea: “Would you like to come back to bed?”

Her mouth fell open in disbelief. She thought she would rather die than be touched by him again. Her clothes were in a pile beside the bed, and she began to pull them on.

“I won’t be back,” she said.

She pulled her sweater over her head. She felt strong, clean. “I’m free of you, Helmut. Just as if you’d killed me-—or I’d killed you.”

He smiled and tossed the gun aside. “Once you realize you are too weak to do what is necessary, you are a slave.”

The People’s Acceptance Hospital in Omaha had been a regional Veteran’s Administration hospital before the PPP changed its name. It was a huge, red-brick building, erected in the 1920s, surrounded now by a bright new electrified fence. National guardsmen manned the gatehouse and patrolled the lobby. One of the guardsmen stood stiffly beside a door on the west side of the lobby. A sign on the door said
Keep

Out
—No
Admittance.
On the other side was a long corridor that led to the hospital’s west wing, the psychiatric unit.

It was through these doors and into this closely guarded wing that the limp, tom body of Justin Milford had been brought several hours after his motorcycle set off a land mine along the Colorado border.

Now he was in a large ward that contained a dozen beds. The patients were mostly young men, each on an intravenous hookup, some asleep and others awake. One morning, several days after Justin’s arrival, three doctors entered the ward and walked slowly past the patients. Those who were awake watched the medical team with silent, suspicious eyes—-alert eyes, suggesting alert minds, trapped in bodies that were all but lifeless.

Justin had slept, assisted by various medications, for seventy-two hours. Now he was awake, his eyes smoldering with fear and confusion as he looked from one doctor to another.

One of them, a tall, middle-aged woman with bushy eyebrows behind thick glasses, smiled at him. “Well, Mr. Milford, you’re finally awake.”

The two other doctors were men. One was a slender young man named Jan. He muttered to the other doctors, “He’s in an eighty percent physical block— ECy2.”

The woman kept on smiling. “My name is Helen, Justin. I’m one of your doctors. You had quite an

accident.”

It was with great effort that Justin spoke. “Am I ... is anything . . . ?”

“Everything’s intact. You won’t be hobbling around on anything artificial.”

Justin managed to nod. “When . . . can I leave?”

The older doctor was gaunt and grim. “Not for some time,” he said. “How soon you get out depends on how well you respond to treatment.”    ]

Justin was confused. He fried to speak, but was too weak.

“You’ve exhibited some very destructive tendencies,” Helen said. “We’re going to help you get over some of the bad things that have contributed to your attitude and response so that you have a chance to be a more productive member of society. You’d like to have a good life, wouldn’t you?”

Jan stepped closer to the bed. “We have no restraints here,” he said, with a chilly smile. “Our rule is, Make it out the door and you’re free. Go ahead!”

He pulled back the sheet. Justin gasped for breath.

He lifted one hand a few inches off the bed. He tried to raise his head. One leg trembled. But he could do no more. He fell back onto the bed, exhausted.

“We’ll come visit you soon, Justin,” Helen said, and the doctors started back toward the door. Bright sunlight filled the ward. Spring was on the way.

The first thing Devin saw when he reached Chicago was a huge billboard across the street from the train station. It showed two smiling faces, twenty feet tall, of a man and a woman. They looked wholesome, well fed, prosperous, and their gazes were pointed upward as if they had found the truth. Underneath the faces were , the words
For the Heartland!

Devin, unnerved, leaned against the side of the j terminal.

“What’s the matter?” Clay said. “You look like j you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Up there,” Devin said. “That’s my wife. And Peter

Bradford. I knew he was being considered for some kind of big job, but with Marion?”

“Looks like they’re destined for great things,” Clay said. “Come on, let’s keep moving.”

Clay led them to-a safe house in a north-side ghetto, where a black woman named Emma fed them and gave them a floor to sleep on. The next morning, after breakfast, Clay informed Devin that they were going to a meeting.

“Where? Who with?” Devin asked.

“You’ll see.”

They walked to the Loop and Clay guided them to what remained of the John Hancock building. The windows at street level were boarded up and winos slept in the lobby. Every knob or fixture of any possible value had been stolen. The elevators no longer worked, of course, and Clay led them up the stairs. They stopped at the tenth floor to catch their breath.

“There’re lots of deserted skyscrapers now,” Clay explained. “Vertical slums. This was an insurance building, but who needs insurance when Big Brother takes care of us all?”

They started climbing again.

“How much farther?” Devin asked.

“Courage. The higher, the safer. Squatters live in the first ten floors or so. A lot of kids in the next few.” “Kids?”

“Yeah, ten or twelve years old, homeless. They beg,
sell
drugs, sell themselves, form gangs, and fight wars.
The
authorities pretty much leave them alone. Too expensive to put them in jail. Anyway, if you can make it to, oh, the twentieth floor, you’re home free. The
cops
are too fat to climb that far. Here we are, ladies and gentlemen, twentieth floor, cosmetics, ladies’ lin
gerie, and on your left, antigovemment plots. Last stop on the underground railroad.”

Clayton pushed open the door that led to what once had been a huge office complex.

“Raise your arms and move slowly,” he said.

Devin did as he was told. They moved through a maze of what had once been small offices, then encountered a black man leaning against a wall.

“Jeffrey,” Clay cried.

“Clayton, my man.”

The two embraced.